TheoloJeep

I debated whether to share this publicly. Ultimately, I decided to do so because I know I am not alone. Many of us love fathers who have taught us much about life, yet remain strangers to saving faith in Christ. This is my open letter to my dad on Father’s Day.

Dad,

This Father’s Day feels different to me.

Maybe it’s because I see time differently now.

When I was young, you seemed larger than life—strong, capable, steady. You were a Marine. In my mind, Marines didn’t break, didn’t bend, didn’t fade. You felt indestructible.

But age has a way of humbling all of us.

It’s hard for me to see the man who once felt so strong now fighting battles that his body no longer lets him win the way it once did. I’ve watched strength give way to frailty. I’ve watched independence give way to dependence. And if I’m honest, part of me still resists that reality.

You’re my dad.

Some part of me always expected you to be here.

Forever.

But life under the curse does not permit that illusion for long.

Because I love you, I need to say something that weighs heavily on my heart.

Dad, I am concerned for your soul.

I’m not writing this as a preacher.

I’m writing this as your son.

I know you’ve lived a full life. You’ve worked hard. You’ve sacrificed. You’ve endured things I may never fully understand. You’ve known hardship, disappointment, pain, and loss.

But none of those things can reconcile us to God.

And that is true for both of us.

“For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” — Romans 3:23

That includes me.

That includes you.

Our greatest problem is not sickness, weakness, disability, or even death.

Our greatest problem is sin before a holy God.

And sin is not something we can outwork, outfight, or outrun.

Not with discipline.
Not with toughness.
Not with grit.
Not even with the stubborn resolve of a Marine.

We need a Savior.

That Savior is Jesus Christ.

Dad, you taught me many things, and one of the most valuable was self-reliance.

You taught me to work hard, to push through difficulty, to carry my weight, and not expect the world to hand me anything. I’m grateful for that. Those lessons shaped me into the man I am today.

But I’ve come to understand something difficult and humbling:

The very strength that helps a man survive in this life can become the very thing that keeps him from surrendering to Christ.

The gospel confronts every man—especially strong men—with the same truth:

We cannot save ourselves.

No amount of effort, discipline, toughness, or resolve can make us right with God.

Jesus lived the life we never could—perfectly righteous, perfectly obedient, without sin. Then He willingly went to the cross and bore the wrath that sinners deserved. He died in the place of His people and rose again, defeating sin and death forever.

He did what we never could do for ourselves.

Salvation is not earned by being good enough.

It is received by grace through faith.

Dad, I need you to hear this clearly:

You cannot stand before God on your own merits.

Neither can I.

Our only hope is Christ.

And the beautiful truth is this: if you still have breath, it is not too late.

There is still mercy.

There is still grace.

“Whoever comes to me I will never cast out.” — John 6:37

Whoever.

Dad, that means you.

I know laying down self-reliance is hard.

I know surrender can feel like weakness.

But before God, surrender is not weakness.

It is the beginning of wisdom.

It is the doorway to life.

Dad, I don’t just want more time with you here.

I want eternity with you.

I want to see you whole again—not merely with a restored body, but with a redeemed soul, worshiping Christ in joy forever.

Nothing would bring me greater joy than knowing you belong to Him.

I love you, Dad.

I honor you.

And I am pleading with you—while God still grants breath—turn to Christ.

Trust Him.

Call upon Him.

He is merciful beyond anything we deserve.

I love you.

Your son,
Jarod

Soli Deo Gloria.