Guest Blog: Reading Holes to Mom by the Dog Walker

 Even though time has been going by really fast, life has been going really slow for us ever since a lot of us have talked about all those good times we had with Dad. Before Dad passed on, he wanted me to read the series that he used to like as a kid, called The  Great Brain. I'm pretty sure I've told you all about it before. He at least got to hear the series one more time before moving into the afterlife. Mom always likes it when I read to her, especially other books. I've read Tangerine by Edward Bloor to her a month ago. And now, I just finished reading Holes by Louis Sachar. After finishing reading the book to her, she wanted to watch the movie, and I was thinking of watching it with her when I get off work tonight. I'm thinking of being Stanley Yelnats for Halloween this year. 

My Sweetie's Funeral Talk by Teach

Teach's talk was written with talking points, so some thoughts here are incomplete.

Time on the mission when I wanted him to write his conversion story and he told me that he didn’t really have one because he was, like me, just someone that always knew the plan of salvation. That it always made sense. he didn’t need a large moment of conversion for it was simply always there. 

I struggled with my relationship with my dad for many many years. I didn’t think we had much in common, I felt like he didn’t “get me” and I felt the term “cowgirl up” was unfairly used way too often. I always loved my dad and I knew he loved me, but we didn’t vibe great. To be totally clear - this was a me problem. It was an unmet expectations issue that I couldn’t put into words and didn’t know how to reconcile. Yet life has a way of giving you experiences that bring growth and change. One night about 6 or 7 years ago, I was driving home from picking up Felicity at my parents house. My dad was sitting on the porch when I left and I said, “bye dad,” he responded and I got in the car, he waved, I drove down the street. I don’t know what was different- I don’t remember what changed, but before I had made it as far as the elementary school I was in tears and knew I needed to go give my dad a hug and tell him I love him. So I turned around and did just that. As hard as I try to remember I can’t remember any more context or results of that day. Yet I know it changed how I interacted with my dad from that point forward. 

When we moved to NJ, I started to see my dad - both my parents actually - as these vessels of knowledge. And I called many times I wanted to get into a new hobby. Dad helped me virtually learn to make bread. He walked me through fixing the plumbing, I had to call mom cause dad didn’t do video calls, and say “hey, I need to talk to dad, I got a dad question” and then I would walk him down the Lowe’s aisle of screws, nuts and bolts trying to find the one that would replace one we had lost. This specific story was especially monumental because when I was about five dad took me to Anderson Lumber to pick out screws and it was the most boring experience of my life. And he would always joke about how much I loved shopping for screws.  

He helped walk me through the process of building a garden in 2019 when we lived in Taylorsville. Much to his chagrin, it died. But he helped me in 2021 when I wanted to try again in NJ with our small garden box. He even sent me a camera so I could catch the ground hog that would sneak out from under the shed to eat my plants. That garden didn’t make it. All I harvested were some lettuce leaves. Then again in 2023, he and mom flew out to see me graduate with my Masters and we tried once more to build a garden. We found the perfect wheeled boxes, I tracked the sun and shade to give him details of the conditions. He and mom helped me pick and plant so many adorable veggies! I would send daily updates. Yet - come harvest time I got some tomatoes and a pepper the size of my thumb. I made the world’s smallest omelette. It has become abundantly clear that while I take after my dad in passion for cooking, baking, eating. I do not have the ability to grow a garden. But he never gave up on me. Some day I’ll figure it out. 

Finally the best and worst part about talking to dad was the unsolicited fatherly advice. He always had advice that I usually didn’t want to hear, but 9 times out of 10 would improve my life. He shared his opinions and he cared deeply about our lives. My dad loves his grand kids. He always wanted them to be comfortable and feel valued and wanted. My dad often would tell me how much he loved seeing me be Thomas’s mom and that he was so proud of me for all I do for Thomas. He loved them all so much. I asked him if he thought he would see the twins before they come down earth side - and although we don’t know heavenly logistics, I hope he does. I hope they are both at his side (surrounded by other future Christensen grandkids) and they are hearing my dad tell his stories. Because there is nothing better. 

My Sweetie's Funeral talk by Bossy - Part 3

I purchased my house just over 14 years ago in July and it was too late for a garden that first year, but you can bet that second year I was all in. Much to Paul and the boys dismay we had been gardening forever, prior to owning a home, I would come help plant, weed, harvest and prepare for food storage. We had been doing the easy stuff for years. Things like remembering to water, maintaining healthy soil, proper crop rotation, seed selection, I leaned heavily on my dad. And each year my garden has gotten a little bigger and a little better. Every spring it was our special planning session garden layout and design, which variety of tomatoes we wanted how to spilt the multi packs to get the best deals. Eventually I was trusted enough to go and purchase and divide the plants myself without specific lists and the post freeze enchilada sauce recipe was entrusted to me. And early each March as I start planning and humming Paul knows that while I am humming “The prophet said to plant a garden” I am singing My father said to plant a garden. 

