I want to dedicate this Father’s Day to the memory of my dad, Marcel Boucher, who was a member of The Life Centre until his death on November 29, 1996.
He was a small French Canadian man with calluses on both hands, who worked fifteen hours-a-day, five days-a-week, to provide a place for me and my siblings to call home.
From my bedroom, I could hear him cough as he stepped into the morning air and left for work at 7 am for his job as an orderly at the Perley Hospital.
He loved his job but especially the security it brought him to provide for his growing family.
He would arrive home at 4:30, have supper, and leave again at 5:30 for his job as a night cleaner at the Carlingwood Sears store.
Dad was not an educated man as we understand formal education, but he was a man of common sense and uncommon values.
He modelled integrity, faithfulness, hard work and sacrificial living. Not only that but rather than send us to church, he brought us with him.
In his youth, someone had offered to pay for him to get a good education but he chose to play instead. This became his greatest regret in life. It would be a decision that meant working two jobs to just to make ends meet. It also meant being away from his family every night of the week. A loss for him and for my brother and two sisters as well.
His mother tongue was French but he learned English so he would have more opportunities to work and provide for his family. It also helped him court my Irish born yet British raised mother.
It’s funny, but I never noticed his accent until I was an adult - children never do. He was just dad.
I never noticed his commitment to us as a family either, until I had my own.
He was, like many fathers, a giant in the eyes of their children, even though he was only 5’ 4” tall.
I did not grow up knowing the Lord the way I do today, but I prayed often. “Dear Lord, please, please, please, let me be taller than my dad”. God answered that prayer and now I am hearing it prayed in the life of one of my grandchildren. How funny is that?
I first noticed a crimp in his fatherly armor when after an operation on his carotid artery, he put his head on my chest and cried like a baby. He was 54 years old at the time and in pain both on the outside and inside.
It was such an awkward moment that I didn’t know how to respond to him. We had never been huggy with each other as a family and especially with dad. That would be the first but not the last time he shed tears.
Years later after leading him to Jesus, we attended an inner healing conference in Ohio and ended up sitting under a tree talking about our home.
Suddenly, he burst into tears, put his head on my shoulder and asked me to forgive him for being such an angry father.
Another very awkward moment for a son with his dad. What to do?
I understand now that he was burning the candle at both ends. His emotional tank was running on empty and and he was physically tired. We became the brunt of his regrets and frustrations.
As I look back as a seasoned dad today...
I regret not saying all the things I was so proud of him for. He really needed to hear that from me.
I regret being unable to comfort him at those important moments in his life when he reached out to me.
In the hours he had to spare, and there were not many, he taught me how to ride a bicycle, and bought me my first, second-hand bike. Sadly, on the first day, the front forks collapsed as I was riding it. Someone sold him a bike with forks that had been soldered rather than welded together. He had been ripped off as he spent the little extra he had to buy me that bike.
Landsdowne Park was a special place for me and my dad. We went to a few football games, stock car races and exhibitions together. He taught me how to drive a standard shift in the parking lot.
I remember jerking the car forward so often, trying to coordinate the clutch with the gas, with the shifter, that I was sure we were both going to suffer whiplash and the driveshaft was going to come through the floor board.
One day after failing my driving test, in anger, I drove his car around town, without his permission, proving to everyone that I could drive and the tester was wrong. Hmm!
That night I waited until he went to sleep, I took his keys and went joy riding with my friends until just before dawn.
I guess like all sons and daughters, we do things behind our parents back that we are not proud of today.
My dad never owned a new car, and it remained an unfulfilled dream of his, but he was truly happy for me when I brought home my first new car.
We even tried fishing - not a good idea. I watched him snag a pike and while trying to remove the hook I distracted him with a question. The fish took the opportunity to bite him and sliced open his hand.
That was our last fishing trip and the moment when I learned to bless the church and its’ elements in French.
I wrote a song once and he drove me to CFRA to see if they would let me sing it on air. A good idea to me but a wacky one to him, yet he was trying to be supportive.
He came to a few of my swim meets, karate tournaments, and watched when a group of us tried to repair the engine on my first VW bug.
