Five years ago, when Dad could still walk without help, he took us up to the Prince of Peace Abbey in Oceanside. He led us to a row of cross-shaped headstones jutting up in a lush garden with a view of rolling hills out to the sea where a gold ray of sunshine trembled through the white mist.

Standing tall beside each headstone, he gave us a commentary on each of the Benedictine monks buried there, whom he had treated during his four decades as a Carlsbad physician. Then 79, he had outlived them all. He told us about one's favorite book, another's struggle with neck cancer, a third's soup kitchen.

Less than two months later, he had a stroke that crippled him and left him inching slowly on a walker.

From my earliest memories, Dad gave us books to read – "A Tale of Two Cities," "The Problem of Pain," "The Federalist Papers." He showed us that not all ideas are equal. Some elevate mankind, others degrade it.

Dad served as a medic in World War II, had eight children and sacrificed to send them to at least some years of Catholic school. He saw his profession as a vocation – to alleviate suffering of the body but also of the spirit, and that the two are connected. He viewed politics with the highest regard, as a chance to advance the country, not the self. He taught us that a country without a soul can never advance humankind.

He introduced us to true American idols. His great-uncle-in-law, Lou Carroll from Baltimore, was a descendant of Charles Carroll of Carrollton, who risked his life, vast properties and wealth by signing the Declaration of Independence. With his ancestors' lands in Ireland having been confiscated due to religious persecution, Charles Carroll risked all for the principle of religious freedom.

Dad always taught me to keep my focus single, my sight high and not become entangled in trivial pursuits. After I moved to Sacramento in the 1980s, when he and Mom visited, Dad surveyed my antiques and velvets, pulled me aside and said, "Don't you think you need a bookcase here?" I had put my large collection of books in the closet, but never again.

Dad seldom preached. He lived his beliefs. Every Sunday after church, he would pick up a grandson who never had a father in the home, take him to breakfast and bring him a book. He and my mother made room for him in our home when his own mother was going through a difficult time. This young man went on to graduate from Georgetown Medical School and Harvard University.

My father's final fading began last year as the report "Our Fading Heritage: Americans Fail a Basic Test on Their History and Institutions" was released by the Intercollegiate Studies Institute. Only 21 percent of those surveyed knew that the phrase "government of the people, by the people, for the people" came from Lincoln's Gettysburg Address. Even 30 percent of elected officials didn't know that "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" are inalienable rights referred to in the Declaration of Independence.

As Dad helplessly suffered another stroke, losing more of his brain function and memory, the heritage that my father worked and fought so hard to preserve and pass down was being further eroded from our country's memory.

Even near the end, as his body lay crippled and his right eyelid drooped from the stroke, the remnants of a life filled with studying the great ideals of our forefathers still flickered in his eyes as he asked me in an almost inaudible rasp if I had read the latest by one of his favorite American writers.

Last December, Dad was buried by my mother in the shade of a magnolia tree at Mission San Luis Rey, beneath the ancient bell tower that has called generations to their destiny.

Just above, the Prince of Peace Abbey rises in the hills. I will always see him there in that golden ray through the white sea mist, where his spirit will always be shining – ever encouraging me to remember, to pass it on.

Let not our fathers' fading mean the fading of our heritage. Let us renew our commitment to our heritage so that the sacrifices made for us will forever glow in our hearts and brighten our paths.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. Your light will always guide my way.