I am sure when I eventually sit down and give other’s a chance you will hear stories of what a great consistent provider my dad was and how he always served others.  It was August and we had just finished building and moving into the dream house. Space and room for the five kids to grow and spread.  Customizations and wishes granted.  We had two water heaters and two a/c units!  We had arrived!  After months of cramped living in the tiny three bedroom apartment we were ready for space.  And dad was let go from his job. We were in a heat wave but those a/c units were “broken” and didn’t start.  I remember gathered together laying on the floor of the master bedroom fan trying to stay cool and my dad worried about how we were going to pay the mortgage, but school clothes and feed us.  He was scared. I was scared. 

It wasn’t easy for him to accept the help from the church that got those through those few months of unemployment.  His pride was hurt he was the provider. But it was also the turning point.  He showed us what it was to be humble and to serve with all your heart.  I remember dad cleaning the church with such pride and care in exchange for whatever help the bishop was providing.  And I know that from that point forward he took every calling with the most serious thought and care.  When we were financially stable he was always the first to notice and know when other families were struggling.  We started the 12 days to not just give back but I truly believe it embodied the pure love of Christ and serving our neighbors that had humbled my dad those months. I know he knew exactly what was happening with the families he was assigned to home teach and he prayerfully considers those in his quorum or his cub scouts even his nursery kids were prayed over.  

It wasn’t work hard, play hard.  It was work hard, serve harder and play. 

Serving by building a room for his father-in-law what living independently was no longer an option. Serving by his post pandemic bi monthly Saturday visits to his mother to make sure her yard was taken care of, she was eating, take care of any house needs like installing shower bars and automatic curtains.  Serving by hosting thousands of family parties. For playing Santa and making sure every cousin, boyfriend, girlfriend whatever had a present.  I may be making this up, but I am pretty sure Santa visited Kiyna’s low income classroom a few times.

When I asked Paul what he wanted me to share he gave three stories. How he took in strays referring of course to himself, Paul’s belief that my dad didn’t know how to shingle a roof, and the time he lit my house of fire. 

Paul jokes about taking in strays but that isn’t entirely untrue.  Paul got to feel first hand the love and acceptance Dad would give to anyone in the family.  Dad welcome Paul as his rough around the edge son who needed guidance, and he did a great job with retraining him.  Dad has helped mold and shape Paul into being a great loving man, a hard worker, a provider.  I don’t believe those descriptors would accurately describe the homeless, jobless man I tried to defy my mother with.  Dad never questioned Paul’s previous children and eagerly accepted them into the fold as his own children.  When we did foster care he was grandpa to all our kids equally as including them in the counts of grandchildren. When we were discussing how Dad could literally do anything and build a house from the ground up Paul said except for the roof. And I gave him a look because he was absolutely crazy, and Paul said he always made me fix the shingles.  Dear husband, Dad could have fixed the shingles but we needed the money and he didn’t want you to feel like a charity case, he wanted you to earn it. 

When we had been in our home about five years we decided it was time to finish the bathroom in the basement.  It had the sink and shower, but needed tile and a toilet.  Dad showed us how to tile, I think this was when he redid the blue bathroom and we tackled it together, honestly it turned out much better than anticipated we had a great teacher.  Shortly after installing the tile we start noticing a wet spot in the hallway floor carpet.  It grew and grew and eventually the entire floor was soaked.  Clueless on how our tile install would have created such a problem we had dad come could to help solve the mystery. And after a great deal of sleuthing he discover the upstairs bathroom sink had a leak that had been dripping down the wall into the downstairs bathroom, this leak had previously just been contained in the bathroom  and self draining but once we title and installed the toilet the leak was redirected and was no flowing under the wall into the carpet. The location of the leak was in the main beams of the upstairs floor in the wall.  Dad was in the downstairs bedroom and Paul was in the bathroom as they tried to removed and repipe the leaky elbow. (This was before the shark bite plumbing fittings were popular.) Dad armed with the torch and soder and Paul was armed with the fire extinguished to put out the fire. Dad knew there was no way to repair this without a small amount of fire damage.  And that is when my Dad and Paul intentionally lit my house on fire. 

I’ve hit 4k words now if I am reading this directly without additions. And while I could easily say 4k more about when Dad became Grandpa I am sure there are others who would like time to share.  So I will close with the final tender mercy I received last month.  About three Sundays ago I was sitting in sacrament meeting when clear as day 7 year old Calder came to me and said, “Mom, I am ready to play with the 9 year old boy.  I need him here for my birthday.” It knocked the wind out of me, I wasn’t ready.  I had been trying for 20 years to give my dad a baby girl to hold a mini Kira and I just needed 4 more months.  Could I please have 4 more months? And he firmly but gently told me we’d get Dad’s last birthday, but by his birthday it was his and Ollie’s turn. Last Wednesday, Calder woke me and told me it was the day, and that I needed to go buy peaches and say goodbye to grandpa because it was his turn. So I listened and found lemon albertas and went to say goodbye. Because my turn was over and there were people who have been waiting for his stories, forts, silly songs, and service on the otherside. 

