Remembering Dad
(For those who’ve asked for it, here’s what I said at my dad’s funeral on November 2, 2009.)
How easy it is to get lost in the minutiae of life. We fall into routines so predictable that one week is indistinguishable from the next, and all our memories blend together to a point where we have trouble remembering where we were or what we did more than a few days ago. Without even realizing it, we live our lives as though everything is going to be as it always has been, and the most insignificant things become all we ever think about, like the laundry that needs to be put away and phone calls that need to be returned and what we’re going to have for dinner tonight. And then, when we least expect it, the unthinkable happens, which until then we would consider only in idle moments, and even then, only for a minute or two.
On October 27, I and my siblings lost our dad, my mom lost her husband and best friend of 35 years, and our whole church and school community lost a truly gracious, hard-working, and caring man. He was in his 58th year, and only two months from being able to hold his first grandchild. I still don’t know how we’re going to fill in all the roles he had in the family and around the house. I don’t want to think about going through the next 20-or-so years without him around, or how we will deal with his absence, or all the weddings and birthdays and holidays and quiet evenings around the dinner table that he won’t be around for. We will miss Dad every day, and although we hope by God’s grace we’ll learn to live on without him, our lives will always have an empty place that he used to occupy.
We’ve heard lots of people remember Dad as a storyteller, a comedian, a prankster, and a beautiful and inspiring person. And to us, he was all of that and more. In particular we remember things like the noise he’d make in his throat when concentrating, or how, after discovering YouTube, he’d watch clips of tractors or tanks or airplanes running. Not necessarily moving, mind you — just their engines running. Or how risky it was to listen to Jerry Seinfeld or Brian Regan while he was driving, because we’d have to constantly remind him to keep his hands on the wheel because he was laughing so hard.
He loved spending summer weekends in the yard or the barn and winter weekends in the garage or out on the pond — the perfect example of what “puttering around” means. He took every chance to mess with our heads when we were kids, goof off with our friends as teens, and intimidate potential boyfriends (or girlfriends!) when they were over for dinner. Stealing food off our plates when we weren’t looking, scaring the living daylights out of us in the basement when we thought we were alone, and saying we were having frog leg soup for dinner were all frequent occurrences.
But it was who Dad was, not just what he said or did, that made us proud to be his kids, and actually say “I can’t WAIT for you to meet my dad” to our friends. On his bedroom mirror is a card that says “Anyone can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a Dad.” When I think of how rare Dads have become, in an era when perpetual adolescence is glorified and children are seen as an inconvenient consequence of poor planning, I can’t help but be filled to the brim with thankfulness for his presence in our lives. His words were few, because his actions and character made him who he was. It is clear he was an inspiring and gentle presence in the lives of everyone he met. He was our example of what a godly man and loving father & husband should be and, as a result, his daughters have extremely high standards, and I have a huge pair of shoes to fill.
Although Dad was taken from us far sooner than any of us would have liked, and we know how badly we’ll miss him in the coming months and years, we’d rather have been blessed by his presence for a short time than have had anyone less for any longer. For the moment we’re feeling lost without his advice, his direction, his generosity, his willingness to help and his sense of humour, but we know that he left us everything we really needed.
It was not because of some wrong we did that we lost him; it is because of our own human brokenness that death happens at all. But because Dad loved Jesus, we aren’t worried about where he is now, or whether we’ll ever see him again. We know he is safely in Jesus’ arms, patiently waiting for us all to join him, and finally getting the rest and strength that had eluded him since this summer. This is why we do not fear death, only the long periods of time that separate us until our own lives come to a close or the day that everything is restored to its originally intended, wonderful form.
So goodbye, Dad. We love you more than words can adequately express, and we will always miss you. Goodbye for now.
