Father's
Day
May-20-2018
There he was.
The years seemed to rest gently upon his shoulders. His smile was faint, like the last glow of sunset lingering on the horizon before surrendering to night. His eyes, once sharp and commanding, now carried the weight of countless journeys of fua kavenga ki he famili. Silver-gray strands framed his face like the first light of dawn resting upon mountain peaks. As he opened the door, he looked at me and murmured softly,
"Hi Kepa."
My name, the name has always carried a special warmth. Kepa, a piece of my middle name—Tangataʻolakepa—a name that, in his voice, sounded less like a word and more like a memory.
He settled onto the couch while I sat at the dining table across from him.
"Fēfē hake?" I asked.
I asked how he was feeling.
He spoke of the aches that visited him now and then, the discomforts that arrived uninvited and lingered longer than they once did. Then, with that familiar mixture of humor and honesty that only he could manage, he smiled and said,
"Mahalo ko e haʻu ia ʻa e kaumeʻa."
meaning: "Maybe it is death knocking at the door."
We both laughed.
Yet the words hung in the room like a distant church bell heard across the water. They were lighthearted on the surface, but underneath them rested the quiet awareness that age had become his constant companion.
That Sunday was Father's Day in the Tongan community. He got up and get ready and on our way to church.
As tradition dictates, fathers were honored during the church service. When we arrived, the women presented leis to the fathers. My father resisted at first. He never cared for attention. But the lei fit him like an oversized coat—something he never felt comfortable wearing. Yet he accepted the lei, not because he wanted it, but because he did not want the ladies' gesture of love to go unappreciated.
The service stretched on for nearly an hour and a half.
I glanced over at him from time to time. He sat quietly, listening, enduring, waiting. We were among the first to leave when the final amen was spoken.
Back at the house, he opened the door and immediately whispered,
"Namu lelei tama, koe luu."
The aroma had greeted him before we crossed the threshold.
I smiled.
Perhaps he had sat through the entire service with one eye on heaven and the other on the luu waiting at home.
He slowly went upstairs to change and returned a few moments later. I prepared a plate and placed it before him. He bowed his head to pray.
His prayer lingered longer than usual.
Long enough for me to notice.
Long enough for me to wonder what conversations were taking place between him and God.
When he finally lifted his head and began to eat, he smiled.
"Ifo tama, kiʻi luu."
Eat, son.
Simple words.
Words fathers have spoken since the beginning of time.
As we shared that meal, we spoke of family in Tonga, family scattered throughout America, and his plans to travel to Tonga with ʻOfa and Ngia. Though his body seemed weaker than before, his spirit remained determined. He wanted to help his niece, Sesi.
Some people grow old and begin letting go.
My father seemed intent on finishing every responsibility he believed God had entrusted to him.
As we talked, I found myself thinking about the journey that had brought us here.
When my father left Tonga in 1975, he carried more than a suitcase. He carried a vision.
His dream was simple, yet enormous:
To bring his family to America.
My mother.
My brother.
My sisters.
All of us.
As a younger man, I never fully understood the weight of that dream. I do now. That was his calling.
The ocean between Tonga and America was not measured merely in miles. It was measured in sacrifice, loneliness, uncertainty, and faith.
He crossed that ocean so that we could have opportunities he never had.
His story, however, began long before America.
It began under the watchful eye of my grandmother, Manongi.
She was a force of nature.
A woman whose presence filled every room before she even spoke. She possessed the courage of a warrior and the authority of a king. She never softened her words to accommodate her audience. Truth, in her mind, did not require permission to be spoken.
Her children revered her.
Perhaps feared her.
But above all, they loved her.
She held her family together like the kafa binding a Tongan canoe—tight enough to withstand the storms of life.
As I drove home later that afternoon, these memories followed me like shadows stretching across the road.
Then a familiar song came on the radio.
An old Dan Fogelberg song.
I had heard it many times before, but this time the lyrics landed differently.
Perhaps age had finally taught me what youth could not understand.
Perhaps watching my father's silver hair catch the morning light had opened a door inside me.
The song spoke of inheritance—not of money or possessions, but of character, sacrifice, and legacy.
And suddenly, I realized that my father had become woven into the fabric of my own story.
His voice echoes in mine.
His values live in my decisions.
His sacrifices became the bridge upon which my life was built.
Like the song says, I am merely a living legacy.
A continuation of a story that began long before me.
And as the miles disappeared beneath my tires, one thought settled heavily upon my heart:
There will come a day when the chair he sits in will be empty.
The familiar voice that calls me "Kepa" will fall silent.
The prayers over the dinner table will cease.
The stories will belong only to memory.
But not yet.
Not yet.
For now, the leader of the band still plays.
Though his eyes have grown tired and his steps have slowed, the music continues.
And before the final song is over, there is still something I hope he knows:
Thank you for the road you traveled.
Thank you for the sacrifices you carried.
Thank you for the strength when I needed strength, and for the kindness when I needed grace.
And Papa, like the song says, I don't think I've told you—
whispered in my head: I love you.
Tangata'olakepa