My Sweetie's Funeral Talk by Bossy - Part 2

In the early 90s, when the West Jordan house was bursting at the seams, it was time to build the dream house. I remember the thought, care and prayers that went into selecting the perfect lot in the best neighborhood. I remember touring the model home and watching my dad’s keen eye finding inefficiencies in layout and design, the redesigned kitchen perfect for canning and gatherings, and changing the open floor plan master to accommodate the large jetted tub. Growing up the son of a plumber, my dad had an appreciation for a jetted tub, especially an oversized one. He understood what was necessary to re-enforce the floors and he planned every step. He was darn proud of his tub.

When building the house, Dad wanted the future. He planned for a security system and an intercom and to afford it. we wired everything ourselves. We spent hours at the new house pulling wire with Dad up and down the ladder while he taught by skill and example. He really could have built a home from the ground up and I depended on him many times to learn the skills that helped me with my own home. The carefully selected lot for the big house was planned for a perfectly placed home triangulated by the schools so we could always walk to school safely. This was a lesson learned the hard way at the Creekwood house where a scary open canal and train tracks made them bus kids to elementary school. Though, looking back on it, I think we were driven to school more than we rode the bus to school. For some reason, we just chronically missed that early bus.

At the new house, we could walk to school, but the option of early morning band happened. Mom asked grandma for her old plastic clarinet. And Dad, who always wanted a saxophone player to play like the guy from Eddie and the Cruisers, purchased an alto sax for Neal. But Neal’s hands were too small and pretty soon I was in both advanced and early morning band getting rides to school 4 days a week. There were no crossing guards available for early morning band, and soon we were given that ride to school

every morning. Without big sis, of course, the younger kids couldn’t walk, so my dad delayed the start of his work day to transport us to school ever day. That ride was Dad’s check in time. Those were quiet alone moments where he got tabs on us and felt out how we were doing at school, with friends, and at church; semi-private dad conferences that I didn’t appreciate. 

As I was thinking over this talk, I realized this was the start of the "unsolicited fatherly advice" my dad was so famous for. As we graduated and became parents ourselves, these check-ins took place on the front porch in the green rocking chairs. My final long drive home with Dad happened this July. It was strange to be the one in the driver’s seat; we all knew Dad hated to be driven because he never wanted to be stranded.

You didn’t wager with Dad. After Calder died, Paul and I went to a fertility specialist who very bluntly told me if I wanted to have more babies, I needed to lose weight. And so in a seeking "fatherly advice" on the subject conversation, I was listing excuses as to why I didn’t want to lose weight and at the time the biggest barrier was I didn’t want to have to buy new clothes for work. So Dad said, "If you lose 100 lbs, I’ll buy you a whole new wardrobe. Some time later, after my surgeries and 150 lbs weight lost, I had just shared the news of being pregnant with Ryker to my dad on his birthday. I brought up the new wardrobe, hinting that I would be wanting new clothes after I was done with this pregnancy and he better be ready to pay up in March. My sly dad said, double or nothing. Instead of a new wardrobe if Paul and I had 10 kids he’d give me $10k. I didn’t really care about the new clothing and honestly the odds of hitting 10 kids when I had 4ish seemed impossible, so I took that bet. Two years ago, after Denver was born, Paul was teasing Dad about how Denver was number ten and it was time to pay up.

Dad quickly started counting the babies. Ultimately, he decided that I could count Cat and Dakota as kids because they had lived with me for several years, but he wasn’t going to count Elizabeth in the total kids for the bet because she hadn’t lived with us. Therefore, we were at nine kids. On Father’s Day, when Denver wore his big brother shirt and it clicked, Dad shouted for joy and quickly turned to panic when Paul said, "Yup, number 11." 

"Dad, this is a crappy way to get out of our bet."

My dad loved cars. Some of my earliest memories are of sitting in the front seat (it was the 90s) and helping “shift” while Dad drove. I distinctly remember being taught how to shift on our way to  Montessori from the condo. I also remember the elicit gas station breakfasts on these school trips. Perhaps the only “selfish” thing my dad did was the purchase of the G8. Before the G8, Dad always had the hand-me-down commuter car which were usually given to me eventually and driven to their demise. The Escort, the Suzuki; I remember when dad was sideswiped driving to L3 and the Suzuki was totaled. Neal bought the Suzuki because he wanted to learn how to drive a stick and there are very few manual cars that could accommodate his size and allow it. Eventually it was gifted to Paul and it became Paul’s everyday commuter until Cat needed it and she eventually wrecked it. It was mostly cosmetic, but our insurance refused to cover repairs so we gifted it back to Nephi who also wanted to learn to drive a manual and fix up the car. And while that project has been sitting and has since been gifted down, I hope the project is actually fixed and Kori does get to drive it, because year before that, it was Dad’s daily commuter and fatherly advice is woven into the fabric of the car. No pressure, little brothers.

