Eulogy for an Overcomer

My dad lived a fuller, richer life than most people who don’t have half the health problems he had.

He didn’t talk much about those problems — at least not while I was growing up. When he did, it was usually to make a joke about his fingers or his eye. It’s not that he didn’t like to talk. On the contrary, I remember him being very social and talking a lot with visiting friends or relatives. But he wasn’t much for having uncomfortable or awkward discussions or talking about his feelings.

Dad’s love language was gift giving, and when I was younger he was way more likely to give you a couple bucks or a new tool (from Harbor Freight) than to openly express any emotion he felt. And that’s just what he did when he dropped me off at college — asked whether I needed any money, and gave me a few bucks. At the time, I didn’t realize that it was his way of saying, “I love you.”

I remember one other “gift giving instead of awkward discussion” occasion when I was in my early teens. He came in one afternoon while I was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework and, for no reason, gave me a gift box of Old Spice. At the time, I thought it was completely random. Now that I’m older and have a 14-year-old boy of my own, I imagine my mom probably complained about his son smelling like a teenaged boy, and insisted he talk about hygiene with me. Rather than have the awkward conversation, he thought he’d just fix it with some cologne.

That’s my dad — creative solutions.

I think things changed for dad as he got older. In the last few years, he said “I love you” a lot more. He told me several times recently how proud he was of me. I didn’t express to him nearly enough how proud I’ve always been of him, and how grateful I am for how much he taught me.

My dad taught me what it means to be a man — you own up to your mistakes, you follow through on your responsibilities and commitments, you provide for your family, and you take care of your tools. You stand up to shake hands, and you keep your shirt buttons, belt buckle, and fly in a straight line.

My dad taught me self-sufficiency — he was a die-hard do-it-yourself’er who was committed to completing that remodeling project, fixing that car, or solving that home problem on his own and on a budget. It was self-sufficiency tempered by knowledge of his limitations, though — he wasn’t above asking a buddy for help or advice when he might be getting in over his head… but this may have been for social reasons.

He taught me the value of hard work. When looking for a job in the years following his war injury, dad was told he was too weak to be a hospital orderly — that he was “unemployable”. But he wouldn’t accept that. He kept looking for work, found it, and impressed everyone with what he was capable of. Dad dreamed even back then of owning his own business, maybe small engine repair, and setting up a workshop in the back of the garage — a dream he would realize years later when he established P&J Upholstery.

He taught me to never replace what you can repair.

He taught me to take pride in your home, your appearance and your accomplishments.

My dad taught me that a car can do two things: stop and go. And if it can’t do the first thing, you shouldn’t do the second thing.

My dad taught me to respect other people — especially your mother. I think the first time I remember being afraid for my life was when he came to talk with teen-aged me after I shouted at my mom in anger. When he told me in no uncertain terms that I would never talk to her like that again, he put the fear of God into me. Dad really loved mom, and was fiercely protective of her, up to the very end. “Roy,” he told me recently, “that is one smart lady.”

I inherited my dad’s sense of humor, and he taught me to dance like nobody’s watching — but only when people are watching. And then, only when it will be most embarrassing for your kids.

My dad taught me that just because someone says you can’t do something, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. Like “you’re unemployable.” Like you can’t do carpentry if you’re missing one eye. Like you can’t actually see a 3D movie if you’re missing one eye — which… is actually true. Sorry, dad. Remember “magic eye” posters? The ones you had to stare at to see the hidden 3-D image? You literally need two eyes to make them work, but you couldn’t tell him that — he would stare intently at those things, convinced he was actually going to be able to see the hidden image.

There was one area, though, where he admitted defeat: my dad couldn’t cook.

I remember one dinner — “goulash,” I think — when we were very young that was an absolute disaster. That may have been the last time he ever really tried. But watching him made me want to learn and be better, so I want to thank my old man for his horrible kitchen skills. But, in all seriousness, I want to thank him for the example he set: always learning, always wanting to be better.

