My dad escaped this mortal coil on Friday, July 12, 2024.

He was laid to rest on Friday, July 19, 2024.

I was able to say a few words at the service on Friday. I’d like to place a copy here for posterity, and for those who weren’t able to make the service. Obituary and other details are available online at the Wallin-Stucky Funeral Home website.

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Like many people, I have a lot of memories of doing stuff with my Dad as I grew up. But a few rise to the top.

I can remember we had a 1976 Ford Granada (WA license plate ITN 957) that we probably bought in the late 70s or early 80s. And it had a tape deck in it (which Dad may have taken from our previous car, a 1972 Ford LTD, I don’t remember for sure). And Dad had a lot of Willie Nelson tapes, so just about any time we were in the car, it was either on KOMO AM 1000 (Mom driving) or playing Willie Nelson (Dad driving).

And I can remember driving in that grey (silver?) 1976 Ford Granada and listening to Willie Nelson. Specifically, listening to Willie’s “Stardust” album. There was a time in the late 70s/early 80s when I think that tape was on continual play for Dad.

And “Stardust” was a great album. Willie singing some pop standards — basically, his favorite songs at the time. And they were some good ones: Stardust, Georgia (on my mind), Blue Skies, On the Sunny Side of the Street, Don’t Get Around Much Anymore. It’s a pretty incredible album; listen to it sometime today or tomorrow and remember my Dad.

Anyway, Dad would play this thing in the car. And if you knew my Dad, you know he could sing. And he’d sing along with the songs while driving. So if I was riding alone with him, chances are I’d sing too.

And one of my deep and unchanging memories with my Dad is singing “Sunny Side of the Street” with him, in that 1976 Ford Granada (WA license ITN 957), on a clear, blue-skied Saturday late morning or early afternoon, driving to the Navy Exchange. You know, on that stretch of road onto the Seaplane base by the college, overlooking the marina, right before the gate.

Since Dad got sick last year, it’s one of the memories that has persisted. And I remember the lyrics: “Get your coat and grab your hat. Leave your worries at the doorstep. Just direct your feet to the sunny side of the street.”

And that’s one phrase that’s been in my mind for the past few months: Leave your worries at the doorstep.

Another deep memory I have of my Dad is fishing. Y’all know the man loved to go fishing. There was a time when I was in middle school where Dad was into fly fishing. And he had that little 12-foot yellow Duroboat. I know some of you out there remember it.

And I liked to go fishing with my Dad. So in this time (early 80s) I can remember some days after the bus dropped me off I’d walk home down that dirt road to our house off of Fort Nugent, and Dad had come home early, and the boat was hitched to the truck and all loaded up with our gear, and he’d be waiting for me to go to Pass Lake to try and catch some of the big ol’ trout that lived there.

And as you know my Dad, of course we always wanted to catch something, but that wasn’t really the most important thing. The most important thing was just getting out there. Sitting on the lake. Enjoying the quiet. Rowing around. Back then, the limit was three fish (flyfishing only, barbless hooks) over 12 inches (it soon changed to one fish over 18 inches) and sometimes we’d catch something, I think we limited once or twice, but a lot of the time we’d get skunked. But I learned from Dad that going fishing wasn’t (really) about catching fish. Getting skunked was OK. It was more about the going and the simply being.

And that’s another thing that’s in my mind, more as a metaphor than anything: Going fishing isn’t really about the fishing.

Since then, a lot has happened. (Understatement, huh?) I’m a little different in that one place I have spent a lot of time is in reading, editing, and translating early Christian literature. There’s this writing from around 250 AD we call the Epistle to Diognetus that was written contrasting how Christians live against how pagans live. One of the themes I pick up from this is This is not our home. And this writing specifically has been on my mind for the past week or so. Let me read you a passage from it:

¹ But to put it simply, what the soul is in the body, this is what the Christians are in the world. ² The soul is dispersed throughout all the limbs of the body, and Christians throughout the cities of the world. ³ The soul dwells in the body but is not of the body; and Christians dwell in the world but are not of the world. ⁴ The invisible soul is guarded in the visible body.  …  ⁷ The soul has been locked up in the body, but it holds the body together, and Christians are restrained in the world as in prison, but they hold the world together. ⁸ The soul, though immortal, dwells in a mortal tent, and Christians temporarily dwell in corruptibility, waiting for incorruptibility in heaven. (Ep. Diog. 6.1–4a, 7–8)

Rick Brannan, trans., The Apostolic Fathers in English (Bellingham, WA: Lexham Press, 2012).

In Dad’s final act, entering into that incorruptibility in heaven (as the author here puts it), he reminds me and teaches me: This is not our home.

We Christians are a bit peculiar and don’t quite fit.

We think things like Fishing isn’t really about the fishing.

We think things like Leave your worries at the doorstep.

We are not eternal citizens here. This is not the eternal kingdom that the sacrifice of Jesus has provided for us. This place is only temporary.

Instead, our eyes are fixed on eternity. Our actions are focused on reflecting the love of Jesus and the hope he brings us.

We don’t really fit in this place we find ourselves, but we’re here for now.

This is not our home.