In Memory of My Father — Teacher Lin Hua
Before National Day, I was given a task to write a piece about my father for his 80th-level college students, and to accompany my mother to their 40th graduation anniversary, where I would also give a speech. My mother agreed, but for me, it was the first time in 10 years that I gathered the courage to open my father's writings. He is the deepest and most painful scar on me, one that I don’t know when will heal. The moment I opened his notebook, a photo of mine slipped out. Dad had laminated his photo together with mine…
I spent hours writing this small essay, shedding more tears than words I wrote. Even though it was just a brief recollection, I used up a whole box of tissues. Writing further, I became too overwhelmed by sadness to continue.
In Memory of My Father — Teacher Lin Hua
Before the National Day, I was assigned the task of writing an article to commemorate my father. Writing isn’t difficult for me anymore, but I kept putting it off until the last day of the holiday, with no way left to avoid it...
Memory works in mysterious ways—you can never forget someone you love, nor someone who loves you. If you think about that person several times a day, maybe it takes 10 years to truly forget them. But my father — Teacher Lin Hua, even though he’s been gone for 10 years, remains the deepest wound in my heart. It aches every time I think of him, and I have no idea when it will ever heal.
Growing up, I wrote many essays praising my mother, but as far as I recall, I never wrote one about my father. He was the eternal guiding light in my life, and I’ve always felt I lacked the ability to write something that could honor him properly. I looked for someone like him when choosing my partner, learned from him how to be a good teacher, watched him help others wherever he went, witnessed his fight against illness, and saw him sacrifice for our family and his career... He set an example for me, and that strength has always stayed with me, supporting me as I’ve stumbled and struggled my way through life, bruised and battered, to where I am today. I’m still holding on!
But Father, in every aspect, I have fallen far short of what you achieved!
In the spring of 1982, my father was diagnosed with late-stage squamous cell carcinoma of the tongue. He was only 30 years old, and my twin sister and I were not even 10 months. At that time, many of you here today, dear uncles and aunts, were likely in your second year of college. For a family like ours—with a devoted housewife and two infants still nursing—the loss of my father would have been a catastrophe. Yet, what kind of inner strength allowed a man, stricken with a terminal illness, to face life with such courage? He bore the pain of his disease, continued his role as a devoted teacher, cared deeply for his students, and still managed to hold together a healthy, complete family for his wife and children.
Many of your names and faces are familiar to me. The reason I remember all of you is not because of my memory from when I was two, but because over the years, I often saw you, joined in your activities, or heard my father mention stories about you. Do you still remember what I looked like as a child? You watched me grow up, and now I am no longer the little girl I once was.
In my memory, there was no clear line between my father’s work and personal life. Most of the visitors to our home were his students, constantly coming and going. Each student’s problems were his own, and he would do everything in his power—whether through money or effort—to help solve them. Many of them became his friends, some formed deep bonds with him across generations, and a few took advantage of his kindness and left him behind. He was a man of deep emotions, not naturally inclined to shift his feelings easily. There were many disappointments in both his work and life, but he bore all the hardships, conflicts, and interests silently within, dissolving them through his writing and transforming them into boundless love that he gave to those around him.
In his diary, my father wrote: "Hardship is a treasure in life. I never believed in this saying. Those suffering have no right to complain; if you conquer hardship, it becomes your wealth; if hardship conquers you, it becomes your humiliation." He truly lived by this. I often saw him acting as the firefighter at home and in various situations, bearing burdens with great patience, constantly putting out fires while calming everyone’s emotions. He supported others through his actions, silently gritting his teeth, never once complaining.
My father has always been the ideal model of a teacher in my eyes. Fate played a cruel joke on him, taking the teeth from a man who depended on his voice to make a living and stiffening his tongue. Yet, despite that, it was through teaching that he supported our entire family, and through his words and example, he profoundly shaped our outlook on life and values. Over the course of 30 years, he performed a miracle by surviving tongue cancer without needing to have his tongue removed, preserving his dignity. In the end, to avoid losing that dignity, he refused both a tracheotomy and feeding tubes. As the cobalt-60 radiation caused irreversible damage to his throat and he could no longer take in enough energy from liquid food, his body gradually weakened.
