In so many ways, my dad was larger than life. A living legend, of sorts. The undisputed patriarch of a family who adorned and respected him. Stories about him have been legend for as long as I can remember. So, as I stood in front of fifty-or-so mourners on Sunday afternoon, welcoming them to his memorial, it made a weird sort of sense–to be there to celebrate him. For only a split second. Then I forgot everything I was supposed to say–words I’d written weeks ago and rehearsed dozens of times each day. To avoid exactly what was happening.
But it didn’t matter. I was ready for that day in a way even I couldn’t understand–still don’t really understand. I felt like my family was looking to me to lead, and I would not let them down. I don’t mean it like it was a choice. It wasn’t. A switch flipped when my mom asked me to speak at the memorial–to welcome everyone. I agreed immediately. Not necessarily because I wanted to do it, but because I knew no one would do it the way I wanted it done. For Dad. For me. For my entire family.
If you know me, then you know humor is an immutable part of me. It’s my brand. I wanted to set the tone for the celebration and ensure everyone knew they had permission to laugh. I knew how much my family was hurting, and I needed the day to offer some kind of redemption–at least a little. I remember how I could have never expected Ken’s soirée to offer me so much joy in the throes of so much grief. I wanted my family to be able to look back on this day and smile–at least in some small measure.
So, as I stood in front of those most dear to my family, my mind cleared after a split second and I moved forward welcoming everyone–apologizing that the jokes I’d prepared had been vetoed–walking them through the order of events and having the great privilege of introducing the four people who had expressed interest in speaking at the memorial. I acted as emcee and host for the afternoon, and no one was more surprised than I was at how easy it felt–effortless in some ways. Steve Krupnik was a long-time friend of my dad, as well as Greg Engstrom. He worked with both of them to help create the Indiana Pawnbroker’s Association in the late 80s. Both accomplished speakers, Steve and Greg shared both funny and loving stories of Dad, for whom each shared great affection.
My nephew Trent, the oldest of the grandchildren, had told me immediately in the planning stages of the memorial that he wanted to speak. I think it was a mixture of wanting to and having to. They shared a unique bond, and he wouldn’t let the day pass without everyone there knowing how special it really was–and how it changed him forever for the better. I know how difficult it must have been for him, but he addressed us impressively from start to finish. Likewise, his younger brother Sam brought the celebration to an appropriate and loving end by delivering a closing prayer his grandfather would have been proud of.
My mom was never in want for attention. She was constantly surrounded by well-wishers. My two sisters (who are as badass as my mother) and I managed to attend to our guests and friends. There came a point toward the end of the celebration where I looked around and did something I’ve done at every family-centric event since I can remember. I spotted Mom. Then Shelli. Then Ronda. And I kept looking around the room, my eyes moving from one cluster of people to the next, not finding what I was looking for. In that moment, I realized I was looking for Dad. And it was stunning to me–realizing I’d never see him again.
By the same token, as I looked around the room, I realized he was everywhere. In all of us. And that won’t ever change.
**I want to thank my friend Jess McKenna for taking so many wonderful pictures for us.**
