Dad's Funeral

That still feels very strange to say and post. I knelt by my Dad's casket at the wake (viewing) and kept trying to get it to sink in--"I'm at my Dad's funeral." And it wasn't hitting. And when it does hit, it's so strange and difficult.

The funeral was beautiful. K did a lovely job playing "O Come Little Children" on her violin. Poor M got a bug (probably combined with stress) and threw up at the funeral parlor. The kids have handled everything quite well and have been real troopers and the extended family really pulled together to make everything nice for the kids. We're so grateful. We're back and things feel strange. My mom is with us. She seems a bit lost, but is happy to be with us and has expressed that several times. We're glad.

I'm posting our funeral talks--it was a beautiful service and we're glad to have been a part of it. My brother dedicated the grave afterward. It was all beautiful if difficult and sad. We miss my Dad a lot and it feels strange and sometimes wrong that he's not with us.

I'll post pictures soon, but for now, here are our talks (mine and then Mark's):



Talk for Dad’s Funeral January 4, 2008


Some people have wondered whether or not I could do this—speak at my Dad’s funeral. I don’t mind being emotional. I do mind not being able to express the things I’d like to share. I pray I can do justice to my offering today.

It was so good to be at the wake yesterday and see such an outpouring of love and respect. I so appreciated hearing people tell me how they knew my Dad and what they’ve learned from him and things they love about him. No one can talk about my Dad without a smile and a twinkle in their eyes—two very familiar trademarks of my Dad.

I didn’t shed many tears at the wake. I have felt strengthened by the prayers of others. And sometimes it doesn’t feel real. But standing here and talking about my Dad is another story. I’m doing this for him.

Sometimes, for talks at funerals, you have to pick out the good to say and be careful not to mention the bad. That’s not an issue with my Dad. This is an easy thing to do in that regard . . . there isn’t a bad thing to say!

Often, it’s nice to hear stories about the person who’s died. As I’ve tried to think about “stories,” I’ve struggled. Because when I think of my Dad, stories don’t come to mind. Characteristics do.

I’d like to talk about some of the characteristics my Dad has that makes him who he is. (You’ll notice I speak of him in the present tense. That’s because, though he has died, his spirit lives on and I’m sure he’s playing tennis in heaven and I’m so happy for him). Several characteristics come readily to mind when I think of the great man my father is.

1. HUMILITY--this is the first quality that comes to mind when I think of my Dad. He’s a humble man in so many ways. My Dad doesn’t have any fancy degrees and none of that matters. It hasn’t ever mattered. My Dad has always seemed more of a wise man than most college-educated men I know.

My Dad hasn’t ever been one for being the center of attention. He’d be shaking his head and overwhelmed by all of this. My Dad hasn’t ever felt good enough or worthy enough—his humility has always made him this way. I’ve talked with my Dad recently about how the extra stuff doesn’t matter—the Lord looks on the heart. And what a beautiful heart my Dad has. My Dad hasn’t ever thought, acted like, or assumed that he is better than others around him. He truly loves everyone. In fact, that is something he said to me a couple of weeks ago: “I love everybody.” And he truly does.

A humble man doesn’t know that he’s great. My Dad doesn’t even know how great of a man he is.

2. KIND—My Dad is kind and selfless. You see, a humble man does for others with little thought for self. And that is sooooo my Dad. I remember many, many times when my Dad would drive us home after school and work and he would pull over to help someone with car trouble without a second’s hesitation. As if by instinct, he would stop to help someone as naturally as one breathes air. If he saw someone struggling to hold a door or carry a package, he’d be right there to help. That’s part of why Parkinson’s Disease has been so frustrating for him—not just because of the things he couldn’t do for himself, but for the things he couldn’t do for others. My Dad, not being able to serve those around him, seemed to almost diminish as a human being—serving others is such a part of who he is. My Dad is generous. If my Dad ever even thought that someone was struggling to afford some basic necessities, he was quick to help, but never for show. He would quietly and unassumingly do for those around him. My Dad doesn’t do for others because it’s expected or for accolades or even because it’s a good thing to do. He does it because it’s such a natural part of who he is as a person.

3. HARDWORKING—My Dad is one of the most hardworking men I know. I’m blessed to have grown up in a house that My Dad built himself. And with a beautiful yard that he cared for himself. My Dad has always been strong, athletic, competitive and fit. I can’t look at tools or smell sawdust without thinking of my Dad. He’s taught us a strong work ethic by example.

