My dad passed away on Monday, April 15 at 10:30am. I was holding his hand when he took his last breath. He lost a 13 year battle with throat cancer. The Sunday after he passed we went to church, weary to the bone with fatigue and grief. Communion came and as usual I took it, then knelt my head to pray the same prayer I pray at the start of every communion I take.
God, empty me of me so I can be filled with You.
It was a relief that morning, to imagine myself emptied of sadness, of sorrow, of the challenge of finding a new normal without my Dad.
My grief is my selfishness, keeping me from the joy of imagining my Dad surrounded by those that love him who passed before he did. I hold tight to my own loss and can’t grasp his new truth.
And somehow almost a month has passed.
It’s May now, and with three youngers that means so very many things that require my attention, forcing the grief to sneak out in the car as I drive from one end of town to the other for a variety of school and sport obligations. Tears fill my eyes at the grocery, as I walk the dog, write thank you notes to the many who have reached out to us in our loss. Tears mingle with the water as it falls from the shower head. Deep sorrowful sighs fill the space as I wait for games to start, for games to end, for traffic to clear, for school projects to finish. Time passing is relentless.
What follows is the eulogy I wrote and read at his funeral. In the remembering, in the sharing who he was, will that make it easier to be filled with God, with His love, His truth, His heaven?
We’re here to celebrate a life well-lived. I’m guessing almost everyone in this room has a story to share about my Dad. After almost 77 years of living, it’s hard not to have a history, one shared with family and friends, many of whom are here today. I’m so grateful to share this day with you, that you took time today to honor my father’s memory. Thank you.
My Dad spent the last twelve days of his earthly life in the loving care of the nurses and doctors at Kobacker Hospice House. I spent as much time with him as I could while he was there. Though he had a handful of lucid moments-awake enough to nod his head, smile at a visitor, mouth a comment or question- much of that time was quiet, quiet enough to hear a spring rain hit the roof and channel down the gutters outside his patio doors, quiet enough that the gurgle of the oxygen tank was the only sound, a liquid hum like an aquarium. Such a peaceful place leads one to ponder. As I sat next to him, sometimes talking, sometimes not- if you can believe it- I held his hand and realized how Dad loved best.
Dad loved with his hands.
He was eager to build, to work, to fix. In my childhood, that meant tearing down an old garage behind my great grandmother’s house in German Village, and building up a new home in Orient for his brother with the rest of the family. It meant finishing the basement so we could rock out to Kenny and Dolly’s Islands in the Stream or Van Halen.
His hands rebuilt more than one camper, the most recent one used where he hunted as often as he could. He built an outdoor shower there, for hunters who were desperately stinky and in need of a wash (desperate because the water only ran cold). He added a porch to his camper, a place to watch the seasons change or the sun rise. He may have even had a project or two involving the FOY-YAY there, but only the other members would be able to confirm that.
In my young adulthood, Dad’s hands rigged a window fan in my oven of a studio apartment in Chicago. One July night spent tossing and turning there was enough for him to configure all the electrical needs in my apartment to include the window fan, all plugged into the only outlet it had.
He helped me hang a porch swing on our first home in North Carolina. It was almost as good as the one he had built for his own backyard.
Grandbabies came and with them more than one welding project. He welded a handle onto the back of my son Gabe’s first tricycle, then welded the entire trike back together when Gabe rode it to pieces. He welded a removable umbrella holder sun shield onto the wagon he bought us. I think he was more excited to take it to the zoo than the kids.
At work, thirty years of service at American Electric Power brought all sorts of opportunities for him to use his hands, even designing and creating things to help expedite parts of his job.
He was a carpenter, building the home he lived in for almost fifty years, and a farmer, leasing land for crops for a few years when I was a kid. I have vivid memories of standing beside him in a combine cab, watching corn and soybeans disappear beneath our feet.
My Dad was tough, muscling pigs up a ramp to slaughter, or elbowing other help aside to single-handedly dislodge a stubborn refrigerator from a kitchen.
My Dad was smart, buying, dismantling and rebuilding an antique apple press that we employed every fall for the last eight years, pressing the sweetest cider from the lone apple tree in his back yard. He could repair anything- whether it was water spewing from the plumbing that ran alongside an outlet in our basement or walking me through how to replace a mower blade over the phone, Dad had an endless wealth of knowledge. Besides the technical, he had a quick wit, with jokes and funny comments always at the ready.
My Dad was prepared. He always had just what anyone needed, for any project, down to the pocket knife and fingernail clippers he always kept in his pocket.
But the part I know, that I think some of you might not have seen, was his role as grandpa. My kids affectionately called him Poo-bah Hayes- our oldest son’s first attempt at Grandpa Hayes- and it is hard for me to express to you the joy I had in watching him grandparent my kids. He paced a colic-y newborn, wearing a track in the floor of our North Carolina home. The best place our daughter Josie napped was on Poo-bah’s chest. He played: Hot Wheels zooming on the floor, hide and seek with a baby blanket tossed over his head as a hiding place. He read books, watched cartoons, rocked and hummed, snuggled and loved on my kids.
My Dad was in the delivery room when my younger two were born. That maybe wasn’t the most comfortable place for him. He beat us to the hospital for Josie’s delivery and we found him in the waiting room chomping wildly on a piece of gum. But he was there, saw Josie and Theo take their first breaths, and those memories are two of the tenderest ones I have of my Dad.
He took us camping, to the zoo, strawberry picking. He met us for soccer games, swim meets and Pinewood Derby races. He grew a pumpkin patch for the kids one year, and took us to pumpkin patches other years, his pocket knife put to good use for any kid nearby in need of a hand with a stubborn stem. Our last trip together was to Amish Country last October, the bright sunshine and the golden leaves of a perfect fall day in the background of every picture we took.
I could keep going- listing adventures we had with Poo-bah Hayes- until nightfall. The memories and pictures are plentiful and sweet.
SO, I am grateful for his cancer, for the new lease on life it seemed to give him and for all the good years he had after the initial diagnosis- for the time he had to grandparent my kids, for the time he had to spend with MaryEllen and his friends, traveling, hunting, trying new things. His cancer helped us cherish what we might have otherwise overlooked. I’m grateful for the tenderness it revealed.
I’m grateful for God’s provision, for His use of my Dad who so willingly worked, for gifting my Dad with a clever mind and ready hands.
I’m grateful for everyone in this room who knew and loved my Dad. There is comfort knowing his legacy will continue through us, in the work we strive to do.
May we all use our hands and our gifts as readily and regularly as my Dad, and may we hold close the memories we have of him. We love you, Dad.