Raja Suneel Durrash Waheed (John) 23rd August 1977 – 19th June 2025
My father was a man of God—mysterious, gentle, and filled with a spirit that could never be fully understood, not even in his final moments. He was a man who walked a road less traveled, always prioritizing his mission to share God’s Word over personal comfort or even his own health. He taught the Bible with a passion that was impossible to ignore, pouring his heart into young and old alike. He lived not for himself, but for others—for their growth, for their salvation, and ultimately, for the glory of Jesus Christ.
Throughout his life, and especially toward the end, he revealed to us what it truly meant to love like Christ. He never ceased teaching, never ceased believing, never ceased smiling. Even in his final hours, when his body was weak and giving way, his spirit was unwavering. In fact, he was still preaching the truth of Scripture to a group of young believers just hours before God called him home. That’s who he was—devoted beyond reason. He used to say, “If I could even change one soul’s life on earth through Jesus Christ, I would be satisfied with my life on earth.” That one sentence summed up everything about him.
He was a man marked by quiet suffering and deep joy. He didn’t demand recognition or sympathy, even when his body was deteriorating. Despite facing the trials of advanced kidney failure—his kidneys functioning at only 4%—he never gave in to despair or self-pity. In fact, his doctors were often baffled at how he was still walking and talking, as though nothing was wrong. Some thought he was faking it, but the medical reports told the real story. He was just living proof of what faith can look like when it’s unshakable.
He hated hospital food, of course—he joked about it all the time. Even when admitted, he would somehow sneak out to grab something better to eat, much to everyone’s surprise. It wasn’t just about taste; it was a reflection of how he refused to be controlled by his circumstances. He believed in living life fully, no matter what was going on around him or inside him.
My dad didn’t care about status. He didn’t respect someone because they were richer or stronger, and he didn’t disregard someone because they were weaker or poorer. To him, every person was a soul, and every soul was equally precious in the eyes of God. He had an incredible gift—he could relate to anyone, no matter their age or background. He would speak with children like a child, teenagers like a teenager, and adults like an old friend. And it never came off as fake or forced—it was simply love in action, the kind of love Jesus Himself taught us to show.
Sometimes, we as a family got frustrated with him. He would come home late, always after giving yet another Bible study or spending time with someone in need. We’d argue with him to take care of his own health, to come home earlier, to be with us more. And he would respond with a sentence that echoes in my heart now more than ever: “You guys still don’t understand me, huh? When I’m gone from this life, you’ll remember these words over and over again.” And yes, Dad—we remember. I remember. I’ve thought of those words countless times since you left us, and I finally understand the weight behind them.
He wasn’t afraid of death. In fact, it sometimes seemed like death was afraid of him. He had this aura of strength—not just physical strength, but spiritual boldness—that could silence any fear. He didn’t follow Christ as a routine or a religion. He believed in Christ with every fiber of his being. He lived the Word, breathed it, walked in it. One verse that he seemed to live by was the one that says, “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.” He trusted in God’s provision completely, and it gave him an unmatched peace.
I have no doubt in my heart that my father is now in a place far better than here. Heaven is his reward, and I believe God welcomed him with open arms, saying, “Well done, good and faithful servant.” His suffering was immense, but he bore it with a smile. God must have seen his pain—the pain he never revealed, the pain he bore silently—and decided it was time to bring him home. My father had given everything he had. And when he could give no more, he still gave. He was selfless until his final breath.
I’m so proud of you, Dad. You wore many hats in this life. You started as a lecturer, then became a teacher, then a preacher, and then, surprisingly, even a pianist. You were a man of many gifts—so full of surprises and so full of life. I often wondered how one man could contain so much wisdom, compassion, and strength. And now I know—it wasn’t him alone. It was Christ working through him. That’s why everything he touched had purpose. That’s why everyone he met was changed, even if just a little. He lived a truly miraculous life.