With the Suzuki wrecked, dad drove the big van and after months of commuting and the parking nightmare, he decided he wanted to buy the G8. It was researched and planned. And too expensive, something mom complained about the first time he needed to buy his special tires for it. But dad was so proud of that G8. Although to this day. I do not believe he ever let my husband drive it, not even to play driveway shuffle. Sorry Paul, you shouldn’t have rear-ended Andrew Clark in the snow at 5 miles an hour the first winter we were married.

Back to building the dream house; Dad’s childhood house was magic, more than the pull up bar on the stairs and the unfinished wraparound porch with the excellent climbing rocks. It had the shed full of Grandpa Christensen’s tools, and the larger than life garden and sandbox. So when my parents  purchased their third of an acre lot, it was no surprise that we would have a big garden and mom had consented to a sandbox similar to the small garden we had that the West Jordan house. I remember the day the dump trucks brought the sand. Yes, I said trucks. Now dad claims it was a miscalculation when he ordered 2 trucks and a pup worth of sand for our sandbox, but I know that man knew how to calculate materials correctly. And that sandbox was the 9-year-old boy's fantasy. I could spend the next hour telling stories of flooding the sandbox and playing hard in the yard with Dad. But few appreciate the work and efforts he has made over the last 30 years to maintain it as a sandbox and not an outdoor litter box. First, it is high quality sand, not the construction sand that was in his Dad’s sandbox. 

He worked hard to keep it weed and pest free and I have never found any animal waste in that sandbox. It has always been a safe clean space for imaginations to run wild.

Last part tomorrow...

My Sweetie's Funeral Talk by Bossy

Bossy's talk will be split over several days because of the length. But you won't be sorry, it is worth the read; funny and heart-warming.

I was almost five when my dad’s dad, Grandpa Christensen died. Same age as Ryker and Oakley, a little bit younger than Thomas, Gavin, and Josh. In those beginning years, Neal and I were college babies; we had young and financially strained parents who lived a great distance from their parents. We would visit when we could; during fall and winter break, other holidays to can and raid the food storage, and to see our grandparents. I believe there is one photo of me with grandpa Christensen, but I don’t remember him personally. What I remember is the superhero tale told by my father, when he was growing about his father. Grandpa Christensen was stronger than Superman, he could withstand the force of multiple blows to the head with a 2x4. He ran faster than a deer. He fought hard for our country, so hard that his hair turned white overnight. The man, the myth the legend, kept alive by the artful storyteller that was my own father.

In many ways I have two stories to tell, the twenty years he was my dad and the twenty years after I had bestowed him with the title “Grandpa.” The best example I can give of my dad growing up, and forgive me if it is way off base, Kiyna, I have a confession. I stopped halfway through book five and never finished the series, but my dad was Hagrid.
Big guy, long hair, leather jacket, strong, loyal, and scary if you crossed him. He was a gentle giant who was also my spiritual rock.

Let’s start with the long hair. Most of my childhood, my dad and I were in competition for who had the best hair. I concede now that I likely lost this contest in my childhood, but my dad knew that in my insecure world as the chubby, socially-awkward child that when I was home, stewing about the mean girls at school, he could always turn my mood around by instigating a who had the longest hair contest. We would rally the judges and we each took turns, my dad with an exaggerated half back bend and myself contorting far more flexible, ever trying to will my hair to touch my butt and win. As a teenager, when the hair game became silly, instead my place to hide my insecurities was stealing his beloved leather jackets and hiding inside them. His shield protected me from the insecurities of an overweight teenager in a world that idolized anorexia.

Growing up, one of our favorite Grandpa Christensen stories was my dad sharing his own bratty behavior. We loved hearing about the time grandma-great threw the tv out the front door because her boys were being naughty, but a classic replay was the bike. My dad, the preteen, was over at a friend's house who lived up the street, uphill from their
house. He had ridden his bike over there. At some point, he entered a battle of wills with his mom and started being disrespectful. The mistake was that his dad was present
and had he heard him. My dad caught the look and knew he was in trouble. He made his exit plan and grabbed his bike. It was the 70s, so picture the banana seat with the handle on the back. Grandpa Christensen told him to apologize to his mother. And my
dad positioned himself carefully at the top of the hill ready to ride. He said “No!” and promptly took off as fast as his legs could pedal from the top of the street knowing he was free; he was on his bike and his dad on foot. Legend says he was to the neighbor's driveway when the strong arm encircled his waist to keep him from flying over the handlebars as his dad’s other hand grabbed the handle on the bike seat and swiftly ended his escape plans. Dad was marched back to the neighbor's house to apologize to his mother. 

