A life takes the stage; a life exits. And sometimes the personal and eternal significance of it all is hard to take in. Such was the case for me recently as within the span of a few days, I celebrated the birth of my first grandchild and buried my father.
You’ll surely be reading more about this granddaughter as I become an increasingly obnoxious grandparent, but unless I write it now, you may never know anything about the man who was my father, and I think that would be a shame.
I’m going to share with you a few excerpts from the eulogy I delivered at my father’s memorial service. Not because my loss was any more important than that experienced by others who lose a parent, but because I think my dad got some things right, and there’s a good and timely message in the way that he enjoyed life when there was far less to enjoy than most of us now have.
What follows are some of the thoughts I shared with the folks who braved a foot of snow and arctic temperatures in Indiana to attend my father’s funeral on Jan. 30 …
A very small percentage of people stay on this earth for 89 years. Fewer still truly live for all of those 89 years. My dad was one of those few.
Over the years, whenever someone asked about my dad, I sometimes replied, “He looks like Jack Benny…but he’s funnier.”
Of all the good qualities my dad possessed, I think his sense of humor is what stands out most to me. He could tell a joke better than anyone I’ve ever known, and you could always tell if his joke was headed toward the “border” when he got a certain sly, impish grin on his face.
… My dad loved to have fun – and if everyday life wasn’t fun enough, he knew how to make sure some fun happened.
I have a bizarre childhood memory of the time four nuns appeared in our living room. I couldn’t imagine where they’d come from or what they were doing in our house. It turned out that it was my mom, dad and another couple decked out in matching nun costumes and masks for a Halloween party.
Another Halloween they dressed up as headhunters, jumping out and nearly scaring my brother out of his wits.
Who would go to so much trouble to have fun? My dad would.
When he retired – which was as quickly as he could – my dad was convinced that he could pad his retirement income by writing a million-dollar country music hit. He compiled a whole notebook of musical “masterpieces,” hoping that my brother, a professional musician, would help him launch his songwriting career.
Things didn’t exactly work out that way, but we sure have some great memories of him strumming his autoharp as he tried to crank out a hit.
I grew up assuming that everybody’s dad was as funny as mine; that everybody’s dad was as steady, reliable and generous as mine; that every dad consistently worked hard to provide for his family, came home every evening, and took his family on vacations; that every Dad was soft-spoken and devoted to his parents, siblings, nieces, nephews, kids and grandkids.
I came to realize that many aren’t, many don’t … and that I was unusually blessed.
I think that some of God’s favorite music is the laughter of His children. So I believe that maybe there’s a special place in His heart for those who walk in faith and integrity, but also have an impish grin and a gift for helping others find the fun in life.
That’s my Dad.
All of us who knew him were unusually blessed.