There’s one memory I hold especially close to my heart. I must have been about four or five years old. Everyone else in the house would be asleep, but not me—I would stay up, waiting for him to return home, often around 3 or 4 AM. And when I heard his footsteps, I’d run to open the door. Without fail, I’d ask him to take me to McDonald’s. Even though he had just finished a long day and was probably exhausted, he never said no. He would take me. I’d get a Happy Meal, take the toy, and then fall asleep in the car. And he’d quietly eat the rest of my food. That’s the kind of father he was—giving, present, patient.
Now that he’s gone, I feel the void in every corner of my life. I miss his smile the most—that smile that reassured us that everything would be okay, no matter how bad the situation seemed. His smile carried peace. It carried faith. It was a smile that came from a place of knowing who held tomorrow. I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing it.
Even now, I hear people say they can't believe he passed so peacefully in his sleep. It still doesn’t feel real. For someone so alive, so full of the Spirit, it’s hard to imagine that he’s not physically here anymore. But I take comfort in knowing that he is more alive now than ever before. The earth may mourn, but Heaven rejoices. The sadness we feel is a reflection of the joy he has now stepped into. He is home, and he is free.
Dad, you left behind more than memories. You left a legacy. You showed us how to live with faith, how to serve without expecting anything in return, how to love without limits. You weren’t just a preacher of the Word—you were the Word in action. You embodied it. You lived it. You taught us how to be strong without being harsh, how to lead without pride, how to believe even when things seemed impossible.
I often wish we had more time. There was still so much I had to learn from you. But I trust that God’s timing is perfect. And I believe that even now, your words and example will continue to teach me. Your life was a sermon that will echo forever in the hearts of those who knew you. Your smile, your strength, your love for Christ—they live on.
So rest well, Dad. Rest in peace, and more importantly, rest in the joy of the Lord. I know I’ll see you again. And when I do, I’ll run to you like I did when I was little, and maybe we’ll share another Happy Meal in Heaven. Until then, I’ll carry you in my heart, and I’ll try to live the way you taught me—to live for Christ, love without limits, and never, ever stop smiling.
Simon
Raja Suneel Durrash Waheed (John)
23rd August 1977 – 19th June 2025
My father was a man of God—mysterious, gentle, and filled with a spirit that could never be fully understood, not even in his final moments. He was a man who walked a road less traveled, always prioritizing his mission to share God’s Word over personal comfort or even his own health. He taught the Bible with a passion that was impossible to ignore, pouring his heart into young and old alike. He lived not for himself, but for others—for their growth, for their salvation, and ultimately, for the glory of Jesus Christ.
Throughout his life, and especially toward the end, he revealed to us what it truly meant to love like Christ. He never ceased teaching, never ceased believing, never ceased smiling. Even in his final hours, when his body was weak and giving way, his spirit was unwavering. In fact, he was still preaching the truth of Scripture to a group of young believers just hours before God called him home. That’s who he was—devoted beyond reason. He used to say, “If I could even change one soul’s life on earth through Jesus Christ, I would be satisfied with my life on earth.” That one sentence summed up everything about him.
He was a man marked by quiet suffering and deep joy. He didn’t demand recognition or sympathy, even when his body was deteriorating. Despite facing the trials of advanced kidney failure—his kidneys functioning at only 4%—he never gave in to despair or self-pity. In fact, his doctors were often baffled at how he was still walking and talking, as though nothing was wrong. Some thought he was faking it, but the medical reports told the real story. He was just living proof of what faith can look like when it’s unshakable.
He hated hospital food, of course—he joked about it all the time. Even when admitted, he would somehow sneak out to grab something better to eat, much to everyone’s surprise. It wasn’t just about taste; it was a reflection of how he refused to be controlled by his circumstances. He believed in living life fully, no matter what was going on around him or inside him.
My dad didn’t care about status. He didn’t respect someone because they were richer or stronger, and he didn’t disregard someone because they were weaker or poorer. To him, every person was a soul, and every soul was equally precious in the eyes of God. He had an incredible gift—he could relate to anyone, no matter their age or background. He would speak with children like a child, teenagers like a teenager, and adults like an old friend. And it never came off as fake or forced—it was simply love in action, the kind of love Jesus Himself taught us to show.