We had heard this story hundreds of times growing up, so it shouldn’t have

been a surprise that we have our own version of this story. Neal was between 11 and 12, not yet 6’4” or whatever ridiculous height he is now. I was still taller at this point. We were
in the kitchen and Neal was mouthing off to Mom, Dad came around the corner and quietly and firmly in the don’t mess with me voice told him to straighten up and apologize. Of course as big sister, I was gleefully watching with popcorn. Forgetting all
the warning tells of Christensen boys who sass their mothers, Neal dug in with a “No!” We were inside, so he didn’t have a bike to escape on, so he planned a distraction, he knocked over a Pepsi. We will have to ask him, I don’t remember if Dad was holding it or it was on the counter, but with his distraction in play, he created a mess and fall hazard and took off
like it was Mario cart and the banana would assure his victory and escape. I’ve never seen my father move so fast and gracefully as he channeled his inner Superman and grabbed Neal by the ankles and proceeded to use his hair to mop up the Pepsi while
lecturing him on treating mom with respect and apologizing. He was strong.

Dad was so proud of his kids. I know that the secrecy of L3 and his work and not being able to bring us in and show off his lab was difficult for him. Even though we only got to see his office once during the special L3 party, I already knew what his office would look like. The model yellow Chevy Nomad I had gifted him with my own money, and a bookcase with 12 photos lined up; pictures of us kids. Dad would constantly brag about us and share our happenings. I am sure many of his coworker friends here know more about us than we know about them.

My earliest memories of my dad include, silly songs, pillow forts and the video camera. I swear he had the video camera for an arm from 87-93 recording the mundaneness of our everyday lives. Those home videos of slides and jumping into pillows were not special occasions that was our every day growing up with a dad who called himself a 9-year old boy. We were trained by the best, as children waiting for Mom to get out of class or

finish a Tupperware party, we knew where all the good parks and slides where Dad was always there alongside us, never afraid of getting stuck in a tunnel slide. And so grateful because it was difficult to make that 9-year-old angry. Neal and I got away with practically murder for naughty behavior growing up during a brief obsession with Cool Runnings.
We turned the staircase into a practice track with bunkbed mattresses and laundry basket
bobsleds, ruining the mattresses, baskets and putting holes in the wall. My dad just replaced and the patched wall. . By the way, the mattress stair slide sans baskets continued to the Bridle Oak house and nearly middle school. I am pretty sure at least once my dad also slid down the stairs to see how fun it was. He did, however, make us haul the matresses to the downstairs stairs because the open hallway was safer than landing into the wall at the bottom of the main floor.

At his childhood home it was the equivalent of the pull up bar on the stairs. Neal and I were too short to reach it, but that didn’t stop us from jumped from several stairs up trying

 to be cool like Uncle Greg. Eventually, Dad would come over and lift us up to reach and catch us when we could only hold on for a few seconds.

Come back tomorrow for more.

Time to Hear from Me

I'm so sorry that others have taken over writing for me. Everything is just so raw and new, and I am so tired. I don't sleep at night, but then I doze off during the day. My most embarrassing moment was at Baby Doll's volleyball game. I was actually visiting with one of the moms I have known for a long time. I thought maybe I had just zoned out, but she said, "You need more sleep." And we shared a laugh. 

Yes, I still laugh. It's just that the laughter is fewer and further between. I know and understand that my Father in Heaven's plan is much better than the one I had, but that doesn't take away the intense longing to hold my sweetie's hand or to hear about his day at work. 

Today, I spent hours taking his clothes and shoes out of our closet. I don't know what I will do with all the extra room. He always had more clothes than me. He loved to dress up in his fedoras and colorful Jerry Garcia ties. He had about a dozen different dinner jackets and SO many shirts!! I gave some to the Dog Walker and the others boys are taking a few. We will take everything else out to Deseret Industries. They always told me they loved the bigger sizes, so this should really make them happy. 

My sweetie's best work friend brought home the contents of his office in 3 small boxes. He had a bunch of plaques and trophies, but he always said his most prized possessions were the 12 little frames that held pics of our kids. 

We are working hard to find a new normal. You know, we spent a week out of real life, planning and then having the funeral, but life didn't stop for those around us. More school assignments were given, more PTO was used, and even some unpaid leave. Now we are trying to catch up. Curly is pretty good, but Baby Doll still has some assignments to do. Some of her teachers were kind enough to excuse some of the busy work and that has helped too. 

