My tribute to…

Father • Son • Brother • Uncle • Friend • Humanitarian • Evangelist • Prayer Warrior • Child of God

My name is Donovan Simons, son of the late Garry M. Simons and the youngest of his three children. I recall at a very young age growing up, eating dinner together with my family, taking family trips and attending church on a regular basis as a family. I remember attending private Christian schools from Pre-K  through college. I also remember not always having what I wanted, but always having what I needed. What I cannot recall, however, is my Dad playing ball with me, teaching me how to ride a bike, or having those conversations with me about life, how to handle confrontations and how to be a man. I have no recollection of my formative years of my Dad ever saying, “I love you” or giving me a hug. I remember him verbally expressing his love and showering my sister with hugs, though. Now, don’t get me wrong, I didn’t dislike my Dad, I just didn’t have a relationship with him even though he was physically present in the home. He was a strong, invisible presence. I remember being in my early 20’s and telling my Mom, “I don’t think Dad loves me”. My Mom, a bit surprised at my comment asked, “Why would you think or say that?” Then she proceeded to tell me, “Your Dad loves you. He has always worked hard to provide for you, to make sure you had food on the table, clothes on your back, a roof over your head and a solid education. That’s how he shows his love.” Even though I heard and understood the words, I didn’t feel the love. I needed to hear it. I think I just needed a hug from him to reassure me that he actually did love me. I shrugged it off and continued meandering through life as I had for the past two decades.

A significant time in my childhood that I didn’t realize had such a deep impact on my Dad’s life until much later was around the time I was nine years of age. I remember my Dad often calling me or stopping me as I was running by to ask how to spell words and pronounce them as he sat at the dining room table in the evenings with books spread all over, and his finger pointing on the page like he was trying to show somebody something, while mumbling to himself.

I was in my mid to late 30’s, still haunted by not having a relationship with my Dad. After all these years, he was still a man of few words, unless you were talking about the Bible, God, or prophecy, then you could hardly get a word in edgewise. Unconsciously, I had started building up a resentment towards my Dad. I thought he was weak and had no backbone. We entertained surface conversations, but for anything containing depth or substance, I automatically went to my Mom. I reasoned, if he could talk about God so much, then he could tell me what the issue was he had with me, why he didn’t love me. I respected my Dad. Nevertheless, I undoubtedly had some serious issues with him. I took the approach of getting answers by getting to know my Dad. I mean, like, really know him. I would sit at the dining room table with him, religious books still sprawled over the surface of the table and ask him about his childhood. What was it  like growing up as a child? How did he get along with his siblings? Was he shy in school or was he the popular kid. When my Dad gave me a backstage pass to his life, it altered the whole perception I had of him. You see, my Dad only received a third grade education. He told me how his teacher sent a note home with him to give to his parents suggesting that he stay at home and work because he would never amount to anything. He told me how hard his Father was on him and his brother, but how he showered his five sisters with love and attention. It was during that time that I also learned that my Dad was illiterate until the age of 40, That was the time when he would call me over to ask me how to spell and sound out words. The Bible was his textbook. It all started to make sense now. My Dad interacted with his children following the example given by his father. My Dad and I didn’t have those father/son conversations because he didn’t consider himself to be “smart” enough to impart wisdom. That message that third grade teacher gave to my Dad affected him his entire life. I couldn’t understand that because I thought my Dad was brilliant. He was a master carpenter. He was a successful heavy equipment owner/operator. He was a well-known, thriving building contractor entrepreneur. How did he go all through life not knowing how to read and operate like he was a Harvard graduate?

I determined that I was going to have a relationship with my Dad. So, from then on, whenever I would visit my parents’ home, I would hug my Dad and tell him, “I love you, Dad”. Initially, my Dad would allow me to hug him, but he wouldn’t hug me back. He would let both arms just hang to the side and remain silent. I asked no questions and acted like I didn’t even notice that the hugs weren’t being reciprocated. After a period, I would physically take one of his arms and put it over my shoulder and say, “I love you, Dad”. He didn’t prevent me from doing so, and he would utter an unintelligible mumble. I persisted. There came a time that when my Dad heard my car drive up in the yard, he would meet me at the door, and he had outstretched arms before I did, and say, “I love you, Bill” (that was the nickname he gave me) clearly and audibly. Previously, my Dad NEVER called me. Now he was calling me to say, “Just checking on you, Bill”. I learned you are never too old to receive your father’s love.

My Dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer in 2017. I was living in Michigan at the time and would drive down to Tennessee once or twice a month to check on my Dad and spend some quality time with him. In 2021, my Dad was put in home hospice, and they anticipated a max of 6 months until he would succumb to the disease. I drove down for a visit and that visit lasted the duration of his life, two more years.

In the final years of my Dad’s time on this earth, with cancer attacking his body with a vengeance and his eyesight dimming by the day, he continued to praise God through it. He took advantage of the limited eyesight he had to read the Word and share it with anyone who would listen, as he had done for many decades before. He knew no strangers. He often would stop me in my tracks to share the same information he shared with me not long before. I would stand by his side and listen as if it was my first time hearing it. I didn’t mind and I didn’t stop him, because I knew the day would come when his audible voice would be silenced. I learned that sharing the Word with anyone who would listen was his way of memorizing the scripture while sharing the gospel. He was hiding the Word of God in his heart. (Psalm 119:11).

My Dad was bedridden the last few weeks of his life. I took that opportunity to go through many old photographs taken back in the 60’s and 70’s of our family. I came across numerous photographs of me sitting on my Dad’s lap, him holding me in his arms, my Dad and me sitting at the table together eating, and my Dad with his arm on my shoulder while I stood by his side. I was overcome with emotion as it was undoubtedly clear, my Dad loved me. He always had. I just had to get to know him, so I could understand him, allowing me to fully appreciate him.

Anyone who knew my Dad knows his absolute favorite topics were Daniel and Revelation… the fulfilling of prophecy. His favorite songs were Midnight Cry and any song speaking of the coming of Jesus and life in Heaven. I would sit on my Dad’s bed and read passages from the Bible to him and sing even though he would lay there completely unresponsive. On one of those days, I sang the song “I Bowed On My Knees And Cried Holy.” When I finished singing, my Dad raised both of his hands towards heaven and started clapping then softly rested his hands back on his abdomen. That was the last time he moved.

While, in my eyes, I had initially perceived my Dad as weak and having no backbone, I was to witness firsthand how my Dad was indeed strong and valiant. The Holy Bible was the book my Dad learned how to read. He read it, memorized it, applied it to his life, and lived by the principles it taught. He was loving, kind, patient, long-suffering, meek, gentle, and selfless. I once viewed those attributes as weak, but my Dad exemplified exactly how much strength it takes to love someone who doesn’t love you back; how to hold your tongue when others wrong you; how to bless a fellow brother or sister with words of encouragement when your own health is steadily declining; how to share the little you have trusting that God will continue to provide when all the reservoirs around you seems dried up. When I took the time to get to know my Dad, then and only then, did I get to understand him. The more I understood him, the deeper my love, appreciation and admiration grew for him. My Dad and I developed a bond that I had only dreamed of as a child. I learned that how a story begins does not have to determine how it ends.

I love you, Dad. You will forever be MY SILENT STRENGTH!