Sometimes, we as a family got frustrated with him. He would come home late, always after giving yet another Bible study or spending time with someone in need. We’d argue with him to take care of his own health, to come home earlier, to be with us more. And he would respond with a sentence that echoes in my heart now more than ever: “You guys still don’t understand me, huh? When I’m gone from this life, you’ll remember these words over and over again.” And yes, Dad—we remember. I remember. I’ve thought of those words countless times since you left us, and I finally understand the weight behind them.
He wasn’t afraid of death. In fact, it sometimes seemed like death was afraid of him. He had this aura of strength—not just physical strength, but spiritual boldness—that could silence any fear. He didn’t follow Christ as a routine or a religion. He believed in Christ with every fiber of his being. He lived the Word, breathed it, walked in it. One verse that he seemed to live by was the one that says, “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.” He trusted in God’s provision completely, and it gave him an unmatched peace.
I have no doubt in my heart that my father is now in a place far better than here. Heaven is his reward, and I believe God welcomed him with open arms, saying, “Well done, good and faithful servant.” His suffering was immense, but he bore it with a smile. God must have seen his pain—the pain he never revealed, the pain he bore silently—and decided it was time to bring him home. My father had given everything he had. And when he could give no more, he still gave. He was selfless until his final breath.
I’m so proud of you, Dad. You wore many hats in this life. You started as a lecturer, then became a teacher, then a preacher, and then, surprisingly, even a pianist. You were a man of many gifts—so full of surprises and so full of life. I often wondered how one man could contain so much wisdom, compassion, and strength. And now I know—it wasn’t him alone. It was Christ working through him. That’s why everything he touched had purpose. That’s why everyone he met was changed, even if just a little. He lived a truly miraculous life.
There’s one memory I hold especially close to my heart. I must have been about four or five years old. Everyone else in the house would be asleep, but not me—I would stay up, waiting for him to return home, often around 3 or 4 AM. And when I heard his footsteps, I’d run to open the door. Without fail, I’d ask him to take me to McDonald’s. Even though he had just finished a long day and was probably exhausted, he never said no. He would take me. I’d get a Happy Meal, take the toy, and then fall asleep in the car. And he’d quietly eat the rest of my food. That’s the kind of father he was—giving, present, patient.
Now that he’s gone, I feel the void in every corner of my life. I miss his smile the most—that smile that reassured us that everything would be okay, no matter how bad the situation seemed. His smile carried peace. It carried faith. It was a smile that came from a place of knowing who held tomorrow. I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing it.
Even now, I hear people say they can't believe he passed so peacefully in his sleep. It still doesn’t feel real. For someone so alive, so full of the Spirit, it’s hard to imagine that he’s not physically here anymore. But I take comfort in knowing that he is more alive now than ever before. The earth may mourn, but Heaven rejoices. The sadness we feel is a reflection of the joy he has now stepped into. He is home, and he is free.
Dad, you left behind more than memories. You left a legacy. You showed us how to live with faith, how to serve without expecting anything in return, how to love without limits. You weren’t just a preacher of the Word—you were the Word in action. You embodied it. You lived it. You taught us how to be strong without being harsh, how to lead without pride, how to believe even when things seemed impossible.
I often wish we had more time. There was still so much I had to learn from you. But I trust that God’s timing is perfect. And I believe that even now, your words and example will continue to teach me. Your life was a sermon that will echo forever in the hearts of those who knew you. Your smile, your strength, your love for Christ—they live on.
So rest well, Dad. Rest in peace, and more importantly, rest in the joy of the Lord. I know I’ll see you again. And when I do, I’ll run to you like I did when I was little, and maybe we’ll share another Happy Meal in Heaven. Until then, I’ll carry you in my heart, and I’ll try to live the way you taught me—to live for Christ, love without limits, and never, ever stop smiling.
In Jesus’ Almighty yet most Precious name, Amen.
4 months ago | [YT] | 2