He wanted to know what the extra parts were on the ground when we said we were finished. We couldn’t remember where they came from, so we just set them aside. He just smiled that ‘how dumb can you get and still breathe’ smile and didn’t say a word as we drove off so proudly.
The engine lasted one block before it sputtered to a stop. We had to find out where those parts belonged and he came to the rescue by asking his backyard mechanic friend to help. We were on the road again thanks to dad’s intervention.
When my Honda S600 chain-driven sports car broke down, he towed me to the dealer and while on the way misjudged a turn and almost got me broadsided. We laughed later but he was ashen at the time.
He was so proud when I graduated from College with Honours but saddened when they forgot to mention it as I received my diploma. While we spoke with people at the graduation reception, he showed them the honours notice on my diploma. I was an honour student and he wanted everyone to know.
When Joyce walked down the aisle to become my bride he was beaming. He loved her and spoke highly of her all the time.
When Kim, then Jason came along, he was a proud grandpa and would drop into our house on Saturday mornings as he was out for his weekend drive to Ogdensburg, NY.
He loved his grandchildren but when Joyce and I went through our separation, it affected his visits to our home. The breakdown in marriage today affects so many of the extended family members especially grandpa.
He was leery of my decision to become a follower of Jesus. He was sure I was involved in a cult. He went so far as to ask his friend Bishop Windle, what I was involved with. After assurances, he was OK with my new found personal faith in Jesus.
When Joyce and I got back together, he was delighted and relieved. Once again he could be in our lives fully and be the dad and grandpa he always wanted to be.
As he grew older though we saw him less because he lost his eyesight to disease. One day he handed me his driver’s license and said, “Son I can’t drive safely anymore.” That day he lost his most simple of life’s pleasures - his freedom to drive, camp, fish and just enjoy the open road.
He asked who he could give his truck to and it ended up at a kids camp and was in use for many years after. That made him happy.
Dad taught me, by example, all I needed to know about an honest day’s work, doing whatever you needed to do, legally, to provide for your family. That was your responsibility in having children in the first place - to take care of them and their needs. They came first.
Every son or daughter has a mix of memories about dad. They are, after all, imperfect men. They are real dads not ideal ones.
I wish I would have thanked him more for the sacrifices he made on my behalf. The extra jobs, the extra hours, the extra money to provide what I needed growing up.
I wish I would have told him more often how proud I was that he was my dad.
I wish I would have told him how much I loved him and how special he was to me. Towards the end of his life, as I would say “I love you dad” he would laugh awkwardly and say “me too”.
I wish I would have taken the time to just hang out with him more and ask him to tell me more stories of his early life.
As a young man, I regret having travelled across Canada, Europe and North Africa for over a year without contacting him except at the end when I needed money to fly home from London.
I regret being so thoughtless and selfish and not considering the stress I was putting him under by not contacting him regularly.
Dads are not just providers but protectors of their children. How could he protect me when he didn’t even know where I was?
I regret being drunk the night his mother died and as I stood beside her bed at St Vincent’s Hospital I was unable to comfort him.
I regret that moment because he worked with veterans whose bodies were ravaged by alcoholism, and he asked us to be careful with alcohol.
I regret not listening to his wisdom and advice on so many issues.
I think back over all the years I had with my dad and all I can say is ‘thank you Lord’ that Marcel Boucher was MY dad.
He loved me the best he could with what he knew.
He was serious about his call and responsibility of being my dad.
I am forever grateful for Monday, Nov. 25, 1996 when, over coffee, he asked me an important question that was on his mind, but one I was equipped to answer. He said, “Son, explain to me again what happens when you die.”
Three days later, on Thursday the 29th of November 1996, he collapsed on the steps of his rented home and went to be with the Lord.
My dad closed his eyes on this side of heaven but opened them in the Presence of Jesus. I know he heard the words ‘Well done good and faithful servant.”
I want to echo that same declaration today and say, “Dad, well done, you were a good and faithful father. Thank you for making our house a home!”
My dad’s name was Marcel Boucher and I am dedicating this Father’s Day to all the imperfect dads who live honourably, sacrificially and faithfully for their families.





