Life Lessons from My Dad: An Introduction

So this week I did my dad's funeral.

Yeah, that was strange to write.

To know me is to know my dad. I'm Ed's son. So much of who I am, so much of what I do, has been formed by my dad. He was my best man at our wedding. He was my greatest cheerleader. My dad was my hero.

As I write these words, I'm sitting alone in a hotel room, wearing one of his favorite shirts. Honestly, one of my hopes in writing these posts is simply to grieve. To make my dad's death (and life) real. To process with my words.

Because my dad died on April 2, 2010 (Good Friday), I really haven't had the chance to let it sink in. Between Easter services, caring for my mom, doing the funeral, officiating a wedding this weekend (and having to be "on" for all of this stuff), I'm not sure I have really grieved. Who knows, maybe I won't grieve in the way I expect. I've been around death enough to know that everyone grieves differently. But, for as much as I was honored to be the "pastor" at my dad's funeral, in some ways I felt cheated from just being "son."

So I write these words as Paul: Ed's son.

First, let me put this out there: Eulogies, of course, are meant to accentuate the positive. It only makes sense. Even the word, “eulogy” is from the Greek meaning, “Good Words.”

So to begin with...

I just want you to know that I’m not going to write about the time when I was 9 and he lobbed a shoe across the room at me to get my attention (I had drawn on the wall with a marker). Or the way he repeated himself over and over - giving the same instructions; telling the same stories. Or that dad could be a bit stubborn at times. Or that he labeled everything – I mean everything - with blue painter's tape (notebooks, bottles, boxes, antifreeze, detergents -- you really have to see it to believe it).

And I’m certainly not going to talk about my dad having at least 100 spiral notebooks laying around the house in various locations -- with random phone numbers, maps, drawings of things he wanted to build, rough drafts of letters he was writing or cards he was sending, lists of medications, restaurant recommendations, newspapers clippings... all often in the same book, but neatly written with little tabs on the sides to section everything off; tabs usually made of blue painter's tape.

I’m not going to talk about those things.

Okay, a few of those idiosyncrasies might sneak in every now and then.

So I want to start by writing the obvious: my dad wasn’t a perfect man. He had his faults. He had imperfections. I'm sure he didn't always treat my mom as she deserved. I’m sure many people could even look at the way he parented me and find fault. He wasn’t a perfect man, a perfect husband, a perfect father...

But he was perfect for me.

I believe that, in my dad, God gave me what I needed to be the man I am now. In profound ways, much of the best of who I am, came from my dad. My dad was God's first act of grace to me.

So I invite you to give me some of what is the most important thing you have: your precious time. The moments you spend reading these posts over the coming weeks you will never get back. They will be lost forever.

But my hope is your life will be enriched by me giving you glimpse of my dad and what he taught me about life.