4. PEACE-LOVING—My Dad hasn’t ever been comfortable with contention. I haven’t ever heard my Dad raise his voice to me. And rarely have I heard him raise his voice with others. He has always been uncomfortable with contention. Growing up, my Mom and I would sometimes be at odds—nothing major (I was a good kid), but we’d sometimes . . . disagree. My Dad would be the peacemaker, alternately begging each of us to please stop. It went something like this:

“Stacy, please, please don’t argue with your mother. Let’s have peace in this family. Please just stop arguing.”

To which I would respond: “But she’s wrong!”

He would quietly plead: “Just agree with her! Please let’s have peace in this family.”

My Dad understands that phrase “It is more important to be kind than to be right.” His humble nature makes it natural for him to treasure kindness over pride. It’s always meant a lot to my Dad to have peace in our family. Even as he died, he asked that of all of us—to get along, to be friends, to have peace.

5. GUILELESS—My Dad is guileless. It's the word that keeps coming to mind to describe my Dad. Generous and Guileless. My Dad is truly a man without guile--it's not that he doesn't let things about people irritate him . . . he doesn't even notice those things in the first place. He's simply that kind of a great guy.

6. INTEGRITY—To me, integrity means that you’re the same person whether someone is watching you or not. My Dad has integrity. What you see is what you get. And how he is with you at church is how he is with you at home is how he is with you at a restaurant is how he is with you at work. My father is a man of honor and integrity.

Humble, Kind, Hardworking, Peace-loving, Guileless, A man of integrity. I am proud to have Robert Resendes as my father. I am blessed to have him as my Daddy.

As I’ve considered these qualities that personify my father, the words from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount keep coming to me. We know these words as The Beatitudes—they talk about those who inherit the kingdom of heaven . . . there’s no doubt that’s where my Dad is:

Blessed are the poor in spirit (poor in pride, humble in spirit), for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are the meek (gentle, forgiving, benevolent), for they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled.
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.

There’s not a doubt in my mind that my Dad is in heaven seeing the merciful face of God.

My Dad was a mischievous hellion growing up. He was all the things I’ve described to you in this talk throughout his life. And in the past few months, he’s been dependent on those around him for help. He hasn’t ever wanted to be in that kind of position. But as he has depended on those around him for daily activities and function, he has continued to touch the lives of every person who has the pleasure and blessing of interacting with my Dad.

It has been a blessing to be with him these past couple of weeks. I am so impressed and amazed at the hospice workers and volunteers who have helped my Dad, my family. We are so grateful. I am overwhelmed by the outpouring of love from family and friends. Again, we are grateful. I am truly astounded by my Mom’s dedication in caring for him and keeping him at home as he has wished. I salute her for what she’s done. And I know, without any doubt whatsoever, that my Dad loved and adored my mother. I saw it in his eyes when he looked at her as he died. It was a deeply moving and beautiful thing.

To this point, I don’t feel that I’ve shared anything with all of you that you don’t already know about my Dad. Anyone who knows my Dad knows these qualities and characteristics as being his.

But there is a way that I know my Dad that no one else in this room or in this world knows my Dad. I know him as his daughter. I am a very loved girl. My Daddy loves me. He looks out for me. When I was a little girl, he’d drop me off at school and, always worrying about me being small, would remind me as only a loving father can, “Bibi, if anyone hits you, you punch ‘em back as hard as you can!” If I needed $5 for a field trip, he’d give me $15, just to make sure I didn’t do without. I’ve always felt so looked out for, so protected, so cared for, so loved. I’ve been very blessed with a wonderful Vavo and a wonderful father who have treated me like gold. I believe that it is due in large part to the way these two great men have always treated me, that I am married to a great man who treats me so well. And my Daddy wouldn’t have it any other way for his little girl.

An amazing thing that I’ve considered quite a bit over the past few months is that my Daddy hasn’t ever said an unkind word to me. Ever! If that is not a testament to the kind of loving father that he is, I don’t know what is.

I miss him like crazy, but I know that I will someday see him again. And I know that he, and he alone, is my Daddy--now and forever. I am so blessed to have such an amazing man as my father. I love you, Daddy.

In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.


