(This is the message I spoke at my Dad’s funeral service)
A good name is better than fine perfume,     and the day of death better than the day of birth. 
 It is better to go to a house of mourning     than to go to a house of feasting,  for death is the destiny of everyone;     the living should take this to heart.  Frustration is better than laughter,     because a sad face is good for the heart.  The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning,     but the heart of fools is in the house of pleasure.
--Ecclesiastes 7:1-4

 
King Solomon, in Ecclesiastes 7 makes a rather odd statement. He says it is better to go to a funeral than a feast. He says it’s smarter to go to a house of mourning than a house of partying. At first glance that seems ridiculous. Funerals aren’t fun. But as counter-intuitive as that assertion is, it does make sense. Funerals can be fun, because funerals afford us the opportunity to do a couple of things we rarely ever do. And I want to do both of those things in this message.

First, funerals are fun because they give us a golden opportunity to honor someone. We get the chance to praise—that’s what eulogy means—someone, to intentionally point out the best qualities.

So I’d like to present seven positive words describing my Dad. Relax, this will take a while:

1. My Dad had a PRESENCE.

When dad was home you knew it. He was a big galoot and he liked it. He filled the room when he walked in, whether it was the house, at work, the doctor’s office or a restaurant. He had a command, a presence, a confidence.

Did you ever hear the story of how Dad and Mom met? It was at the University of Idaho. Dad was walking through this garden, and Mom came walking from the other direction. She said, “Hi Jack,” and he said, “Hi Louise,” and they kept walking—that was their first encounter. That seemed strange to me, they knew each other’s names. So I asked him, “How did you know who Mom was?” He said, “Oh, she was involved in school politics.” But I didn’t even have to ask how Mom knew who Dad was. Everyone knew who dad was. He was the Big Man on Campus, the recruit. He had a presence, and he was the war hero.

Which leads us to the second word:

2. Dad was a SOLDIER.

Dad was a tough, determined, loyal, responsible trooper. That’s how he lived. So many of his decisions were simple—that’s just what you do.

A defining time in dad’s life was World War II. After Pearl Harbor, dad talked to Grandpa Pearring and enlisted in the army. There was basic training in Texas, a stint at Virginia Military Institute and last minute training in the hills of Pennsylvania before he was shipped off to France. His boat didn’t even hit land before the troops were let off in the water on the outskirts of France. This was right after D-Day, June of 1944, and the mission was clear: walk across France liberating the country. So they walked, Dad walked. They went from town to town, mostly country villages but he did make it to Paris—on foot, not the way to go, he would say. In November they were almost all the way through France. On the ninth they came to the town of Metz, on the border of Germany and as Dad and his company walked up the hill to that town, it happened. He was hit by a bomb.

A fellow soldier dragged him to safety in a shed behind a farmhouse. It was bad. Two brave buddies decided they had to do something. They put Dad on a gurney, strapped that mat to the front of a jeep and headed for the MASH unit. The driver maneuvered frantically while the other soldier reached over the dash and “poured morphine” into dad. When they got to the field hospital Dad went to the front of the line. Two doctors decided to go for it. Dad grabbed one of them and simply said, “Do a good job Doc.” Open heart surgery was brand new but they tried it. They cut open his ribs—he had the most incredible, intimidating scar! One doctor held the heart in his hand while the other pulled the dog tag out of it.

When Dad woke up he called for the nurse and asked two questions. “What day is it? “November 11. “Who won?” “Roosevelt.” “Good,” Dad quipped. “I voted for him in a foxhole!”

During the week or so recovery at the MASH hospital the Germans struck again, fighter planes flew through with guns blazing and dad got hit again—“those dirty poops!—But he did earn two purple hearts.

He spent weeks in a hospital in England, weeks on a ship headed back to the states and over a week on a train to a hospital in Santa Barbara. It was months of shrapnel extraction and daily work by the doctors to save his eye. When they doctor finally told him in April that he would have to lose his eye. Dad commented, “You’re the doctor.”

The amazing thing to me about all of that is Dad never complained a bit. He never whined, he never asked for sympathy—or anything. He was simply s soldier doing what soldiers do.

3. Dad was a FRIEND.

Dad had a ton of friends. He had an extraordinary relational ability. He had WOO—he could win others over. My sister, Laurie asked that I mention that Dad ended every phone call with, “And tell the kids Grandpa still loves them.” He knew how to make people feel special.

Everyone was his friend. His gardener called him “Amigo.” How appropriate. Dad was great at making friends, with nurses, salespeople, bartenders, waiters and waitresses. Man how embarrassing was that? We’re just trying to order and Dad is getting a full family workup from the waitress. “And what’s your name?”

I suspect that is how he landed Mom. And the best thing my Dad ever did was be a friend to my Mom. He really loved her.

Maxine, you were very special to dad too.

Speaking of special people:

4. Dad was a BROTHER.

Family was really important to Dad. “Family is number one,” he’d say. But his perspective as a family man wasn’t as a father, or a patriarch or even a grandfather. He saw himself, and he lived as a brother. Dad rarely gave fatherly advice, but he did give brotherly tips.

