On a recent Saturday, I watched as he stood before a sizable gathering of family and friends and read some remarks about his daughter's graduation from Mid-Pacific Institute.

A humorous Irish college professor from the Midwest, he gave a speech that was colorful, funny and filled with the emotion only a father can have when watching his baby girl move on to college. Clad in an orange aloha shirt and sporting the cap of one of his many alma maters, Kalamazoo College, he held the crowd's attention for almost 15 minutes with a brilliant mixture of jest and poignant insight.

Before his speech, he admitted to me that he cried several times while he sat in his office and wrote it. He spent hours rehashing the good and the bad of my sister's 18-year journey to graduation. He recalled her many artistic and athletic accomplishments as well as the moments he wanted to leave her at the Humane Society.

No tears on game day, however; he was in his element.

As we put away tables and folded up chairs after an evening of food and revelry, my father couldn't stop smiling. His happiness was born of the fact he saw his two kids graduate from prestigious private schools, and was now sending his second off to college.

As much as the years before the party were filled with complaints and justified uncertainty, this moment belonged to my parents.

The following Wednesday, the smile was wiped from my father's face by an early-morning phone call. The caller told him his eldest brother died after a brief bout with cancer. He was the last remaining member of my dad's immediate family. Bernie and my dad spoke weekly, often reminiscing or just exchanging tales of their families.

My dad lived away from his family for the past 30-plus years but stayed close to his brother. Losing a loved one is a familiar feeling for him.

My grandpa, Peter Boylan, died of cancer before I was born. When I was 13, Dad lost his other brother, Ray, to cancer. Less than two years later, his mother and aunt were killed in a car crash when their small hatchback rolled in front of an oncoming semi.

A piece of him was buried with each family member and as much of a cliché as it may be, he was never the same.

But he dealt with it and never complained. I suspect my mother was privy to his suffering, but he made it a point when talking to my sister and I to dismiss death as a part of life. He made it very clear that there is nothing you can do to prevent people from dying, and that you have to relish the time you have.

So when I called him at his office Wednesday to offer my condolences, he responded with, "What are you going to do?" The defeat and anguish in his voice was crushing, but he didn't dwell. He switched topics.

Some of that is part of who my father is. For all of his extroverted tendencies, he is an intensely private man when it comes to his personal life. He doesn't want to burden other people with his pain.

For 24 years, my dad has been my personal life reference. I admire many of the qualities that he has instilled in me, one of which is courage. At 60, the man has watched every member of his immediate family die.

But rather than lose it, he paid his respects, held his family together, advanced his career and raised two kids.

I just hope that I can call on the same strength when adversity ambushes me.