On December 9th, 2025, my father passed away. This is the piece that I read at his funeral service.
When the topic arose as to who was to speak at dad’s funeral, I knew exactly what his answer would be: “Let Prissy do it.” In recent years, this was his default. “Prissy will figure it out.” “Let Priscilla look at that.” “Prissy, can you order this for me?” Even in the hospital last week, he knew that I would “come in and fix things.” Who better to tell some of his story than his “baby girl?”
Being an only child is something that I never minded. I had the undivided attention of both my parents and I knew I was the apple of their eyes. As I have gotten older, I have realized that being an only child means I am the keeper of family memories. I have always loved listening to and telling stories. Now his stories are mine to tell.
There are many things I could share about my dad, but today, as we celebrate his life and legacy, I want to share some of the most important things he taught me.
Be Quiet
When I was growing up, dad would take me fishing with him. We would head to the bait shop in his old blue work truck (the one where you could see the road below if you lifted up the floor mats) and then we would drive out to the farm to fish. Since I was constantly bursting with things to say, I could never stay quiet very long. I would wiggle in my chair, constantly reel in my pole and cast it again–always moving, always chattering. Dad would chastise me with, “You’ll scare off all the fish!” Instead of shooting me a stern look, he’d just grin and continue listening to me tell him all sorts of things and ask one question after another. I don’t think he ever really cared if we caught any fish or not. As I got older, I learned to be quiet and listen. I could sit and be still, watch the ripples on the pond, listen to the frogs sing as dusk closed in, watch the way the light changed around us. We could just sit together and not say anything. I learned to take in the beauty around me and learned why he loved just to be outside, away from everyone, content with his own thoughts. In a world where noise bombards us from all angles, don’t forget to be quiet and seek solitude in nature.
Be Patient
In some ways, my dad was a very impatient man. When we would go out to eat at a sit-down restaurant, it would take him about five minutes to start complaining about how long it was taking to get our food. He’d always ask the question, “Do you think they had to go out and kill it?” He loved to get a project done as quickly as possible. It would drive him nuts if he had to leave something halfway done until the next day. And yet, in some ways he was incredibly patient when he knew he needed to be. When he was teaching me to drive, he set up cars in the driveway and coached me through parallel parking again and again. When I took my driver’s exam, the instructor told me I was the best parallel parker he had ever seen!
Dad spent many hours hunting. We used to joke that he would go to his hunting hut, complete with heater, to take naps. He would spend hours there, snacking on a pocket full of candy and waiting for the perfect deer to appear. Year after year, his patience paid off (much the the chargrain of my mother who had to put up with all the taxidermy deer on our walls). Somehow he always knew when he needed an extra measure of patience–when it really counted. I hope this is a skill I can continue to cultivate.
Give generously
My dad has always been a generous man. He loved to surprise others with generous gifts. When I was around ten years old, my dad took me shopping on Christmas Eve. We went downtown to the Novelty Gift Shop to select a gift for my mother. Dad always waited until the last minute to do his Christmas shopping. I don’t remember what we ended up buying mom that day, but I do remember how I fell in love with a porcelain doll of Little Miss Muffet. She had a sweet floral green dress, a little white cap, and a spider tied to her arm. I am pretty sure I did not ask my dad for the doll, but perhaps I mentioned asking Santa for her. I’ll never know if he somehow purchased the doll while we were there without me knowing or if he came back to town later that day to get her, but she was under our tree the next morning.
When I was in middle school, I was desperate for a pair of inline skates. While we were shopping in the mall, dad made some excuse to my mom so that he and I could slip away. He took me straight to the sporting goods store and bought me a pair. My mom was surprised (and a little concerned knowing my clumsiness) when she found us later.
Dad loved to do things like that. He’d act like he’d forgotten Valentine’s Day and then a dozen roses would show up for my mother. He would sometimes send flowers to school for me–especially in middle school when he worried I’d feel left out. He would come home from work trips with crazy things that he knew I wanted…like a magnifying glass during my huge Sherlock Holmes phase. He even bought me a roll top desk because I thought that was what all real writers should have. When Hazel was small, he went out on Black Friday morning to buy her a huge white convertible powerwheels car–her little feet could barely reach the pedal but he was so pleased with himself. He got such joy out of pleasing others. I hope that I can always take more pleasure in seeing the joy of others, as he did.
Laugh
Dad loved to play pranks. He was a terror to go shopping with. He would frequently hide when he and mom would go shopping and jump out of the aisle to scare her. One time, he scared her so much, and she was reprimanding him so loudly that a couple stopped and told them, “We’ll pray for you.” Mom responded with, “We need it!”
Dad, my Aunt Ruby, and I went shopping together once and after making a big commotion in the checkout line teasing us and cutting up, he looked the cashier dead in the eye with a serious face and said, “I don’t even know who they are.” He walked off leaving the cashier looking at us like we were the crazy ones. He loved teasing his grandkids. Hazel has countless voicemails on her phone where he would call and tell her something crazy he was doing or bug her about something. He loved cooking up plans with the kids to trick Kurt and I or to get them to say something funny. When they were small, he absolutely would do almost anything to make them laugh. He never lost his sense of humor or that child-like enjoyment that can be found in moments big and small. What a lesson–to never forget that sharing laughter can be so important.