Baby Doll has another volleyball game tomorrow and Friday is Senior Night at the Homecoming Game for Curly. Can you believe they only have away games left? It seems like the season just started. I have been so impressed with their teammates. Nearly all of the volleyball players (over 30 of them) showed up at the viewing at the same time!! They gave Baby Doll the love and support she needed at the perfect time. And Curly told me the team was showing up for the funeral, but I thought he meant the coaches and his friends. But as I stood up to follow the casket out of the room, I looked up and was greeted with this sea of football faces! Curly said about 45 out of 60 players were there to support him and that is saying something because they had to get out of school, dress nice, all of it. I stood with him at the door as they exited the church, each grabbing him in a giant bro hug. Why are those darn tears always so close to the surface??

So for now, while my feelings are still so raw and tender, I might just have someone else post for me. Please keep coming back and supporting my kids, because they are hurting too. How long does it take for the pain to go away? I asked Scout to take my sweetie off speed dial today. Yesterday, I was at the mortuary again, going over financial stuff and choosing a marker for our grave. Today, some guy who went to high school with my sweetie called me for the second time since the funeral a week ago. BLOCK! Yeah. I need real life again. I don't really like this new normal.

My Sweetie's Funeral - Talk by Baby Doll

 

My papa was the coolest, silliest, and most loving man I have ever met. He always told me I was his favorite…. youngest daughter. I remember last year my dad and I went to go pick up Kiy and Jay's kids and take them to the Ockey Christmas party. On our way there I explained the plot of my favorite book series to him. Even though I don't think he had any interest in the story or even understood it, he let me ramble on about it. I just remember how loved and seen I felt by my dad in that moment. I can't wait to see him again and rant to him about random things. I love my dad and I hope to live in a way he would be proud of even if that is by doing random silly dances whenever the music plays at the end of a show, specifically NCIS or Hawaii 5 0. Or sitting on the porch to watch the sunset. I would like to end by telling one of my dad's favorite jokes. What do you call a row of rabbits walking backwards? A receding hairline.

My Sweetie's Funeral - Talk by Drama Queen

 This past week since hearing the news that dad had passed, I’ve been reminded that one of my best emotional coping skills is to sort things. Doesn’t really matter what: office supplies, toys, books, junk drawers: I find it soothing to help things find their place. There’s this hope that if I can just settle the world around me, then it will settle the world inside me too. So I’m gonna ask that you sort some things out with me today as I try to do justice in telling you about my dad.

My dad was an electrical engineer and his desk was always a mess. But I always thought it a bit of a beautiful mess. Once I got rid of the cherry Pepsi cans and dirty dishes and lost screwdrivers there were always the strangest little treasures that showed what dad was like: there was always at least one half built pine wood derby car because Dad loved working with the scouts. There would be pages of notes scribbled in the margins around power point slides - because whether it was a presentation at work or a talk for church, Dad was always spaced his thoughts out, knowing that the right words would come.

On dad’s desk would usually be a camera or two with memory cards stuffed full of pictures of us and the occasional slew of nature shots. I don’t think he ever won that photo contest at work, but I liked the random drives we’d all take up the mountains or down to the great salt lake to see if he could get a good shot. Pretty sure it was on one of those drives that we invented screaming at the bottom of our lungs when he looped around on the highway three times for us to go through the tunnels by Vivian park. The whole big van full of kids giggling and growling “uhhhhhhh” over and over and over while the biggest kid of us all was in the drivers seat.

On dad’s desk were books about programming and math and lasers. Between cleanings, new books would appear because Dad liked learning and being curious. Id sort them tallest to shortest and dust carefully around the modem while gathering up spilled seed packets. I am not a fan of bugs or dirt or even being outside so though I never wanted to take over the garden duties I was always impressed by how much my dad knew. He’d make plans in the winter: sketching how to rotate the crops around making sure he could grow enough tomatoes and green beans this year and more corn the next. My dad would spend hours and hours nurturing that garden growing somethings just to make one of us happy: like blue corn for Nates corn maze and Kohlrabi for me and rainbow chard for mom.

Dusting the loose seeds from behind the monitor is usually when I would find and then re-hide one of the lost army men from uncle Mike. I liked hiding them along the tops of the books so they could spy on dad’s keyboard. It was a secret silly game but I loved when dad would let me help set up the next sabotage. I liked knowing that grownups could still play with their siblings too.

On the shelf Above dad’s desk was a tower of mystery boxes: half done projects and tools for the million and one things on his list. Some of the times I most appreciated with my dad was when he’d let me lurk around as he worked on a project and he’d teach me what he was doing: replacing a toilet, wiring a fan, installing tile. Sanding down the hardwood every few years and pouring the new finish all by himself. He’d help anywhere and everywhere: driving down to grandmas just to mow her lawn. Helping Kira rebuild her bathroom. Building an apartment for Nate, completely redesigning the crazy pink house for me. And still at home his own work was never done. I don’t think there is a single thing in my parent’s house he hasn’t had to fix at least twice. I guess twelve kids can break a lot of stuff..

