Fly High Dad
My father was born in October 1960, in Mérida, Venezuela. He was part of a large, humble family, raised by a strong mother who took on the role of both parents in the absence of a father figure. He was the favorite of his sisters, the youngest of the boys, affectionately called "Julito"—until I was born, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. In San Juan de los Morros, where he spent much of his childhood, he was nicknamed "la sardinita" because of his love for swimming, something he did well in what I believe was the only Olympic-sized pool in the capital of the plains.
In Caracas, he lived through some wild times, where they called him "Julio Pepino." I wasn't around then, but I imagine it was because of his nose. Like all his siblings, he had to grow up early, and after some youthful rebellion, he experienced a radical change in how he lived his life through his faith in Christ and his practice of religion. I was born right in the middle of that transition.
My father, also named Julio César, was always skilled with words. They were his work tool and later a powerful means to serve his faith. He could talk for hours, and people would listen without getting bored. Conversations were often interrupted by his unique laugh: "Ha Ha Ha, Glory to God." Now, as I remember it, there's no greater glory than dedicating a laugh to you every time something brings joy or grace. And through his words, his work, and his preaching, he built a vast network of contacts— in Caracas, where I was born and spent my childhood, in Valencia where we later lived, and in places like La Guaira, Mérida, Maracaibo, and other locations he visited for family and ministry.
I was his first child, saved by his name. My mother had tried to name me Hans Gary Rudolph—can you believe that? After me came Stephanie, Jim, and Melanie. They, after my parents' separation, had the pleasure of being guinea pigs for his mango recipes. We all experienced the discipline he tried to instill through religion, but through the teachings he preached and the faith he promoted, he helped us understand the real world. There are always people in more need than you, and true kindness is in giving without expecting anything in return. My father could have accumulated more, but throughout his life, he was fulfilled by giving. He built churches, restored playgrounds, brought food to the poor, visited the sick, offered hope in prisons, and often made us accompany him. He showed us what the world was really like and taught us to appreciate what we had. Sharing—he taught us to share, not just materially but in moments, too. There wasn't a family trip where he didn't include my cousins—and, as I said, we are a large family.
Like all human families, perfection is not the rule. Our family's separation affected us all. It hit me particularly hard during the prime of my adolescence when one tends to judge rashly and impose only one's own reason. I spent a long time without speaking to my father, but we reconciled when I told him he was going to be a grandfather. What a joy that brought him! By this time, the rigidity of rules no longer existed, and we formed an adult relationship that we hadn't allowed ourselves before. I was able to celebrate a few parties with him and even raise a toast. Dad, Jesus toasted with wine!
One by one, all his children left the country. I was the last to leave. He got to see Margaret born and held her with pride. But Venezuela and its tragedy forced us into exile, and there he stayed, surely pained by loneliness. In recent years, he had talked about moving here, but destiny doesn't look at plans.
Today, October 2, 2024, just a few days shy of his 64th birthday, my father passed away. It seems an undetected tumor took his life. Thanks to my aunt Sonia, who kept an eye on him, he didn't die alone, cradled by pain and the worst of conditions. His nieces and sisters managed to see him and show him that his love bore fruit. For us, his children, distance and the inability to return to our country force us to grieve from afar and wish him a safe journey to heaven. Because although he wasn't a perfect man, he worked hard to earn his place in paradise.
Fly high, Julio César. I love you.
Julio Cesar Rivas
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