My Father: The Man Who Loved Me First

There are some people whose love feels bigger than life itself. For me, that person was my father. His love was the absolute best—steady, unwavering, robust. He was a wonderful father and a devoted provider. I place his spirit right up there with Jesus, Gandhi, and Mother Teresa. His compassion for people was unreal. Even at 83 years old, until COVID forced the world to slow down, he was still out feeding the homeless. If I had to describe him in three words, they would be KIND, LOVING, and CARING.

He always told me, “Baby girl, I loved you first.”
He used to tell the story of seeing my picture in a lineup of children. He said, “I don’t want to see anybody else. That’s my daughter.” That was who I was to him. That was what I meant to him. I loved him deeply, and I stayed close to him whenever I could.

Growing up, I often wondered how such a wonderful man ended up with my mother. She was battling as much pain as anyone could imagine. He said to me, “Baby girl, I told your mom I was going to spend the rest of my life with her.” That was his promise. That’s my plan.” Even as I dreamed of escaping the chaos, even as I learned to tiptoe around someone whose moods controlled the entire house, my dad was my peace. As I got older, we found our way out of the house and breathed.

My First Coach

My dad was my very first coach. I played softball for him, and let me be honest—I was terrible at first. But he never gave up on me. He took me outside. He took me to the field. He practiced with me. He told me—even when I couldn’t see it—that I was going to be a great athlete.

He was a stern coach. He studied the game, read books, wrote out practices on paper, and set up workouts in our attic. We lifted weights and talked about life. He told me stories about growing up in Little Rock. Those were our moments. Just me and me.

I started out uncoordinated, playing catcher and outfield. But with time, I became fast. I moved from first base to pitcher. I could steal bases, run like the wind, and talk my talk on the field. SPORTS Lacey and everyday Lacey were two different people. However, sports became my superpower. He was the one who helped me tap into it.

My dad didn’t just coach me—he coached the entire neighborhood. My friends played for him, too. We had uniforms, hats, and every weekend felt like an adventure. We piled into his Silverado and went to practice together. Those memories still make me smile.

A Man of Peace and Purpose

My father created stability in ways I didn’t recognize until adulthood. The lawn was always immaculate. The cars were spotless. Bills were paid. The house was stocked with food. My room was beautiful. I always had the toys I wanted. I was his princess.

He even let me pick out a puppy when I was ten—Dollie. She became my other lifeline. And he had the same patience with animals as he did with people. I watched him befriend stray dogs, feed neighborhood animals, and offer his gentle spirit to anything breathing.

He was also a cleaner. Every Saturday morning, Minnie Riperton filled the air. He vacuumed, dusted, and cooked the few dishes he loved to make. My dad was a drinker sometimes. Unlike my mother, he was a happy drunk. He was loving, affectionate, and loud with his appreciation. We’d watch Razorback basketball together, especially once I learned the game.

My dad was a smoker too, and he survived lung cancer. But the thing that finally made him quit wasn’t sickness—it was me. At four years old, I pretended to smoke using the toy syringe from my doctor’s kit. When he asked what I was doing, I said, “I’m doing what you do.” He never touched another cigarette. He had tried many times, but that moment changed everything. He wanted to be the example I needed.

He was that kind of man.

He even gave one of his kidneys to his sister, Aunt Sue. She ultimately passed away when her body rejected it, but he never regretted trying. That was his heart. After I had my son, Tyler, their bond was just as strong. He put him in suits, took him to church, and brought him to the food pantry. To this day, if Tyler wants something, “Grandpa” is going to send it.

Faith, Loss, and the Unbreakable Heart

My parents didn’t go to church for most of my childhood. They had both been hurt by religion in different ways. Everything shifted when my grandparents moved in with us. My maternal grandmother was fighting breast cancer. My paternal grandfather was blind and in a wheelchair.

My dad cared for his father with honor and affection. He dressed him up every Sunday and took him to church. They looked so sharp together. My grandfather had been absent for most of his life, so those years felt like healing—almost like reclaiming lost time.

I will never forget the day my grandfather died. I was seventeen. I heard my dad screaming, “DAD! DAD! DAD!” I had never heard pain like that. I can still listen to it in my mind. It broke something in me to witness his heartbreak.

The funeral was held at the church where he grew up. The pastor told my father he could have the service there only if he promised to return. And he did. He joined the church. He became President of the Choir. He sang solos. He ran the food pantry for twenty years. COVID shut everything down. His service was his ministry.

The Things I Never Told Him

There are things I kept from my father—not because I didn’t trust him, but because I knew he loved me fiercely. Fiercely enough to do something that would cost him everything. My dad once walked in on someone robbing our home and shot the intruder. I remember the trial. I remember the fear of losing him. That fear stayed with me.

And so when I was hurt years later—deeply and violently hurt—I said nothing. To protect him. Because I knew he would kill the man who harmed me. That silence is a burden I still carry. But it was wrapped in love.

March 12, 2022: The Day My Hero Left

My father passed away on March 12, 2022. It was one of the worst days of my life, but I knew the moment it happened. A friend called to say he had fallen, and an ambulance was outside. I started packing to go home, but suddenly a wave of peace washed over me.

I knew then. My hero, my first love, the man who loved me without condition, was gone.

COVID had changed him. It slowed him down. Trapped him inside. For a man who had lived in motion, lived in service, lived among people, that was devastating. Watching him weaken broke me.

But I find peace in knowing he is free now—singing, dancing, smiling that big, beautiful smile. Still loving people. Still loving me.

I love you, Dad.
I always will.
Until we meet again.