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A week ago, our family’s world was turned upside down. My wife’s father, Jerimi, a man as kindhearted and down-to-earth as they come, was tragically taken from us in a dirtbike accident. Even now, it doesn’t feel real. One day, he was here, full of life, spending time with his family, fixing things that weren’t even broken, and the next, we were standing at his funeral, saying goodbye. The shock is overwhelming, and the pain is the kind that makes you hope this is all just a bad dream… until reality forces you to face it again and again.
Jerimi wasn’t just my father-in-law; he was my second dad. He had this way of making you feel like whatever you needed, he’d figure it out, or at least try. Got a question about a home project? He’d show up with tools before you could finish asking. Car trouble? He’d diagnose it over the phone with uncanny accuracy. When I moved here five years ago and felt the weight of being away from my family, Jerimi filled that gap. He made me feel like one of his own. I’ll miss him deeply, and I know his wife and children are still grappling with this sudden, heartbreaking loss.
Jerimi’s passing has left me with a lot to think about: hard lessons wrapped in pain. As much of a cliché as it sounds, you really don’t know when your time is up. You never know when a casual conversation might be the last, or when a mundane moment will suddenly hold unbearable significance. The fact that Jerimi’s last words to me were “Love you, please be safe,” followed by a hug, brings me a small measure of peace. It also reminds me to never let pride get in the way of making things right. Say the apology. Mend the rift. Pride isn’t worth the weight of regret.
Another thing Jerimi taught me, both ironically and tragically, is that you can never be too good at something. When I first moved here, he couldn’t wait to get me on a dirtbike. I had no idea what I was doing, but he was patient, always ready with encouragement (and maybe a little teasing). Over time, I got better… good enough to try to keep up with him, though I never really could. Jerimi wasn’t a pro rider, but he was skilled. He made high jumps and tight turns look effortless.
The cruel twist is that the jump that took his life was one he had cleared hundreds of times before. He wasn’t reckless. He wasn’t complacent. He was good; so good I’d have trusted him to take my own son riding with him. But his accident was a sobering reminder: even when you know what you’re doing, life can throw you something you didn’t see coming. It’s a lesson I’ve taken to heart, especially in my line of work. Complacency can creep in anywhere, and Jerimi’s words, “Be safe”have taken on a new depth of meaning for me.
Grief, though, is its own beast. It’s unpredictable, overwhelming, and isolating. People mean well… they want to comfort you, to show support, but right now, I don’t want visitors. I don’t want hugs or small talk or company. Having people around only reminds me why they’re here in the first place, which makes the loss feel even heavier.
And then there are the things people say, the well-meaning but misplaced attempts to empathize. Sharing their own loss, especially one they saw coming over months, feels worlds apart from what we’re going through. Jerimi’s death was sudden. It came without warning, without preparation, without even the chance to brace ourselves. He was active and healthy one day and on life support the next. And while I know these stories are shared with good intentions, they sometimes make me feel even more alone in this.
Right now, I need space: space to feel, to grieve, to navigate this loss in my own way. When the time comes, I’ll be ready to talk about Jerimi and the incredible man he was. But for now, I carry his lessons with me: to live fully, love deeply, and, most of all, to be safe.
Jerimi taught me so much about being a dad. He loved each of his kids with a fierce and unconditional love, giving each one his time, attention, and unique care, even when it was inconvenient for him. He loved deeply, and he loved well. Though I’m just at the beginning of my parenting journey, I hope one day to be seen the way his kids saw him—and the way I saw him: as a steady, selfless, and loving presence in their lives.
Jerimi’s example has made me even more aware of how much I love my own son. I look at my boy and feel a love so profound, so overwhelming, that it’s impossible to put into words. Jerimi’s passing, as heartbreaking as it is, has already pushed me to be a better dad, to hold my son closer, to cherish the moments we have, and to embrace the incredible responsibility and privilege of being a father. He showed me that being a dad is so much bigger than I ever imagined.
Even in the midst of the shock and devastation of Jerimi’s passing, he continues to open my eyes to things I hadn’t fully grasped before. He taught me lessons during his life that I’ll carry forever: how to work on cars, how to provide for a family with my own two hands, and how to approach life with a steady heart and a generous spirit. And now, in his absence, he’s taught me just how fleeting and precious life truly is. His passing is a reminder that every moment counts, and we never know when our time here will come to an end.
Though I’m still grieving, and we all are, I find a sense of peace in knowing what to strive for as a man, a father, and a husband. Jerimi has given me a completely different perspective on life, one that makes me want to savor the little things and live with more intention. His legacy isn’t just in the lessons he taught, but in the love and example he left behind: a legacy I hope to honor in the way I live and the way I love my own family.
To view the memorial video I made for him, check out the link below.
For a Thought 
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