In Loving Memory of my Dad, by Casey Gwinn
You are never really ready for a parent to die. You know it is going to happen. You know that we are all going to die but still you are not prepared. And their death changes things. With the death of my Dad on April 17, 2009, I became fatherless for the first time in my life. It has been a deep and lonely realization. But the great comfort of it all has been knowing what Dad believed, who he lived his life for, how much he loved his family, and how he died.
Dad believed in Jesus with all his heart. He had believed since asking Jesus into his heart while sitting on his mother’s knee as a child.
Dad lived his life for his God, his wife, his children, and so many that he showered with love, hospitality, and acts of service. I have little doubt that there will be thousands of souls in heaven because of Bill Gwinn. His faithfulness to Jesus and his passion, leadership gifts, and vision allowed God to use him to draw thousands to the Savior in Pasadena, at Mount Hermon, in Hawaii, in Whittier, in Colorado, in Palm Springs, and in so many other places where he ministered at moments in time.
Through 58 years of marriage and raising four children, he so often chose affirmation, encouragement, and support. I received such a powerful dose of that affirmation. He cheered me on, hugged me tightly, never missed one of my sporting events, worked tirelessly with me on house and yard projects, stood on freeway overpasses with signs when I ran for office, and never missed a chance to tell me he loved me and how proud he was of me. He often wrote me notes, cards, and letters as well, memorializing his advice, belief in me, and redeeming love. He was my encourager and affirmer and supporter of my dreams.
The night before he died he told me how proud he was of me and how much he loved me. And I got to tell him how much I loved him. He wanted me to assure him that I would take care of all the things in life he was worried about. He wanted me to deliver the only new copy of Rings in the Redwoods (a history of Mount Hermon published in 1972) to the Executive Director of Mount Hermon, Roger Williams. He wanted to make sure I kept track of what mom needed. And I promised him I would take care of everything. Then, I kissed him on the forehead and said goodnight.
As I left the hospital that night, I saw my Dad the way he had been in so many chapters of his life. He was laughing and joking with the nurse and interested in the lives of those caring for him. Life, energy, and confidence were emanating from him as he sat in that hospital bed in the Intensive Care Unit at Desert Regional Medical Center. I even looked back and caught a glimpse of his energy as I walked out. The memory is frozen in my mind forever. It was a memory of my Dad I will always treasure.
When Dad died unexpectedly the next day, I was not there. He was talking to his attending nurse when he had a massive heart attack at 3:17 PM. Later, the nurse recounted what happened. My mom was in the room when he died…being faithful to him as she had been for 58 years. He was talking to the nurse, even joking with her. Then, his body went rigid. He thrust his chest up, fixated his eyes “toward the ceiling” (in her words), and he was gone. They brought in the paddles and tried to resuscitate him but he was gone in an instant, in the twinkling of an eye. She said he died without any look of pain on his face and he died with his eyes wide open.
Bill Gwinn, my amazing Dad, died, as he lived, focused on the Jesus he loved so much, laughing, thinking of others, and devoted to his wife, his children, and his grandchildren. I have no doubt that in that moment when Jesus called him, he looked into eternity and rushed to be with his Jesus.
Dad was a giant for the Kingdom of God. And when I wept in his presence after his death, I did not say goodbye. I told him I would see him again on the other side. He was my foundation, my moral compass. He gave me my manhood. He instilled in me his values. He modeled for me what a father and a husband should be and what a real man acts like.
A few things are indelibly etched in my mind . . . . my last kiss on his forehead, the last time he told me he loved me, the last time I told him I loved him, the promise I made to take care of everything, and the laughter I heard before I left his bedside.
And until I am in my father’s arms again, I will thank God every day for my Dad.
Casey Gwinn San Diego October 16, 2009
