Dear all,
The following is my eulogy, which I read today at the funeral. The only hard part about writing it was that I had so many more memories I wanted to share. Dad was so good at making them. I hope it makes you laugh a bit, I think he would have :)
"I can’t
begin to explain how much it means that you all are here. I just have a few
things to say about the man my father was and the legacy he left, though that
will never be fully played out because I am certain we will feel it in new ways
every single day.
Many times, in reference to our game plan to kick my dad’s
cancer in the butt, my mom would say "We are swinging for the fence!"
(my mom is particularly fond of sports metaphors). And well, even though what
we really wanted was a home run that would bring dad’s health back so he could
stay with us, Heaven has gotta be beyond the fence. Somewhere wonderful beyond
the fence. And we are so grateful to know we will see him again.
In recalling stories about dad, there are a few themes that come
up again and again. How much fun we had with him, how much we trusted him and
how proud we were to be his daughters.
As Abby wrote, our dad was a competitive, fun-loving guy. He did
not let that darn tumor get in his way. In a blog post a few months back, when
I was home in July, I wrote “We are staying really positive, but we are also on
edge, just waiting and watching and praying and hoping. On the bright
side, I played tennis with him a few days ago and although his motor skills
have definitely been affected by the tumor, he still had some serves that aced
me!” That’s my strong, amazing dad
for you.
Dad
loved being outside, working, playing golf or tennis or just enjoying. When I
was younger, he built a beautiful patio behind our garage. I remember one
summer night when I was in highschool, we decided to borrow a projector and dad
rigged it up so that we could watch Star Wars on the back of the garage. We all
sat out there in lawn chairs, with blankets and pillows and a fire burning in
our cast iron fire pit.
Abby
also mentioned how adventurous dad was. This was particularly evident when we
would ride our four-wheelers down at the farm. He taught me how to ride and
then put me on my own four-wheeler and let me just follow him as we went up and
down hills, around the lakes and through the tall grass, always stopping to
point out deer or the shark fish if its fin was skimming the water as it so
often did. Two summers ago, we were out riding on the runway, seeing how fast
we could go and dad told me to stop in the middle and watch him. He went a ways
down towards the lake and then turned around and came back, riding close to the
edge of the runway. Only once I saw his four-wheeler dip down and then bounce
up a little hill did I realize what he was showing me—he had figured out how to
“get air”. And he just laughed and laughed and laughed. I was nowhere near as
good as he was at first but we did it over and over. Heading towards the lake,
turning around and starting in first gear, speeding up to about 5th
gear and then once we reached the little dip we’d scrunch down as close to the
handlebars as we could so it would go just a bit higher in the air. And mom had
no idea (which was smart on dad’s part)
When
I was younger, we would travel back and forth to Donnellson, Des Moines, Logan
and also on longer trips, specifically the one we took to New York. Dad would
be in the driver seat of our big grey Astrovan, mom in the passenger and then
Abby and I all sprawled out across the two middle seats, piled in with coloring
books, snacks and blankets and pillows. I sleep in the car, all the time. But I
remember when I was little I would be so tired, nearly unable to keep my eyes
open. And for whatever reason I was convinced that when I closed my eyes,
somehow dad’s eyes would close too. And I tried so hard to keep them open
because I felt guilty that I was sleeping and he was driving. I would fight to
keep them open, picturing him getting tired at the wheel. Despite my desperate
attempts, I would inevitably fail and fall into an untroubled sleep, rocked
into dreams by the gently moving car, that was faithfully steered by my father.
And he always got us home safely. I’d wake up as we pulled into the driveway,
surprised at how much time had passed while I was asleep. But never surprised
that we made it. Because I trusted him. I trusted him to get us there. And he
always did.
Some of you have heard this next part, so I’m sorry to be
repeating it. I wrote it after being home at Easter.
“I've
always known I was blessed to have Sam Clark as a father. His real name is
Robert; that's what I always loved telling people because it was like having a
secret. I know him better than you, I'd think in my head. I don't even know if
the story I tell is accurate; I'm sure it's tainted by years of me revealing my
little secret to people who met my dad. "Yeah. His name is really Robert,
but one time when he was little, the neighbor came over and asked how the kids
were doing. My grandma responded "Oh Donna and Mark are in the other room
and baby Sam is napping." She just randomly said Sam, or so my story goes.
And it just stuck. I think I change the story a little bit every time, but I
enjoy it very much nonetheless.”
The
past few days we have been watching home videos. The good old videos, playing
on the nearly-ancient vcr. The kind that dad filmed with his giant video
camera. A lot of the videos were of parties or holidays or other gatherings.
But some of them were just dad and us. He would turn on the camera and just set
it on the tripod or carry it along on his shoulder while we did normal, every
day things: playing hide and seek,
eating hot dogs and jello, pulling tissues out of the box while mom wasn’t
watching and him teaching us to talk. To most people, those things are mundane
and less-than-extraordinary. But to dad they were opportunities to make
memories. Who knew how much these would come to mean to us? Because to us, when
we watch those, every moment is a chance to hear him laugh, talk or see his
twinkling eyes.
I
miss my father- his idiosyncrasies, his laugh, his wit, his thoughtful eyes and
that facial gesture he made when something surprised him. We will all miss him
very much.
That
man. He knew how to make memories. And he knew how to love. And I will forever
be a better person because of how he raised me.
Thank you all so much for coming. I can’t express or even fully comprehend
right now how much it means to us. Though the hole in our hearts can’t be
filled, it’s nice to have such warmth to comfort the part of us that remains."
