My Dad took many photos of me and my siblings as children. Some of them could have been in Life magazine. Dad’s ability to capture and compose a sacred moment on film is evident in so many of the pictures of us as a young missionary family in Korea. In one of the photos, I’m a toddler in my Easter dress, looking into the lens of the camera. Somehow, Dad was able to tell the story of my love for him and his love for me through the look on my face.

Just before Dad moved into residential care, he took a beautiful picture of my mom in his study. Even though we can’t see him because he’s behind the camera, I see Dad in the books behind Mom and the desk where he wrote thousands of sermons, essays, articles and journals. Most of all, I see him in the smile on Mom’s face. Somehow, Dad was able to capture the palpable love they shared for 68 years in that photo, even in the midst of his suffering.

I’ve been remembering how Dad loved to laugh and took great delight in storytelling and goofy humor. (My sister Edie could make him laugh so hard that his nose quivered). I love that he liked pie as much as I do and read the entire Narnia Chronicles to me as a child and pronounced it Ah-slan (pronouncing the “a” as in “father”) before any movie confirmed it was actually Aslan with a short “a” sound. I still say Ah-slan.

I’m so proud that, according to The Korea Times, my dad could speak Korean like a college professor. I love that he started running in his 40s, and when he was still a beginner, we ran together up and down a back street of Ahyondong, where we lived, dodging cars, food carts, and hundreds of people. I’ve been thinking about how inspired I am to be a lifelong learner like Dad: curious, exploratory, expansive, faithful, and reflective. He was a musician, academic, Salvationist, loving husband and father, a man of God.

One memory is especially fresh for me. During the 22 years our family lived in Korea, each summer, we would visit Taechon Beach, located on the western shore of Korea. Together with other missionaries, we’d stay in rustic cabins. For a few weeks, our parents would have some respite from their 24/7 missionary service, and the missionary kids from all around the Korean peninsula would play together in the Yellow Sea. On the property where we stayed, there was a long stone staircase that started at the seashore and rose to several cabins on the hill. If we climbed it at night, it was very dark, which made navigating those stairs slightly hazardous. One summer night, when I was about eight or nine, my dad and I were walking back to our cabin and up those stone steps, and I told him I was worried and a little scared in the dark. Dad responded quickly, “It’s okay. I have great night vision.”

I’m pretty sure that was the first time he had told me that. I thought, “Wow, that’s so cool.” Even though he wore glasses during the day, he could see at night. So, I took his hand and walked up the steps with my dad, who had superhero night vision. 

Fast forward about 40 years, my mom and dad were visiting us in Hong Kong. At this point, my parents had visited nearly every country in the world, and I was desperately trying to think of what we could do that would feel unique. I took them to an immersion experience where, for one hour, participants experience the life of the visually impaired. We were asked to put away all our things in a locker, grab a walking cane, and follow the voice of our leader, who was visually impaired. He led us through a simulation of Hong Kong streets and “Star Ferry” (a movie), and we even used money to buy drinks — all in the pitch black dark. At first, Dad was wary, “I have to give up my glasses?” I answered him quickly, “Trust me, Dad, you won’t need your glasses.” But I could tell he wasn’t very reassured. We walked in together, and I said, “Let’s hold hands.” At first, as we listened to our guide, I felt I was leading Dad, but as we walked through the simulation, I realized Dad was growing more confident than I was in the pitch black, so then I held onto his hand and leaned into him as I had done as a child. We walked through each experience and by the end, it was Dad leading me out into the light. It was a profound experience about visual impairment that day, and for me, it was such a gift to be led by my father in the darkness and to feel the same way I had as a child: held, safe, loved, and seen even in the dark.

In the last years of his life, my dad suffered from an illness that was recursive. For weeks, he was overwhelmed with severe anxiety, and we would describe these days as “in the dark,” and then for weeks, he would be released and more himself, and we would describe those weeks as “in the light.” Towards the end of his life, the weeks in the dark grew longer and longer. Regardless of whether Dad was in the dark or in the light, he always let us know he loved us and reminded us, “Stay close to Jesus.”

In the wake of my father’s promotion to Glory, that’s what I am trying to do. It feels pretty dark. But I know that if I stay close to Jesus, I can be led into the light. And by the way, many beautiful things happen in the dark. We listen more closely, we grow, and as my sister, Edie, likes to say, we “see through deeper.” We also reach out and lean into those who are close and connect in ways we don’t have to in the light. 

I believe that Jesus has night vision. Christ can see into the dark night of our soul and see all of us and all of who we are: our grief, our regret, pain, and fear. Dad taught me through example that because Christ is the Light of the World, he can show us truth, hope, so much grace, peace, and, most of all, love.

Because of Jesus, I was able to see all of who my dad was even when he wasn’t feeling like himself in his last days. And now I need to learn how to find my way without him on this earth. But that’s okay. Christ has night vision and will take each of our hands. One step at a time, if we stay close to him and each other, we’ll be led home.  

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General Paul Rader (Rtd.), the only American-born General of The Salvation Army, was promoted to Glory on January 18, 2025, leaving behind a legacy of service, leadership, and faith. This article was adapted from an obituary delivered by his daughter, Jennie Rader Purvis, at his memorial service at Asbury University on February 1, 2025.