Still Missing Him: A Thanksgiving Reflection

Thanksgiving is supposed to be a day filled with warmth, laughter, and family. But for me, this day also holds a quiet ache. It has now been seven years since my father passed, and even with all the healing, all the growth, and all the blessings that have unfolded since then, I still miss him. Some days it hits soft. Some days it hits like the first time all over again.

Then it hit me today. I picked up my phone, saw the date — November 27th — and it sat a little heavy.

It seems like yesterday. I had just arrived at work that morning, tired from being up with Mom the night before. Most days I started my day at the hospital with him. But that morning, I slept in.

​Then, around noon, the call came: “Mr. Brown, you may want to make your way to the hospital.” My heart dropped, and I pressed my way.

Grief doesn’t move in straight lines. It curls back around, especially during the holidays, when you reach for a voice you can no longer call, or wish for one more moment, one more story, one more laugh. My father wasn’t a loud man, but his presence and his laughter filled a room. He led with quiet strength and humility, with a work ethic that spoke long before words were needed. A lot of who I am was shaped by watching how he moved through the world.

And even though he’s gone, his lessons are still here. They show up in how I serve, how I lead, and how I love my community. They show up in my commitment to young men searching for direction, in the way I encourage families, and in the fire that pushes me to keep building, keep believing, and keep showing up. My father laid a foundation without ever calling it that. He modeled resilience without saying the word. He taught me compassion without preaching a sermon. His example became the blueprint I didn’t know I was studying.

So today, I honor him. Not with sadness alone, but with gratitude. Gratitude for the years we had, for the lessons that live on, and for the legacy that continues to guide my steps. If you’re grieving someone this Thanksgiving, know that you’re not alone. Missing them is a sign of love, not weakness. It’s okay to feel the weight and still find light.

The moves you make and the steps you take are reflections of the people who came before you. So live your life with No Regrets.

Hold your memories close. Hold your people even closer. And remember that love leaves a mark strong enough to last long after the physical presence fades.

Wishing you peace, strength, and a gentle kind of joy today.
— Anthony H. Brown

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