Which is probably why under dad’s desk was a never ending box of extra cords and busted headphones. But if I am at the point of contemplating going through dad’s cord box then that means there really isn’t anything left to sort. Dad was a problem solver. If he couldn’t figure it out: he’d think about it and research and come back to it with something new to try. And if the way I feel is still all tangled up, then I probably need to follow his example and just let it wait until the thoughts come.

My dad was an electrical engineer and his desk was always a mess, but there is one more thing on it that tells you about who my dad was. It’s a computer board. It’s been there for almost as long as me, and it’s one he worked on and helped design. I remember taking it to show and tell as a kid and explaining how my dad was not only as smart as a computer but smart enough to build them too. I used to run my fingers along the chips and solder points and marvel that all those tiny things could make something so good and so important.

And that’s what my dad was: a million tiny things: a million tiny ways that he showed his love to us. To me. He was so good and so important. He was truly a great man because of all the small and simple things. I love you dad. I miss you. Be safe.

My Sweetie's Funeral - Talk by the Dog Walker

 I wanted to give a little talk about how life had been going on while having Dad, along with discovering one unique thing about him. Some of you might know and some of you might not, but the day when Dad was born, August 28th, 1963 was the exact same day when Martin Luther King Jr. gave his famous speech, "I Have a Dream." I learned about that when I was in college. I told Grandma about that once, and she didn't even know about it at the time, but thought that it was amazing.

Even while attending college, he helped me with learning the most advanced college algebra, which I failed the class twice, but Dad had taught me not to give up. Even though math wasn't my strong suit, I was still able to pass the class the third time. Dad was quite a math wiz. Besides helping me out with college and many other goals, I also had to help Dad with a lot of things that he would teach me, like knowing which tires go for each of our cars. We always have to change tires every spring and fall before summer and winter, just for safety on the roads.

One of the best memories I had with Dad was when he helped me with my big merit badge accomplishment in Boy Scouts, which was to earn every merit badge that was available while I was in the program. However, I was really honored to be his partner when we were the cub masters for the Cub Scouts. It was always cool to come up with the different cheers and give out the rewards. The activities were also fun to watch, including the Pinewood Derby races both cars and boats. We did not only let the Cub Scouts make their own cars to enter, but also let the other kids join.

He also taught me one of the best ways to invite kids to join in something fun, like a corn maze every Halloween. He taught me about the basic ways to connect strands of lights and try not use too many plugs in one outlet. He always liked seeing the trick-or-treaters walk through the maze and then come to the door to get candy. He would want me to continue that tradition onto the next generation.

I'm going to miss a lot of things that Dad had taught me to love, like his cooking skills. He always made the most famous homemade improvised chili and homemade alfredo. Nobody makes them a lot better than he did, but Mom told me that we can still make those delicious entrees, by remembering all those good times we had with him. As long as we remember all the things he taught he, we can all have the feeling that he's still with us in our lives.

Dad was a loving man and I will miss him, but he also taught me to always look forward to the future and not dwell on the past, because that leads to true happiness. I'm sure that with his future up in heaven, he's been looking forward to seeing Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ again, along with seeing his mom and dad again. I just want to say we're grateful for Jesus Christ's Atonement and resurrection, so that someday, we'll see Dad again, along with many of our other ancestors. I say that in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

My Sweetie's Funeral Talk about My Dad by Crafty

 I had the honor of hearing my dad speak at two funerals. The first was the funeral for his stillborn grandson, Calder. The second was the funeral of his mom just a little over two years ago. When I reflect back on these two occasions, there is one thing that both of his speeches had in common. In both he spoke of the plan of salvation. So in his honor, I am going to do the same. 

Growing up, my dad was a wonderful father. He was a great example to me of Christ-like love and Christ-like hard work. He worked hard to provide, but still made time to show individual love to each and every one of his twelve children. He was a holy man in the way that I imagine Joseph of Nazareth was. A humble carpenter that took care of his family and loved Jesus with all his heart. Perhaps not the one out there giving sermons, but the one in the background making sure needs were met no matter how many sacrifices he needed to make. 

Hopefully, my dad doesn’t get too embarrassed in me saying this….My dad was not a big scripture reader. I don’t ever recall seeing him read the scriptures unless he was writing a talk for church or reading with the family. That being said, he was a big scripture LIVER. He worked hard to live honorably and put great efforts into teaching his children to do the same. The principles he emphasized most to us as kids were the importance of developing Christ-like attributes such as kindness, honesty, integrity, peacemaking, diligence and charity. He worked diligently to make sure we understood and lived by these principles to the best of our abilities.  

These Christ-like attributes were the main principles he wanted us to live by. Those were the “How.” But he also taught us the “Why.”

