Standing on the Shoulders of Giants

Address given at Dad's funeral, January 24, 2015:

Dad told me a few years ago that he wanted me to speak at his funeral.  Ever since, every funeral I went to I always thought about him and what I would say when the time came.  I thought I would have a little more time.

I was going through some of Dad's things this week, and I stumbled across this quote in his office.  It is a thought attributed to Isaac Newton: "If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants." 

Dad had first shared that thought with me years ago when I was a young teenager.  At the time, I didn't really know what he meant. I didn't know then who the "giants" were in his life, and I hadn't the sense enough to ask.  After all these years, I think I know a little better now.

To me, Dad is a giant upon whose shoulders I have stood.  That's became more apparent, ironically, in the last few years as his body began to give out on him.

Now, that praise would've made Dad a little uncomfortable -- at least if I told him out loud.  He wouldn't quite know what to do with it, and he probably he would've found some self-deprecating way to shift the attention.

The Desire to Feel Valued

Most of you know that Dad was a decorated journalist.  It may surprise you to know that privately Dad struggled during long stretches of his life with feelings that he didn't measure up.  He knew almost as well as anyone how droughts of unemployment erode self-confidence, and Dad seemed to crave feeling valued.  And for a long, long time, I had wanted as much as anything for him to know and feel just how valuable he was. 

Because of that, I know that it meant so much to him and to us in these last weeks as, perhaps recognizing his mortality, many of you reached out to him and let him know just how much he meant to you.  And I know seeing you all here would have delighted him.

Dad didn’t just want to feel valued, though.  He wanted to be valuable.  That desire, I think, is part of why Dad was always up so early in the morning.  He was most alive (and most productive) before sunrise, and in his final weeks, it was not uncommon to wake up find a flurry of emails from Dad that he’d sent in the early hours of the morning.  Dad used to recite often that if he could get to the 3 R's in a day, Reading (scripture), Writing (a journal entry), and Running (or exercise), it was a good day.  It's just that Dad prided himself on getting all of those things done and out of the way before anyone else was up in the morning. 

Deadlines and Connecting With People

Dad absolutely loved having deadlines to meet, and he talked often of the adrenaline rush he got attending city meetings and legislative sessions or of landing an interview and having just a few minutes to race home and file a story.

As you know, Dad also loved connecting with people.  The audience here is a tribute to the fact that. I used to hate it growing up, because it was so embarrassing to be with him as he talked to people (often strangers) and both picked their brains and shared his thoughts (while I tried to slink into the background).  But he seemed to have no fear.  And there was no one too important or so beneath him that they weren't worth talking to. 

I have wondered since if that trait was simply an outgrowth of the journalist/reporter in him, or whether being a reporter was simply an outgrowth of his ability to connect with people.

 A Disciple of Christ

All of this, though, would feel hollow were it not for the integrity that was the bedrock of his character.  Dad was first a disciple of Jesus Christ.  I have known few people in life who more faithfully sought to live the scripture, "But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto him" [Matthew 6:33].  That is not inflated funeral hyperbole.  If God asked something of him, he found a way to do it.  I learned first from Dad to love the scriptures and read them daily.  I learned first from Him that the Gospel of Jesus Christ is the Pearl of Great Price, worth giving all we have to possess.  I learned first from Him to trust God with all my heart.  And I learned first at his hand a steadiness in times of trouble.  I could always, always count on his steadiness, and to find in his perspective an eye of faith.

When I learned of Dad's passing early Sunday morning, I had to make my way into work to gather a few things for the trip here.  On the way, I instinctively sought comfort in some hymns.  Then I remembered then that this was what Dad had always done: He confronted life's difficulties with sacred music.  

Not Perfect

Now, Dad was not perfect.  In this respect, I have been thinking of one Saturday afternoon in upstate New York when we were all much younger. Ice cream and other treats never lasted long in our house, and that was usually because one or several of us children would sneak into it.  The trick was to avoid getting caught.

Dad was a humble guy, but he still had some bravado around his children.  And he used to tell us that because he was a journalist, he could tell when we were telling the truth or not.

Well, that Saturday afternoon I had helped myself to a bit of the ice cream in the freezer.  Not long after, Dad noticed, and he came storming out of the kitchen into the living room demanding to know who had done it. 

I wasn't about to own to it, and I denied it the best way I knew how.  Dad studied my face for a moment, and just as I was bracing myself for punishment, Dad spoke confidently (in a tone that only he could muster) that he knew it wasn't me because I would've used a bigger spoon.  He then marched upstairs to punish one of my younger siblings.   His journalism skills fell a few notches in my mind that day. 

Seriously, though, when I think of my father and what praise might be worthy of his life, I think of the line from the play The King and I. The King of Siam lay dying. With him is Anna, his English tutor, whose son asks her the question, “Was he as good … as he could have been?” Anna then answered thoughtfully, “I don’t think any man has ever been as good … as he could have been—but this one [really] tried.” [Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II, The King and I (n.p.: Williamson Music, Inc., 1951).

A Thousand Memories

Oh, I have a thousand thoughts and memories I could share of him – attending my basketball games growing up (and keeping stats. . . to ensure the newspapers got them right), writing me every day on my mission, wiffle ball games in the back yard or home run derby at a nearby Little League field -- games that he seemed to look forward to as much as I did. There are countless others.

It seems telling to me that none of these memories have anything to do with how much money he made, or of any prominence he knew in the world or in the church. 

I will miss those wiffle ball games in the back yard.  I will miss his giddiness at Christmas.  I will his false bravado in games of RISK and Monopoly, even if I still have a few uncles to carry on the tradition.  I will miss the doting grandfather who made his grandkids feel like they were the most important people in the world. I will miss just being able to talk with him.

I feel so lucky that he is my dad.  And I will miss him terribly in the years before we are together again.

You Did So Well

In closing, Wilford Woodruff included this line in his last will and testament: "If the laws of the spirit world permit, and I shall be governed by them, I should like to attend my own funeral."

As Dad went to the trouble of planning out most of this service, I have to think he is here.  Should Dad be here, I would say this:

We love you, Dad.  You did so very well. May God grant us strength enough to finish the race half as well as you did, that one day where He is, and where you are, we may be also, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.