"Lee, I had a dream," my sister said. "I dreamed that Dad was sitting next to the window looking out across the sky."

Instinctively I knew Dad was looking for his chariot, to cross over to the heavenly side. Dad passed the following week. He was 93 years old.

My father worked at Pier 40, as a household goods inspector. At night he worked as a musician, playing his six-string Rickenbacker steel guitar.

My dad, Samuel K. Makua, played at the Hoffman's Café. Joe Cazimero asked Dad to join his band called the Westernaires. When Dad performed his "Hawaiian Cowboy," the sailors would hoot and holler over Dad's solo act.

At first, I felt like I lost a section of my personal library, until I remembered that Dad left wonderful memories for us to fill books with.

He took us camping, and we shared time at the beach; when Dad bowled, he took us along. Dad taught us that his family was important to him, not so much by his words but by his actions. He built the house we grew up in and we laughed over the home movies that he took of all his kids.

In dealing with the loss, I encourage my kids not to dwell on the loss of tutu käne, but instead to think of the legacy.

Choose to change your mind — this is our personal power. I think of his acts of love toward us and his strong presence in our life.

A renewed thought replaces the depression and at times aborts the longstanding grief. We have much to be grateful for because of the sacrifice of our dad.

At the funeral, a cousin remarked that they just don't make men like our dad anymore. I agreed. He was the making of the word 'ohana.

A. Lee Totten, mother of 11, has adopted seven foster children. She is the author of "Suffering: The Uncovering of Spirit" (Tate Publishing).