 The “Why” was Jesus Christ and His plan of salvation. 

There was a night during Covid where Nephi and I were talking about the state of the world, the state of our family, and the worries we had for the future. We spoke of many things that night, but the only thing that I truly remember in detail was our conversation about our Dad. We spoke about how even though he wasn’t a huge scripture reader, we KNEW that he had a strong, strong testimony of the plan of salvation. Nephi and I talked about how we appreciated how our dad talked often about the hope that the plan of salvation brought us and how our dad truly believed and told us kids repeatedly that the plan of salvation was the greatest gift that the gospel of Jesus Christ brings. Nephi and I left that conversation not knowing much about what the future would hold, but we left remembering that our dad had a strong and robust hope in the plan of salvation that surpassed all his worries and trials. At that time in my life, the time of my greatest apprehension about the future, my father’s hope blazed in my heart like a fire. Not the kind of fire that destroys, but the kind that provides comforting light and warmth even in the darkest night. 

Where did my father’s fiery hope in the plan of salvation come from? That’s a good question that I have thought about a great deal. 

Did it come from his first breath, his first cry, as a newborn babe in the summer of 1963? 

Did it blossom when he was young while his mother sang primary songs as she rocked him to sleep?

Did it grow from him hearing his dad speak of his half brother John, who passed away during missionary service?

What about when he held his younger siblings as they cooed as babes in his arms?

Was it the time he first saw Sandy smiling over a desk in the chemistry office? 

Or when he kneeled across the altar from her, with their first born. Hand in hand as they were sealed for all eternity? 

Perhaps it was when he held for the first time in his arms, each of his twelve children. Admiring their perfect little mortal bodies and feeling close to his savior as he welcomed their fresh spirits into this world.

Maybe it was when he held his mother as she cried over the unexpected death of her husband, Carl’s dad, and he was unsure how his family would go on. His youngest sister was 14 when their dad passed; the same age as Kori.

Maybe it was during a more care-free time, like when he raced his brothers and sisters on their bikes as children. Or when his mom saw him kiss a girl in primary during the prayer and he thought he was done for.

Perhaps his hope grew like a rose in the midst of thorns as he watched people he loved bury their babies who never got to breathe their first breaths.

Maybe it was when he laughed with his children as he pushed them on swings or comforted them when they fell and scraped their knees. 

Was it Christmas Eve in 1997 when his baby girl’s heart stopped beating for a time and he heard a voice telling him that everything would be alright? 

Was it when he saw his children fall in love, get married, and sealed for time and all eternity? 

When he held each of his grandchildren in his arms for the first time? 

What about less than two months ago when he heard the doctor say the “C” word?

Or when, less than a week ago he asked his sweetheart for permission before passing to the other side? 

Well if you ask me, it was all of those times and many more that grew my dad’s fiery hope in the plan of salvation. And I think that if there was one gift he could bestow to each and every one of us, it would be the gift of that hope. 

The fiery hope that carried him through his whole life. Through both the joys and the sorrows from birth to death. The hope that still burned bright even during his last hours on this earth. And the same fiery hope that carries him to. this. very. day. 

The fiery hope that families can be together forever. Fiery Hope that because of his Savior, he WILL see each. and every. one of us. again. He will get to hug us, embrace us--with his resurrected body free from earthy pain and full of heavenly love. This is what the plan of salvation is all about.

This is the fiery hope that Carl holds in his spirit, and this is the fiery hope that I carry inside me today. A torch of hope that I hope I can pass on to each of you. 

I am not asking you to not be sad. I am not asking you not to grieve. Sadness and grief are an important part of this. What I am asking of you, and what I think my dad is asking of you too, is that you always keep hope’s flame alive in your heart. Hope that you will see Carl and all your loved ones again. 

Today is a HARD day for those that loved Carl. There will be more hard days to come. But I promise you that if you keep the flame of hope alive in your heart, it will guide you even through the darkest nights. 

That is Carl’s legacy. Hope. Fiery, beautiful, resilient hope. That is the heirloom that he is passing to each of us. The one he wants us to let burn bright in our hearts. Hope that God has a plan for his children. Hope that earth has no sorrow that heaven can’t heal. 

So to close, I would like to read a scripture. I said my dad was not a scripture reader, but I would like to emphasize again that even though he was not a scripture reader, he was a scripture LIVER. I don’t know if my dad knew this scripture word for word, but I know that he LIVED it word for word. My hope is that each of us will leave today with this scripture LIVING and burning bright within us. A flame of perfect hope that can carry us through even the darkest night. 

This is 2 Nephi 31:20

“20 Wherefore, ye must press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men. Wherefore, if ye shall press forward, feasting upon the word of Christ, and endure to the end, behold, thus saith the Father: Ye shall have eternal life.”

In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.