Eulogy read October 6, 2009
We chose this spot to celebrate Dad because this was one of the many places that he took us to teach us and spend time with us. We loved combing the tide pools, throwing rocks into the shallow waves, walking the length of the tree that still rests over the tide. Last summer, it was the last place our entire family gathered to spend our final afternoon together. Of all the precious marvels along this shore, I have always loved the madrona trees best, perhaps because they were one of the trees Dad most admired, too. Sherman Alexie once wrote that his father loved books, and he loved his father, so with an aching devotion, he too decided to love books. It’s like that with us and Dad. Most of what he loved, we can’t help but love, especially now.
After an evening spent at this very spot, I once wrote a piece about the madronas, inspired as I was by the way they attach themselves to the rocky places. They make their home on the windswept shores, and they grow despite the conditions, rebelling against the tides. If you’ve ever stopped to consider madrona trees, you may have noted this about them: they don’t grow straight and tall. They don’t follow that trend. Instead, laboring for life, they grow toward the sun. Their winding trunks may look crooked compared to those around them, but they know what they are reaching toward, from where they gain their nourishment. The sun. It’s life and warmth provide their food. Madronas’ wood is hard, and difficult to carve, but it is precious and rare; we value it to such an extent we have laws protecting the harvesting of it. Dad, who I liken to this tree, was always on the lookout for fallen branches, the broken bits, that he could then gather and fashion into something beautiful. They usually became lamps. Became light.
In quietly thumbing through Dad’s extensive files and sermon notes, I found a loose leaf page, on which he, too, contemplated the value of the trees he so loved. On it, Dad scribbled verses about trees:
Exodus 15:25 A tree is cast into bitter water and water made sweet
Deuteronomy 20: 19-20 Destroy only bad trees
Job 14: 7-9 Cut a tree down and it will sprout again
Ps 92:12-15 The righteous flourish like a palm tree
Pr 11:30 The fruit of righteous is tree of life
Is 60:13 Trees…to beautify place of Lord’s sanctuary
Today, Dad is adding his beauty to the Lord’s presence, worshiping to his fullest capacity. A few days after Dad passed away, I recalled the Old Testament prophet Isaiah’s vision,
“I saw the Lord sitting on a throne, lofty and exalted, with the train of His robe filling the temple. 2 Seraphim stood above Him, each having six wings; with two he covered his face, and with two he covered his feet, and with two he flew. And one called out to another and said, ‘Holy, Holy, Holy, is the Lord of hosts, The whole earth is full of His glory.’ And the foundations of the thresholds trembled at the voice of him who called out, while the temple was filling…”
Isaiah had seen the King, the Lord of hosts. And it struck me. Dad is not absent from us. He is present with the Lord. He is among the Seraphim, among the captives set free, among the righteous, with Moses and Abraham and Isaiah and Grandma and Grandpa. It’s a different kind of mourning when we have this realization.
Dad never had the opportunity to speak to the masses as he envisioned, to stand before crowds and testify of God’s love. But I don’t doubt for a moment that his reach has touched as many. That through those one on one encounters in which he looked into the heart of men, lives were changed and those lives echoed into the lives of others and others and others. Matthew reminds us that Dad’s message was simple: “God’s message is simple. Life with God is simple. It’s about loving. And knowing Love.” The moments I was most proud of my father and who he was were those when he invited me to sit with him at the juvenile hall and visit the prisoners. His message there, too, was simple, “I see you. You are not forgotten. You have great value. There is hope.” That’s who Dad was, a truth seeker and a truth speaker. Not always. Not perfectly. But honestly and laid bare. He played the fool he knew he would be when he spoke of the wonders of God’s love. And the influence of that risk is boundless. Just this week, I received a letter from a student I had in class several years ago. I’d like to share with you a part of what he wrote when he learned of Dad’s passing:
He wrote, “I’m no good with condolences, so simply I’m going to say I’m sorry for your loss. I really am. I read it and it hit me hard, harder than one would think could be possible for someone I’ve never thought about. I know why it hit me though…you cared about me and that makes you my friend, my mentor, my guide to myself and my future. Know that I may have never known your father, but he too is my friend. Without him, you wouldn’t be you and I wouldn’t be me. Remember that. His legacy lives with every student you help.”
And every picture you take. And every customer you serve. And every pregnant teen you counsel. And every piece of art you create or display. And every person you stop and see and speak life into. Dad’s legacy continues.