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January 4, 2008

I am honored and touched at the opportunity that I have to share a few of my thoughts on Robert today. Usually I don’t read my talks word-for-word, but today I feel like I need to read what I’ve prepared as I’m sure my emotions will get the better of me at some point this morning. Reducing my many wonderful memories of Robert to a short synopsis of the past 15 years is a nearly impossible task, but I will do my best to express the deep love and respect I have for him.

Stacy warned me that he never completely approved of any of her teen-age crushes or boyfriends, so I was naturally concerned about our first meeting. Knowing that food is the primary currency used to express love and concern in a Portuguese family, I can now look back and appreciate how welcome Robert wanted to make me feel at that time. I can almost taste our first meeting today—morcela, chouriço, quejo do São Jorge. He made sure I tried a steak sandwich at Academica and got plenty of Portuguese breads from Tony’s Bakery. Over the years I saw him do the same for our children, as well. “Come, querida. Come mais. Try this. It’s very nice.” And, “He likes pizza? Buy it for him.”

Even though I married into this family, he took me under his wing as if I were his own son. I remember going to the hardware store to buy a hammer. Coming from a family where tools were something you owned but hoped to never have to use, purchasing a hammer with the perfectionist carpenter was an experience to be savored. I foolishly walked in, found the hammers, grabbed one, and began to walk away. But Robert eyed each hammer for a moment, plucked them from the wall one-by-one, and carefully “tested” each one. He would balance each in his hands, take a few practice taps, stare down the handle, and repeat. Then he would select a different hammer. When he found one that might work, he put it into my hands and had me try. After over 30 minutes, we had found the perfect hammer. Then he told me, “We need a screwdriver, too.” Apparently, purchasing a screwdriver is a bit simpler. That first hammer has helped to hang family pictures and beautiful artwork in four different homes. It has completed many home fix-it projects. It finished a townhouse basement. And I’m sure it has much more work ahead of it, each swing recalling that first day when the hammer was so carefully selected by a father and his son-in-law.

I grew up being very active in sports, but tennis was one that I could never play that well. It figures that tennis is the sport Robert loved so much. He was so patient with me when we would play. I remember a crisp winter morning in Arizona when he took me out to play for a while. I would lob a feeble serve to him, expecting a vicious return I could never reach, but it didn’t come. Back would come a gentle forehand, which I would return with all the power of a 9-year-old Girl Scout. But a soft backhand would follow. This would go on for a few volleys, right up until I thought, “Maybe I’m not so bad.” Then he’d smoke it by me, give me a wink, and offer up that little laugh he had. But not a big one. He’d give the score and then tell me to serve. Eventually I’d lose, really lose, but he never made too much of it. He probably just didn’t want me to give up so he’d have someone to play with when he visited.

Playing cards was the same way. I remember as recently as last summer, sitting and playing bisca with him. Having played my fair share of cards prior to meeting Robert, I caught on to sueca and bisca pretty quickly. At times it even seemed like I was a decent match for him. But, no matter how well I played, he had that one extra card. And when he laid it down, out came that wink and laugh again. And if you said he was cheating, he’d smile, shuffle the cards, and simply say, “Corta.” I don’t know if they have bisca in heaven, but if they do I’ll just say, “Watch that one. He cheats.”

I could list so many more memories of Robert, but there’s no way I could pay proper homage to a man so subtly wonderful in a few short minutes. He was quick to offer financial advice—“Own property.” I don’t know of anyone that hasn’t heard the story of how he gained his testimony—in the first few minutes of meeting him! He even gave last-minute advice on how to treat funeral guests—“Zelia, don’t be cheap.” But the greatest gift Robert gave to me was to trust me completely with his daughter, never uttering a word of doubt that I could care for her and provide all that she would need in this life and the next. Even while I dragged her, and later his grandchildren, from state to state, establishing a life for our family, he never expressed anything but confidence in the decisions our family makes. The least I could do was to bring his daughter back to him, and to watch as she held his hand as he left this mortal existence to return to the presence of his loving Heavenly Father. Some say the spirits of our deceased loved ones are present all around us. I certainly hope this is true, because it’s virtually impossible to imagine life without you here with us, Dad.

I love you and look forward to the day I can hug you and squeeze in a quick round of bisca. I’ll even let you cheat, if you want to.

In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.