A week or so before he died I went to visit him, and for one of the rare times in his life he was worried. I asked if he was worried about his health or his loss of appetite. “No, that’ll come back,” he said. How about money? “You kids are taking care of all of that, I don’t even know what’s up with that.” “So what are you worried about?” “Pat and Jerry. I want to make sure they get taken care of.”

Pat and Jerry, I hope you know how important you were to Dad. You called him “Brother Jack,” and “Brother John” and that’s exactly who he was.

5. Dad was a GOURMAND.

I needed help with this one, I asked several people, and we couldn’t quite come up with the word, so I went to the dictionary and found “Gourmand.” A “gourmet” is someone who likes fine foods, a “Gourmand” is someone who likes all food and drinks—that was Dad.

He loved food. “Food and me get along real good,” he’d say. It could be a Mocha Frappuccino from Starbucks or a Bombay gin, extra, extra dry martini with a twist—Dad raved about it. He was an amazing cook, and if you ever cooked anything for him—he would not stop talking about how great it was. From In-N-Out Burgers to oysters on the half shell, Dad would say it was “Ambrosia.”

Sunday night, we said good-bye. And the last thing he said to me as he shook my hand—his eyes became very big and struggling to speak he said, “Thanks, Son, for everything.” I couldn’t quite fully understand that last word. It could’ve been, “Thanks for the frappuccino,” but I’m hanging on to “Thanks for everything.”

I got number six from Molly—and my daughter Tricia. I talked with Tricia, who is in China, she worked for dad for six years. I asked for one word to describe dad and immediately she said,

6. He was OPTIMISTIC.

Molly had said the same thing.

Dad was positive. When he was going from disaster to disaster he’d say, “It’ll all come out in the wash.” When his health was horrible you’d ask how he was doing and he’d respond, “I’m doing a hundred.”

I once asked him how he dealt with his injuries. “When you had both eyes bandaged up for months and were faced with the very real possibility that you would be blind, how did you handle it, how did you face that?’ You know what he said? “I never gave it a second thought.”

He was optimistic. Okay, his optimism bordered and sometimes spilled over to denial. He had a three bedroom, three bath house in the state of denial, but that optimism fueled him.

I believe Dad is in heaven because he was forgiven by Jesus. But on the slight possibility he isn’t in heaven I can tell you what he is saying right now: “It’s not hot and I’m not here. It’s not hot and I’m not here…”

That brings us to number seven:

7. Dad was IMPROVING.

My dad wasn’t perfect. Now is not the time to talk about his imperfections, idiosyncrasies or issues. The good news is he got better with age.

The Dad Lindy and I got was better than the Dad Laurie, John and Mike got. And the Dad Lisa and Molly got was better than the Dad I got. He was working on his stuff, slowly but surely.

The other night several of us, his kids were at dinner and we were talking about Dad. A question came up, “What was your best memory of Dad?” Do you know what immediately popped into my head? My best memories of dad were the times when he apologized to me.

An apology acknowledges that we aren’t perfect and we need forgiveness.

I’m sure we could come up with many other words to describe Dad. At the house we’re going to have a little ceremony where you can say a few words if you’d like to.

But I’d like to move to the second thing we do at funerals that we don’t often do at other times—business with God. Funerals can be fun because they give us a great opportunity to reflect on our lives and our own forgiveness issues. Dad had a saying, “It won’t be long now…said the monkey as he backed into the lawnmower.” It won’t be long, we’ll be having one of these services for me, for you. So it makes sense to think about getting prepared.

The second reading today was from one of my favorite passages in the Bible, Acts chapter 13.

The Apostle Paul is traveling around and he shows up in a town called Psidion Antioch, where he goes to the synagogue service. The rabbi, knowing who he is, taps him on the shoulder and says, “You give the sermon.” So Paul gets up and speaks and when he is done, everyone rushes him. The beg him, they plead for him to come back the next week and give that very same sermon.

Now that has never happened to me. I have never been asked to come back next Sunday with the same sermon.

But the passage says on the next Sabbath almost the whole town showed up to hear Paul speak. Everybody in town came to hear the sermon.

So, what did Paul say? The entire message is found in Acts 13 and I’d encourage you to read it. But here’s the punch line: “My friends, the message is that Jesus can forgive your sins! “—Acts 13:38 Jesus offers forgiveness.

Do you know why almost the whole town showed up to hear Paul’s talk? Because the whole town needed forgiveness. Everybody came because everybody needs forgiveness. Dad needed forgiveness, I need forgiveness, and even though I don’t know what’s going on with you—I do know you need forgiveness.

So, here’s the application—three things.

First, don’t leave here today without forgiving Jack Pearring. Maybe you were good with him, but if there was anything between you, let’s leave that stuff here. We’re going to recite in a minute, “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us…” so let’s start now. Forgive dad, leave that here.

Second, start the forgiveness process with other people today. If you’ve got someone in your life you need to forgive—your dad, Mom, sister, brother, grandpa, start that today. Or maybe its time to apologize.

And third, get forgiveness from Jesus today. Jesus offers forgiveness, so take it. You need it, Dad needed it. He received forgiveness from Jesus. Let’s do likewise.