The Gifts My Father Left Behind Part 4: The Purpose That Calls Us Home
A few weeks ago, a good friend shared a photo on Slack from his weekend hike—salmon fighting their way upstream, returning to the place they were born to create the next generation.
The image resonated instantly. These creatures spend everything they have swimming against impossible currents, driven by something deeper than survival, knowing the journey will cost them their lives.
As I stared at that picture, a memory surfaced.
In his final months, Dad kept talking about wanting to go back to Las Lomas—the remote mountain village where he was born. No roads lead there, even now. We considered everything: a four-wheel drive, even a helicopter. But then he grew weaker, and the window closed.
I think I understand now what he was feeling. Like those salmon, once we've lived our mission, something calls us back to where it all began. We share what we can with the next generation, then trust them to swim upstream toward their own impossible dreams.
Today I want to share his fourth and final gift: Purpose
I've heard Dad's origin story countless times. Now there's a sadness knowing that the person who lived it will no longer tell it, so I have done my best to tell it for him.
Circa 1970. Participants in a fire extinguisher training
A young firefighter watching his organization become politicized, layoffs looming, while companies kept showing up at the fire station desperately needing a service that didn't exist—fire extinguisher recharging and maintenance.
He saw a business opportunity, yes, but also something much bigger: a chance to make sure help was reliable, to ensure that when someone reached for that red cylinder in a moment of crisis, it would work.
I can still hear Mom on the phone with clients, her voice steady and sure, explaining over and over that what we were selling was to "salvar vidas y propiedades."
Save lives and property.
I just finished reading The Infinite Game by Simon Sinek, and one line stayed with me: "If we just focus on money and growth, we will eventually be surrounded by mercenaries."
Dad built a company where people stayed for decades not because they were trapped, but because they felt part of something meaningful.
Even when competitors cut corners—filling extinguishers with useless substances or manipulating inspections to double-charge customers—Dad held the line. He could have made more money taking shortcuts. Instead, he chose integrity.
Every extinguisher that left our shop carried a guarantee: if it doesn't work when you need it, send it back for a free refill.
That wasn't just a business strategy—it was a promise.
Throughout his entire career, Dad maintained this same principles in everything. He never once used his influence as a firefighter to benefit the company. Fire service contracts were won on merit. When he worked at the fire station, Mom managed the company. When he retired and returned to the business, he continued coaching the fire department leadership—serving both with integrity.
Beyond the Sale
Purpose-driven people have a beautiful trait: they can't help but share what they know.
When customers occasionally visited our office, Dad would light up like a kid showing off his favorite toy. He'd walk them through our exhibition area, explaining fire safety principles they never asked about, answering questions they didn't know they had.
Dad leading fire extinguisher training early in his career
After these impromptu education sessions, he'd inevitably offer a 10% discount. I remember my parents discussing this—Mom trying to maintain some semblance of pricing strategy while Dad's generosity knew no bounds.
In the end, we just gave up and created a "founder discount code" for whenever he was around. The lucky person who got to be served by him always got a discount.
Because that's the thing about purpose-driven work—it makes you want to give, not just take.
Dad loved to teach, and he loved to learn. Even in his eighties he'd venture into our workshop to check quality, to understand new developments, to ensure we were honoring that promise.
Because to him, every extinguisher wasn't just a product—it was someone's chance to go home safely after work.
Watching Dad live with such clarity made me realize the power of knowing your mission. It sounds simple, but it isn't.
Many people wonder: "What is my mission?" I certainly did.
Finding Your Purpose
It took me years to find my purpose. For the longest time, it felt easier to follow my parents' expectations, to carry on with the family company. But something was missing.
Like Martha Beck describes in The Way of Integrity, I was lost in the "dark wood of error," knowing I had a purpose but unable to name it.
One of Dad's last visits to his workshop
Here's what I've learned about finding your calling—both from my journey and from watching Dad live his:
Don't forget to play. We're so focused on productivity that we forget creativity often emerges from joy. Dad played by teaching anyone who would listen about fire safety. Do what sparks something alive in you. Do it consistently.
Stop forcing it. The more desperately I searched, the more lost I felt. It wasn't until I decided to enjoy where I was that I could hear what I was meant to do. Dad didn't force his purpose—he recognized it when life presented the opportunity.
Trust the process. Life has a way of putting the right people in your path. Ask questions. Ask for help. Be curious—you're not supposed to know everything.
Be patient with yourself. Your timeline is your own. You are unique—that uniqueness itself is part of your purpose.
Embrace the uncomfortable upstream swim. Dad's potential job loss led to a fifty-year legacy. Those difficult moments aren't punishments; they're clarity disguised as crisis.
The Legacy
Dad was never a show-off—he let his work speak for itself. He'd quietly go about his business, never drawing attention to his achievements or seeking recognition.
Dad's funeral service - new fire cadets performing the honor guard
His legacy wasn't built in grand gestures but in daily choices: choosing integrity over profit, education over sales, service over recognition. The fire station that bears his name—built and named just a month after he passed—, the honor guard ceremony, the employees who stayed for decades—these weren't goals he set out to achieve. They were simply what happened when someone lived their purpose with quiet consistency.
He didn't just build a business—he created a standard for what meaningful work looks like.
My purpose? Helping people find their inner light and give themselves permission to let it shine.
I know Dad's purpose was doing exactly that for me. Along with Mom, he was my biggest fan, believing in me even when I couldn't believe in myself. He gave me space to be my shy, curious, awkwardly enthusiastic self. Now I get to pass that gift forward.
As I write these words, I'm taking my own leap upstream. I'm planning to make writing a consistent practice, to use these stories to inspire others find their own way home to themselves.
The salmon in my friend's photo reminded me of something we often forget: meaningful work isn't comfortable work. It's the kind that demands everything we have because it matters that much.
Salmon fighting upstream in Welches, Oregon (Pacific Northwest) - photo shared by a friend
These four gifts my father left behind—excellence, sense of humor, kindness, and purpose—shaped how I see meaningful work. Dad taught me that purpose isn't about making your parents proud or earning others' approval. It's about forging a way forward for future generations, creating something that matters long after you're gone. I may not achieve as much as he and my mom did, but I hope I can do my part.
On his last night on earth, Dad was surrounded by his children. In between tears, songs, and prayers, we told him how much we loved him. We said, "Dad, you are the best gift that life gave us." To which he was quick to respond—in a weak yet stern voice—"and you are mine." With that, my dad's mission ended.
Descansa en paz, Papi.