What is written below is the eulogy my brother Jeff delivered at our dad’s funeral on July 27, 2024. Our dad had received Christ as his Savior when I was just a little girl. He was not one to talk much about God, but he faithfully took us to church and was very involved in living his life with integrity and expecting the same of his children. Jeff calls me the “wordsmith,” but he is the one who painted this word picture of our dad. And while Dad’s words may not have been filled with Scripture quotations, I think he did a pretty good job of living out the following verses:
Hear, O Israel! The Lord is our God, the Lord is one! You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might. These words, which I am commanding you today, shall be on your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your sons and shall talk of them when you sit in your house and when you walk by the way and when you lie down and when you rise up (Deuteronomy 6:4-7).
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You once told me that one of your biggest regrets was that you could only give us kids 15 minutes of your attention here or there and that you wished you could’ve spent more quality time with us.
I didn’t immediately dwell on what you had said, but over time, it became something I thought about quite often.
You worked five-and-a-half days a week your entire adult life. You served different roles in the church and ensured we grew up in a Christian home with Christian values and a moral compass. You took care of your parents in their last years. You filled different roles in your community. And between the Army, the National Guard, and the Army Reserve, you completed 20 years of military service. You were a husband and father of three. And yet, with all those responsibilities, you would feel regret over the amount of time we had together … that somehow, you felt it wasn’t enough. I very seldom disagree with you, but looking back now, this time, I do.
You see, Dad, I think you were looking at time the wrong way. We normally see time as a unit of measure. We separate it into seconds, minutes, hours, days, numbers on a clock face, or blank squares on a calendar, from a nanosecond to a millennium. When we look at time in those increments, we often lose sight of what time really is, how short it is, or the value it holds. As a unit of measure, once that second is gone – once we turn the page on the calendar – it is over, never to return. We can’t reach out and grab it; we can’t bring it back or reuse it.
BUT …
If we think of time as memorable events or special moments, 15 minutes is a lifetime. It’s those 15 minutes that we can reach out, grab, and hold onto. It’s the memories we share together that determine the quality of time – not what the clock says or how many squares we’ve “X’d” out on the calendar.
Like the 15 minutes before sundown … You came to pick me up from the lake after a long day of fishing. Instead of saying, “Get in, let’s go,” you reached in the back of the truck and grabbed your fishing pole. We stood side by side, casting baits until after dark.
Or the time you got to the ballpark after work, just in time to see me hit the game-winning single. After the game, it took the coach about 15 minutes to gather up a bunch of rowdy boys and herd them onto the bus. As you and I walked toward your truck, you listened to every detail of the game. I knew you wanted me to ride home with you; I could tell you wanted to hear more – even bribing me with a milkshake. But instead, you knew an over-excited, dusty 13-year-old hero of the game wanted to ride home on the bus and celebrate with his friends.
You traveled all over Mississippi, to every football game I can remember, to watch me occasionally “get in there.” For a long 15 minutes, you waited to meet me outside the locker room with all the other parents, as proud as if I had scored the winning touchdown.
When Mom said supper would be ready in about 15 minutes, you climbed under an old beat-up truck next to a grease-covered 17-year-old kid who knew nothing about repairing a vehicle. Instead of fixing it for me, you taught me how to fix it myself.
During a very anxious 15 minutes, you were a steady hand I desperately needed. One hand on my shoulder, the other lightly brushing my lapel, you said again what I had heard before: “I can’t tell you what to do, but I can offer you advice and give my opinion if you ask for it.” Then you gave my shoulder a little squeeze of approval as I walked to the altar of the church to meet my best friend and love of my life.
You traveled to North Carolina to witness the most important achievement of my military career. After about 15 minutes of waiting in the hot sun, we were released for the day. I watched as you made your way through the crowd, shaking the hand of each graduate you passed, finally hugging the Army’s newest Green Beret.
When you could no longer manage the fishing boat by yourself, the cold March wind carried you away while I was parking the truck. Stripped down to my boxers, dry clothes rolled and held above my head, you watched as I waded into that ice-cold water and swam to the boat. When I reached the boat, with a smile and a chuckle, you calmly said, “What would a good fishing trip be without a little adventure?” That was a long, cold 15 minutes.
My memories of our time together aren’t just about me. Being the middle child, I saw you spend 15 minutes with my brother and sister as well. You, Mike, and me … a bath in Lake Enid and a lost bar of soap.
You followed Mike to every sporting event imaginable. Football, baseball, track, and basketball – during one of which (if I remember correctly), with a very loud protest, you were escorted out of the gym for disagreeing with the referees in defense of your son. And don’t forget the Garland Bowl in Texas.
I saw you share your time at Jennifer’s band concerts and piano recitals. There was the ill-advised vacation swim in the trout farm and her first solo motorcycle ride that abruptly ended at a big hickory tree.
It is impossible to share all my memories of our time together in just 15 minutes. Many of our memories will just have to stay between the two of us. Some memories, I think, are best like that.
15 minutes …
15 minutes equals 900 seconds. Whether counted as seconds or minutes, that’s time enough for life-changing events, fond memories of a past childhood, and special moments between a father and his children.
It’s good times and mom’s china cabinet. (For those of you who don’t know the story about the china cabinet, that means bad.) It’s the smell of the chainsaw, fresh-cut firewood, and the sound of college football blasting from the radio on a Saturday afternoon. It’s dove hunting in the September heat. It’s touchdowns, tackles, and half-time performances on a Friday night. It’s base hits and strikeouts in a cow pasture-turned-ball diamond. It’s music-filled auditoriums and recital practice on an old, out-of-tune piano. It’s trips to the emergency room to repair broken bones, remove fishhooks, or retrieve a lost peanut. (Ask Jennifer about the peanut!) It’s graduations and achievements, birthdays, and Christmas mornings. It’s a nervous groom, a gentle squeeze, or a subdued “Her mother and I.” It’s advice and opinions, the difference between success and failure … and trying again. It's being there at the beginning of life for grandkids and great-grandkids … and being there at the end. (We miss you, Mom.) It’s a motorcycle, skinned knees, and an old hickory tree. It’s adventurous fishing trips, a broken-down truck, and fishing past dark. It’s a can of snuff, a cart ride, and a pair of rocking chairs on the front porch.
So … no guilt, Dad – no regrets. You did what you could; you gave what you had. For all these memories and so many more, I will be forever grateful, and you will always be with me.
I remember long ago, sitting in your lap in front of the TV watching the Bob Hope USO Special. I think he ended all his shows with the song “Thanks for the Memories.”
Well, thank you, Bob Hope, for another special memory with my dad.
And thank you, Dad … for 15 minutes.