With the love of a father, Dad raised and provided for four children. He taught us about our Heavenly Father and modeled for us what loving God looks like. He taught us how to worship. And how to be students of the Word. Each of his children is curious, studious, and creative because of Dad. We admired his art, and seek to leave our own mark in the world as he did. As we grew, Dad established boundaries for us. We might have argued that they were too strict, but evidently they did the trick. As we became adults, Dad became even better at making it clear how proud he was of who we had become and are becoming still. I’d like to think we became a crown to him, as children are meant to be.
But before Dad was a father, he was a husband. For thirty-five years a husband. He loved and cared for and prayed with and nurtured our mother. He loved her for her faith and humor and warmth, for all of those ways that she tenderly complemented him. And when the initial passion of youth began to ebb, Mom and Dad remained faithful and committed lovers.
For Dad’s 60th birthday, Shannon and I took him to Seattle for a day on the town. We toured Underground Seattle, spent hours in a rock shop, stopped in at an Irish Pub, and ambled our way through Pike’s Place Market. At…a…snail’s…pace. I’m ashamed to say, I waited impatiently several stalls ahead, tired and exasperated at Dad’s pace. But Shannon quietly reminded me to watch him and to hear him and when I slowed down and rejoined him, I did. He was living his truth. He was admiring the work of the craftsmen and speaking life into their work. He was spending 20 minutes per stall praising their talents and their gifts. Where I looked and saw overpriced oddities, Dad saw the time and love that had been invested into their arts and crafts. He was a seer. And sometimes we were too busy to look in the direction he pointed. Those are the moments of my life I regret now, but they are lessons I am learning from still.
As I write this, I am sitting beside a stranger in a long sleeve Hawaiian shirt, hiking shorts, trouser socks, and dress shoes. He reminds me of Dad. This stranger, like every man I’ve ever met, has eccentricities that must be endearing to someone. Even I am growing fond of him as I sit here silently beside him. And I have to admit, my Dad was weird. He was embarrassing, as every father hopes to be at times. He was every waitress’s nightmare. And he would persuade any customer service clerk to take his returns, even years after their purchase. He drove us crazy with his antics and conspiracy theories. But we also remember Dad as brilliant. And funny. And creative. He had talents we could not even understand. He knew astronomy and biology and physiology and horticulture and Kefir cultures and theology beyond our comprehension. We didn’t understand him or his motivations at times, but I don’t think he needed us to. He was completely content being misunderstood. Because he knew One who knew him well. And he was content to rest in God’s love.
I’d like to speak to Dad’s passions and talents for a moment. He was a woodworker. He saw the potentials of a wood even before the bark was pulled from its trunk. He felled, milled, dried, and worked wood from his own property, start to finish. I came home from college once, pining for an art easel. He disappeared into his shop and created one for me before I left that very day. Shannon had a dream to create a fully organic, sustainable garden. He worked beside her and Ethan to fashion the massive planks that would be needed to form the tiers. My children still play with the toys he made for us as children and gaze up on their walls every evening at the birds and tools he carved for their rooms. He once spent no fewer than five hours painting little birds he had made for Anali’s wall. They were precious after hour one, but he had to get them perfect. I’m glad he did.
Dad was also an astronomer, with an understanding of space that is unparalleled in a man without a degree to suit it. He built a telescope for Shannon to view Haley’s comet with. It’s enormous. Incredible. It’s priceless to his family. My sixth grade class went on a field trip to see it. I was never more proud or embarrassed, you can imagine. When we were young, Dad would pile us kids in the car to chase the Aurora Borealis or to lie out on blankets and memorize the constellations. One night, on his own, God spoke to him of how creation was written in the stars, and how every picture spelled out the magnificent story. When the stars weren’t out, we’d chase the spotlights of San Bernardino, trying to find their source. I love that. What a clever way to entertain a carful of children.
Dad was a student of the Word. His notes evidence his hobby for taking a concept or a theme and following its thread through the entire Bible. He loved how legends and archaeology throughout the world corroborated what he knew in his spirit to be true.
Like his father before him, he was an inventor. I wonder if there aren’t patents pending with his name on them. If he could not find the tool his work required, he created it. Pacific Mariner must certainly owe him for the wiring harnesses he fashioned for their yachts.
Dad knew science. And math. He knew history and understood physics. He couldn’t spell to save his life, but he could write. He knew music and wrote it, too. And while his pitch would waver by the time he reached the chorus, his passion for playing the guitar and worshiping the Lord carried him through to the end.
We are comforted that Dad’s adventurous spirit is hard at work in Heaven now. And the wonders of the earth and its creation that kept him up at night have already been revealed to him by the Author Himself. Again last night, I listened to a speaker recalling Heaven as recorded in Revelation, and again, I was struck by the image as it must be seen by Dad. He’s there, I thought. He sees it all. And he, too, is making a place for us, even as he forged the way for us on Earth.