Teaching was the love of my father’s life, and now it has become my own livelihood as well. He loved the teaching podium, and because he often gave large lectures, he had to ride his bicycle every day, carrying a heavy speaker and microphone from one teaching site to another. Some days, after finishing a full day of classes, he would return home with a hoarse voice, yet still take care of us, helping us with our homework. I have no idea how many words he wrote on that desk with its thick glass top. We shared a single desk lamp—he sat at the long side of the desk, while little me sat at the short side. It was during those times that I quietly learned from him: how to write, how to take notes, how to compose essays. Through this daily exposure, I naturally developed a passion for lifelong learning, a desire that has stayed with me ever since.
In my memory, the second half of my father’s life was entirely devoted to others. His world revolved around selflessness—there was no "self-interest," only "altruism." He never smoked or drank, lived frugally, and his bag always contained nothing but a water bottle and some paper and pens. I would often sneak a look into his bag and secretly slip in the pocket money my grandfather gave me, thinking, "How can a man go out without carrying any money?" Though he appeared to live simply, he worked tirelessly, giving lectures and handing over his entire salary and bonuses to my mother while, without our knowledge, helping numerous underprivileged children, widows, orphans, and those in need. We could barely recall the names of those he helped, only glimpsing stacks of remittance receipts and letters of gratitude.
He was one of the most distinguished writers in the cancer support community, leaving behind valuable works under the pen name "Shuang Mu Lin" (Double Wood Lin). His story touched the hearts of renowned individuals like the writer Bingxin and General Yang Chengwu, who famously led the charge across Luding Bridge during the Long March. They both wrote inscriptions to encourage us as we grew.
My father was also a man of rich interests. Aside from teaching, reading, and writing, he had a passion for stamp collecting and philately. He organized his hobbies in a way that brought benefit to society. He founded a Philatelic Association, set up numerous exhibitions, and led people in tracing the footprints of history through stamps, coins, matchbox labels, and envelopes.
In hindsight, the latter half of his life not only healed his soul from pain but also nurtured those around him. It was a life marked by hardship yet fulfillment, simplicity yet perseverance, ordinariness yet brilliance. He encapsulated it all in a few words: "Survival is a special privilege, and with it comes responsibility. I survived near death, so I must do my duty!"
Lastly, let me share an excerpt from my father's diary：If Death Were to Suddenly Arrive:
If death were to suddenly come, in that moment, I would know what I truly wish for: if the worst were to happen, I would want my loved ones to forget me as quickly as possible.
This wish is so real, so strong. I hope that memories of me could vanish from the minds of my family and friends a moment sooner, to quickly fill the pain and void in their hearts left by my departure.
I’ve thought long and hard about how this could be achieved, but found no answer.
Perhaps God saw that I wasn’t fully prepared and eventually granted me a pardon.
Having seen so many people reflect on their final moments, and having brushed with illness myself, I now realize—don’t wait for some distant day to make a checklist. While life is still intact, I should always strive to suppress evil, promote goodness, do more kind deeds, and make the most of each day.
When I opened your diary, a photo of me slipped out. In that photo, you had laminated your black-and-white picture alongside my photo taken in Northern Europe, and on the back was a picture of me as a child.
Dad, I can imagine just how much you loved me. During all those years when I left home at 18 to study abroad, crossed the seas, and later married far from home, how much you must have thought about me.
Dad! You are the one I owe the most in this lifetime, yet I haven’t had the chance to truly repay your love and care...
Dad, though I may not be as remarkable as you, I’ve picked up your pen. I, too, want to leave my mark on this world with the stroke of a pen. I’ve stood on your platform, and I want to use my voice to share knowledge and spread positivity. I want to inherit your kindness and, with everything I’ve learned, help those in need across the world!
Follow-up:
On October 20th, I attended the 40th-anniversary celebration of Dad’s Chinese class and shared this speech. What I didn’t mention is that 20 years ago, on this very date, I got married, and my father entrusted me to another man. This date, a day I held dear enough to make it my password, has never really been celebrated in my memory. After willingly dedicating nearly two decades to being a housewife, I found myself free again but starting from scratch, having to rely on my own resilience to rise up once more, bruised and battered.
This class, formed in the early days of China’s opening up reform, was the very first in the nation to offer part-time courses. Among the 388 classmates, the youngest was 18 and the oldest was 52, coming from the military and a wide range of professions. Their education was eventually recognized, and they went on to become outstanding elites and leaders in various fields. Now, 40 years later, although those of them able to gather again are well into their seventies or eighties, they still embody the perseverance and gratitude of the older generation, with dedication and passion for their work and living. I am deeply moved and profoundly respectful of their strength and spirit!