Don’t be afraid to love
My dad didn’t have an easy life. He worked hard. He endured his fair share of struggles and even tragedy. Though he had many reasons to shield his heart, he was never afraid to love. He fell in love with my mother when they were teenagers. Somehow, the wild red-headed boy from the next county convinced the preacher’s daughter to marry him. He loved her faithfully for 53 years. I know my parents probably have had their ups and downs, but the covenant promise of marriage was something my dad took very seriously. He taught me that love is not an emotion. It is an action, a choice–one he made every day.
In his 30s, he fell in love with Jesus. He was baptized when I was around five years old. We have a photo of that day, him in the middle of a muddy creek submitting his life to the Lord. He loved his family, his brother Junie (even when they’d argue while fixing a tractor–I remember a couple of years ago dad being upset because Junie laughed at him when he hit his finger–are brothers forever five years old?). He had to talk to Junie almost daily and he was so thrilled to have him as his nearest neighbor his entire adult life.
He loved his grandchildren–Hazel who came first and stole his heart, Mabelle who was his little farm girl, and Maxwell his little wrestling partner. He loved his church family, neighbors, and friends. Sometimes he wouldn’t have the words to say, “I love you,” but he’d bring you a bushel of green beans and you’d know what he meant. He taught me that there is always the capacity to love and to love a little deeper every day.
Celebrate
My dad loved celebrations. He would never ask for a birthday cake or presents, but boy did he expect them! We all got such delight in how excited he would get when we would bring in a big cake for him at our annual 4th of July gathering. He’d act embarrassed when we all sang “Happy Birthday” but then he would give us that grin that let us know he secretly loved it. Every year, he supported Kurt’s addiction to fireworks and egged him on to a bigger show. He loved coming to his grandkid’s birthday parties. He would interact with all the children there–teasing and joking. He wanted to be right in the middle of every moment to see their delight in opening gifts and blowing out the candles. At Easter time, he would get as excited as the kids about watching them find eggs. He loved to help hide them in the tricky spots.
Dad’s favorite holiday by far was Christmas. When I was little, he would let me spend hours with him hanging up our lights outside. He loved the big, brightly colored bulbs. He would trim our house, porch, all the trees and even our side walk with lights. I always thought we had the prettiest house in the county at Christmas time. He loved taking part in Christmas plays at church, though he would act like it was such a hassle. He loved getting and handing out the brown paper sacks of goodies at church each year–an apple, orange, bubble gum, and a candy bar. Each year, he would put up at least 4 trees inside the house and drive my mother crazy with plans for making Christmas candy and fudge. When I was little, he was always sneaking and buying extra things to put under the tree. In recent years, he would be waiting anxiously for our family to arrive on Christmas morning to open gifts. We could never get to their house fast enough to suit him. On Christmas evening, we would all watch “Home Alone” together and Dad would laugh so hard that you would think he had never seen the film before. He taught us to cherish each moment and to keep the wonder and excitement around holidays and birthdays alive. We will do our best to carry on that tradition.
Love the land
There are many other lessons I could talk about, but dad would tell me to “Keep it short. People are hungry.” One of the last lessons that pops readily into my mind is my dad’s love of the land. For dad, there was nowhere he would rather be than on his farms. He loved being outside from dawn until dusk–gardening, tending cattle, hunting, fishing, working on a project. Even when he would come home, shower and have dinner, he would go out onto the back porch to check on the martins or see if there were any deer in the garden. Throughout the years, he would take me walking on the property–telling stories about climbing down the Indian steps when he was a boy, finding arrowheads, adventures he had with his brothers. He would tell me the name of every tree and plant. For him, the land was not just something to be worked and cultivated, it was the very map of his family history, the story of his own life etched into the soil. His farm was a huge part of his legacy. I sometimes wondered when I was younger if my dad had wished that I had been a boy–a farmer who could have carried on the physical part of his work. He always was so proud that he had a “daddy’s girl,” though I know I must have perplexed him with my love of books. As I have gotten older and watched my dad as he looked out over the land he loved, fingered a leaf between his rough palms, or sifted dirt through his hands, I knew that even though he did not have the words of a poet, he had the heart of one. “Where in the world did she get that from?” he might have wondered, but I know my love of poetry came from him–out of a desire to express what I saw in his eyes. Like He did with my dad, God has given me great solace in nature, a love for the history of a place that I hope I can pass down to my own children.
What would my dad want to say to those present today? First, he would want to share the simple truth of the gospel message: Christ came, lived a perfect life, died and rose again. We can have eternal hope when we surrender our lives to Christ.
Second, he’d want you to know he loved you. And he’d want you to know that he’d say that with a little twinkle in his brown eyes.
The Loved Ones
The loved ones we call the dead
Depart from us and for a while
Are absent. And then as if
Called back by our love, they come
Near us again. They enter our dreams.
We feel they have been near us
When we have not thought of them.
They are simply here, simply waiting
While we are distracted among
Our obligations. At last
It comes to us: They live now
In the permanent world.
We are the absent ones.
-Wendell Berry
