91 Years of Grace: A Tribute to My Dad

Stanley B. Ilin & Me

This last Sunday we celebrated 91 years of my dad’s life—and there are not enough words to express the gratitude I feel.

My dad has always been my hero. He was the best father—steady, attentive, and deeply present. All my life, he made me feel important, safe, and profoundly cared for. His love was never loud, but it was constant. He showed up. He noticed. He protected. And in doing so, he shaped who I am more than he will ever know.

My dad is remarkably intelligent. For years, he carried a near-photographic memory of his life, from the earliest moments of childhood through adulthood and into the years when he became a grandfather. He honored those memories by writing them down—carefully, faithfully—typing them into a book so the story of his life would not be lost.

Today, that memory has faded. He now recalls only bits and pieces of his past. And yet, even in the midst of this loss, there is something extraordinary about the way he carries himself. He is calm. Peaceful. Quietly accepting of what his life looks like now. And I can see it so clearly—he is deeply grateful for the life he has lived.

My dad was born in the Crimea as World War II was blanketing the world in darkness. His early life was shaped by upheaval and loss. His family—German-speaking farmers who had lived peacefully alongside their Russian neighbors—was torn from their home. In the dead of winter, they were forced onto trains, surviving on crates of apples shared in freezing freight cars.

His father was taken from the family and placed in a forced labor camp, working in a mine until it was eventually flooded as the invading German army entered the country. Left behind were my dad, his mother, grandmother, and brother—forced to continue on without the leadership and protection of the man who had anchored their family.

For months, they traveled by train, boat, and wagon. They slept in freight cars, barns, and abandoned buildings. When they finally reached an Austrian refugee camp, they found little comfort—only barracks and bare survival. My dad remembers scavenging for anything that might cover open windows, fashion makeshift beds, or serve as a stove against the cold.

Along the way, he encountered countless people who showed kindness—offering care, encouragement, and compassion in moments when those gifts mattered most. Those small mercies left a lasting imprint on his heart.

At age 21, my dad immigrated to the United States of America—arriving with nothing more than a suitcase and a dream that life could be more. He loved this country deeply for the opportunity it gave him: a fresh beginning, a future filled with hope. He completed high school, then college, and went on to graduate from dental school—building a life marked by diligence, integrity, and service.

He married his sweetheart, Elisabeth—my beautiful mother—who had endured her own great trials. She fled the Ukraine with her siblings, mother, and grandmother after losing her father, eventually landing in the same Austrian refugee camp. It was there that their grandmothers became friends, and through prayer and faith, gently brought my parents together. My mother immigrated to the United States at just 18 years old, carrying courage far beyond her years.

I love my parents deeply. I am in awe of their kindness, their gentleness, and their generosity of spirit—especially knowing the hardships they endured so early in life. They often say it was the faith of their grandmothers that carried them through those impossible years. That faith became their own, shaping how they lived, loved, and raised their family.

Dad, thank you for being my hero. Thank you for the sacrifices you never spoke of. Thank you for the life you lived with gratitude, faith, and grace.

Your story matters. And so does the legacy of love you will someday leave behind.

Your oldest daughter,

Debra (Ilin) Flaming

Inspirations