Eulogy

It’s been two years today since the call.

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It’s a hard thing, to narrow down the list of things you want to mention, celebrate, honor; to squeeze a lifetime into a 7 minute memorial.  But as I was trying to plan what I might tell you today that would adequately describe Stan and his life, I realized that as a society we have a lot of different measuring sticks that we use to quantify the greatness of a man.  Was he rich?  Was he tall, dark, and handsome?  Was he successful in his career? But the problem with each of these measurements is that they are inconsistent.  They change, either as time changes us, or as the world itself changes.

My father WAS tall and handsome, but his dark hair faded to gray.  He had seasons of wealth and success, and like all of us have probably experienced to some degree – seasons of struggle.  But what never changed for Stan, and what I’ve come to believe truly defines the greatness of the man, was the strength of his heart. 

Stan was a fighter.  He fought battles that most of us never knew about.  He was a veteran of the Army, having served in Vietnam – a time in his life which shaped him significantly and yet he rarely spoke about.  As his daughter, he fought to keep those stories hidden from me, to keep me insulated from that world and those battles and the ugly truths of war.  He also fought for his own peace of mind, day after day after day. 

Dad was always our greatest cheerleader, a man who taught us to believe in ourselves, to have confidence in our own decision making abilities, and to be brave enough to live life on our own terms.  If you ever needed someone to hype you up– Stan was the go-to.  I could call him to talk about a situation at work, a confrontation I was dreading, or an idea I was considering – and the result would always be the same.  He would give me sound and solid advice, and end with something along the lines of “But you knew all this already.  You know what to do and you are more than capable of doing it.  Call me after and let me know how it goes, but it’s going to go fine.”

He was one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.  I’m sure its fairly standard for a daughter to think that about her father, but Stan wasn’t JUST intelligent – he was one of those rare humans who had an almost unquenchable thirst for knowledge.  He loved books. So many books.  And he didn’t just READ them – he pondered them, scribbled notes and thoughts, came back to it later to consider it again.  It wasn’t unusual as a child to find dad, in the living room, pen in one hand, conked out on the sofa with a book on his face where it had fallen when he dozed off.  If you woke him, you’d often find pen marks on his face, and on the sofa.

He also took multiple continuing-education courses throughout his life; a business class here, a management class there.  In going through some of his things the last few weeks, I’ve found learning certificates on everything from Christian studies, to the Art of Hypnotherapy.  He returned to college to finish his degree much later in life – graduating Summa Cum Laude at the age of 63 with a Bachelors in Organizational Management. On some level he was an eternal optimist; he truly believed that knowledge was the key to a better life – not just for himself, but for all of us.

Probably because of that belief, Stan was – at heart – a teacher.  He actually spent most of his life teaching, albeit not always in a traditional classroom – although sometimes – but more often in local businesses teaching employee and management training. 

But the most important things he ever taught were to me and my brother:

He taught us to believe in our dreams, and our own self-worth; to face our fears and to do hard things.

He taught us to spell Mississippi with a song about crooked letters and humpbacks.  And to use a thousand other silly rhymes and mnemonics that stuck with me all the way through college.

He taught us that everyone has emotions and that it was ok to show them.  I saw my dad cry, I saw him be angry, I saw him laugh, and I saw him be tender.  In a time when many men believed that stoicism was the only way to be masculine, my dad taught us the truth of emotional complexity.

He taught us that going outside to find God in the beauty of nature was as important as going inside the church to find God there.  He also made sure we went to church, that we developed a faith of our own, that we knew we could ask questions about God and that God was big enough to handle those questions.

He taught us that the best boiled peanuts you will ever eat, are the ones you buy on a road side stand in the North GA mountains.  The ones you eat out of a Styrofoam cup stuffed in a paper bag wedged beside you, with the juice dripping down your arms as you look at the color on the fall leaves.

He taught us to love music.  He sang, he played multiple instruments, and he loved a wide variety of musical genres.  I have early memories of him leading a “Sunday Night Singing” at our church, taking requests from the congregation, his voice booming out the old hymns against the backdrop of the piano.  At home, he listened to everything from Willy Nelson to Neil Diamond to Ray Stevens. In fact, one of the hardest things Marshall and I had to select for this service was the music, because Dad’s taste was all over the map – it ran from “Old Rugged Cross” to “Mississippi Squirrel Revival”.

He taught us that laughter was a gift.  Dad had a laugh that could shake the house when he got really tickled, and as much as he loved knowledge and serious studying, he also had a wicked sense of humor and loved to laugh.  He told jokes and laughed at our jokes, loved silly cards and kept every single one that we gave him.

And he taught us that love is not picture perfect – but that it perseveres.  By example, he taught us to ask for forgiveness when we had wronged someone, and to grant forgiveness when wronged.  He taught us to tell people we love them.  He taught us to cheer the loudest, to celebrate the victories, to call and check in, to give hugs before you leave, and to never ever give up.

Stan didn’t give up.  The strength of his heart told of his greatness.  Not in the ways that the world might see, but in the battles he fought on his own and in the legacy of love and laughter he left for us. 

At the beginning of this service, with the Honor Guard presentation, there was a bugler outside playing Taps.  The official words to Taps seems to be up for debate, depending on who you ask – but I wanted to conclude with the lyrics that I knew as a child.

Day is done.

Gone the sun.

From the lakes, from the hills, from the sky.

All is well.

Safely rest.

God is nigh

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All is well, dad.

Safely rest.

God is nigh.

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