Requiem aeternam et lux perpetua luceat eis.

Today, I bury my father.

The funeral service was beautiful. The church was packed almost to capacity. Last night's visitation had around 400 people, with a line out the back door and an hour's wait to visit the family. Though the weather forecasts predicted rain, during graveside there wasn't a cloud in the gorgeous Arkansas blue sky. I spoke on behalf of the family at the funeral. Those words are listed below:

For those in the back that can’t see just how much I look like him, I’m Ashlee, Tim’s daughter. And for thirty years I had the most loving, precious, witty, thoughtful, generous, and hysterical father imaginable.

My family and I would like to thank you for the kindness and generosity you’ve shown us, specifically in the last few months. Judging by your warmth and support, you all seemed to know just how neat of a guy Dad was. Although recent focus on my father had to do with his devastating accident, those aren’t the definitive memories of him I’d have you remember.

I want you to remember his smirk. His love of every artist on the Motown record label. His ridiculously dry sense of humor. That uncontrollable cackle he had when something really cracked him up. The way his face lit up when he talked about his dog. His unending, humble love of God and the church. His quiet, intense love for his family. How he always loved hunting, but only magically got better after the year 2000. Seriously, he was horrible for 20 years, then boom- marksman. His incredible memory, at a moment’s notice, for every lyric ever sung by the Temptations. The way he’d poke fun at his wife Gloria, but with a sparkle in his eye that let you know just how much he adored her. His hearty baritenor voice while he belted out gospel hits in the church choir. The seemingly endless supply of couduroy jackets with elbow patches. That ever-present glass of iced tea. How with a few very carefully selected words, he’d speak what it took others pages to say.

Countless memories flood my headspace as I think of how I should illustrate the father I knew, from our yearly trip each fall to get firewood to the silly made-up language that only me, my parents, and the dog understand to “name that tune” games on rock radio when I was nine. But this one sticks out to me right now:

My father was obsessed with weather and watched the Weather Channel incessantly, but I’m pretty sure it started because they plated smooth jazz in the background during the weekend forecast (after he turned 50, he had this thing for Spyro Gyra). After moving to Chicago, Dad would call me to check in, and would always ask how the weather was. I’d tell him, and then he’d explain to me how he already knew that. He’d been watching the forecast for Chicago for the last ten minutes, and wanted to make sure they were “doing their job.”

Times with my father weren’t always rosy. In fact, there were times when "rosy" seemed light years away. But in the end you knew that no matter what, underneath it all, he’d do everything in his ability to make you happy. That’s who I remember.

I refuse to let this be a day of sorrow, remorse or self-pity. I choose for this day to be one of joy, love, and tribute to what an amazing guy he was. I’ll remember that he was a fighter, to the very end. A man of God, a brother, a husband, a father. And hopefully to all of you, a treasured friend.