My dad was a high school dropout who suffered a life-altering disability in the war before he was even old enough to vote, and was subsequently told he was “unemployable”. This dropout could have given up, but instead he sought to improve himself even as he improved our home. Dad always had a project he was working on, and sometimes that project was himself. Finding a job with Heiser Ford, then becoming manager of the parts department. Graduating from trade school. Starting his own business. Advancing as a member of the Masons. Dad was always moving forward.

Except for when he couldn’t.

Dad’s bad health days are hardest for me to look back on. When I was younger, I didn’t understand how difficult it was for him. Now that I do, I look back with sympathy, and wonder how he managed to do anything at all. But I also look back with regret over how I felt toward him at the time, wishing I could have understood and been more compassionate then.

There are visible and invisible wounds. My father had both. He told me not a day went by that he wasn’t reminded of Vietnam by just looking at his hands. It went farther than that, though — I know his memories of the war were a deep, inseparable part of him, and I can recall several occasions when sights or sounds would trigger a memory tangible enough to take him right back there.

Through my dad I learned that memory is powerful and precious. Make memories, keep them, cherish them. Memories make us who we are, even as we remember who and what the people in our lives were. We will have good and bad recollections of everyone. Look back on the good memories with gratitude, and on the bad ones with grace. Don’t try to forget the “bad stuff” — keep those memories as a reminder that each one of us is human, with frailties and failures that balance our strengths and successes.

Know also, looking back, that the grace we extend to others will be measured out to us in quantities greater than we deserve, by a God larger than we could imagine.

I believe dad understood that grace and embraced it. While he was never much of a church-goer, toward the end dad let us know where he stood on matters of faith: “Jesus is my friend,” he said, emphasizing to us how important it is to walk and talk with Him.

That Jesus could reach the heart of a man so strongly independent and so wounded by life, bringing peace and redemption, is amazing grace. I believe dad’s eternity — an eternity in a glorified body, free from pain — was secured by his faith in Jesus. And I believe eternal security is available to each of us through that same belief and faith.

Meanwhile, we mourn… but not as those without hope. Because if we embrace the redemption that is offered, we will see Pat again, in his glorified body, and rejoice together.

It’s a miracle that dad lived as well as he did for as long as he did. However, before you imagine his injuries — his disabilities — somehow robbed him of something, let me tell you what he gained when that injury changed the direction of his life: six children. Fifteen grandchildren. Loving and supportive in-laws with nieces and nephews who have helped fill his life with immeasurable joy. And an amazing, remarkable woman to call his wife, who is the living personification of Proverbs 31.

That’s grace. That’s mercy. That’s miraculous.

By all rights, Patrick Leroy Smalley should have died in Vietnam on February 3rd, 1967. His life was a miracle — and that makes our whole family a miracle. Each and every one of us. When his life should have ended, God had other plans for him. And that means God has plans for you, my brothers and sisters, my nieces and nephews, my children. If Pat had been lost none of us would be here. He recognized that gift — maybe not right away, but when he did, he did not squander it.

We, also, cannot take lightly the gift, the miracle, that has been passed to us through our father and papa. Do not squander it.

Honor Pat’s life by living as he did: Responsible and devoted. Resourceful. Respectful. Proud and self-sufficient, yet humble enough to ask a friend for a hand. A hard worker. A jokester. A lifelong learner. An overcomer.

Related posts:

How do you find stillness and calmness in the chaotic chatter of your mind. It’s been a sunny day or windy or maybe anything. She didn't know what it was, for her heart was too blind to notice the…

After I finished my requirements for university, I reassessed myself and set up on a 4-month journey to study AI, following a curated bottom-up curriculum using the books that I bought and some…

Straightforward formulas are usually wrong or do not comprehend the whole problem. Of course, however occasionally a simple formula shows a very important relationship. For instance worldwide of…