“If You Met My Father in Heaven”

Title: “If You Met My Father in Heaven”

By Dr. Ivan Zy Lim

A few nights ago, my wife said something that stopped me cold.

We were talking about the article I wrote, the one about my father’s absence, the grief that never quite leaves, and all the things I’ve learned from not having him near.

She looked at me, quiet and thoughtful, and said,

“If I ever meet your father in heaven… I’d ask him how he feels reading that piece. I’d ask what his answers would be to the questions you asked. And most of all… what he would want to say to you now.”

Her words landed softly but stayed heavy.

The Questions That Don’t Age

In the article, I posed a few questions I’ll never get to ask my father:

• Were you ever proud of me?

• What dreams did you bury for the sake of duty?

• What were you afraid of but never named?

• And, this one has always stung, why didn’t you say more?

For years, I held these questions like stones in my pocket. Not heavy enough to crush me. But weighty enough to keep me aware of the ground beneath my feet.

I’ve come to accept that some questions live without answers.

But what if, just for today, we imagined one?

A Conversation Between Heaven and Earth

If my wife did meet him in heaven, in that quiet garden we sometimes picture, where souls rest and stories continue, I wonder what he’d say.

Maybe he’d begin slowly, a little shy. My father wasn’t a man of many words.

Maybe he’d look away before looking back.

“Tell him I read every word he wrote.

And I wept.

Not just because he missed me, but because he understood me better than I ever understood myself.”

Maybe he’d admit what he couldn’t back then, that love was hard for him to express, not because it wasn’t there, but because it lived behind walls he didn’t know how to climb.

“I was proud of him. Every single day. I just… didn’t know how to say it in his language. I only knew how to say it in mine: working hard. Providing. Keeping my pain quiet.”

Maybe he’d tell her he regrets the things left unsaid. But not because he didn’t think I would be okay. Rather, because now he sees how much strength I had to summon to become the man I am.

The Words I Longed For

If he could speak to me now, I imagine his voice would be gentler than I remember. Less stern. More father than teacher.

Maybe he’d say:

“Son, you grew into everything I hoped you would be, and more than I knew to dream.

You stayed kind.

You stayed present, even when I wasn’t.

You learned how to hold pain without passing it on.

You didn’t become me.

You became yourself. And I’m proud of you for that.”

Maybe he’d pause.

Maybe we’d both cry.

And maybe that would be enough.

On This Father’s Day

There are so many kinds of fathers.

Some are warm, consistent, and open.

Some are distant, silent, or gone too soon.

Some wounded us. Some shaped us. Some loved us in ways we only now begin to understand.

And many of us walk through life carrying invisible conversations, things we wish we could say, things we wish we could hear.

Today, I don’t just want to honor my father.

I want to honor the version of him I’ll never meet, the one who found peace, who found his voice, who maybe finally found the courage to say:

“I love you. I just didn’t know how to say it then.”

A Quiet Invitation

If you could have five minutes with your father, wherever he is, however you remember him,

What would you want to hear?

And what would you say back?

With a full heart today,

Dr. Ivan Zy Lim

Son. Psychologist. Still learning how to listen.