A Modest Eulogy

The following is an extension of a letter that I wrote to my grandfather Dwight Duane Dunn while he was still alive. I spoke this at his funeral and just thought I should share it with you all. Grace and peace.

On a cold, wintry morning along an empty Michigan road, a family of seven trudged in the snow against the elements. It was a Sunday morning, the family dressed in their Sunday best, having taken care to look presentable that morning as they sat in Church to worship with their spiritual brothers and sisters. Dwight Dunn peered from his window at them, an old woman shaking visibly from the cold, a couple sheltering their four children from the frigid weather, the wind whipping their clothes and hair about. And as he watched, he most likely wondered what a family of seven was doing out on a Sunday morning, trudging in the snow against the inclement Michigan weather. So he decided to do what only he ought to do. He stopped their snowy trek that Sunday morning and drove them to church, to the University Christian Church of which he neither he nor his family was a member.

I suppose Grandpa was always this way, taking care of people who never asked for help. If he ever came across someone beaten and bruised by the side of the road, he was never the type of religious man to pass on by because he thought he was too good or too holy. He was a real Christian, a man who believed in helping people, in building people up, in giving good gifts, never taking advantage of anyone but always allowing people to rely and depend on him. He was much like the Good Samaritan illustrated by Jesus to a Jewish lawyer one day. Instead of passing by, he stepped over to the side of the road and helped those in need because compassionate was in his heart and because he understood that everyone was his neighbor.

He was, in fact, like many characters in the stories that Jesus told. He was much like the Sower in Jesus’ parable who sowed seed on different types of soil, and the seed was the Word of God, for he never withheld the truth of the Gospel from anyone who asked. And he was much like a man who found the Kingdom of God like a pearl of great price in field, for the truths of God were precious to him and the life of Jesus Christ was his model. And he was much like the worker in the parable of the talents that was given five talents by his master and turned it into ten, for he was always a hard worker who never made excuses and always worked for the benefit of others. And he was much like the older brother in the parable of the Prodigal Son who worked hard in his father’s service while younger brother spoiled his inheritance. But unlike the older brother in the story, we all know that Grandpa Dunn would be matching his Father stride for stride as his younger brother came home to receive him in an embrace and welcome home.
I see Grandpa in a lot of Jesus’ stories because that was what Grandpa gave to me: a love of stories. I remember a warm Florida summer day, when I sat across from my grandfather as he told me the stories that made him. Now I must say that this was not any strange sort of phenomenon, for I can recall many times when grandpa would sit me down and tell me about some interesting recollection from his past, interspersed with poems of the like of Georgy D. Wash. But on this particular occasion, he told me so many of his stories that it was indeed difficult to remember them all. I sat there and listened as he recounted to me his days at General Motors, his seasons with his daughters at the summer house and the later days after his retirement. He told me about the World’s Fair. And he told me about his days in the hospital and about the little mice that he would give to the nurses who helped him. And of course, it would be silly for me to retell such stories, for most of my family could tell them much better than I.

But this I must bring in a message devoted to my grandfather. A story makes a man. A man cannot merely be understood by the company that he represents or the job he works or even the church he attends, for they are merely descriptors. Nor can a man’s life be determined by the list of his work history or his resume, no matter how detailed. They are merely words on a page, meaningless symbols that are devoid of the man himself. They are simply suggestions or hints as to what a man could possibly be, but in all reality never tell us who he really was.

But a man’s story takes these descriptions and makes them walk, and in walking, we see the man. And when we see a man, we see the image of God Himself. And so it may not be too much of a stretch to say that when my grandfather sat me down on that warm Florida summer day, I looked into the face of God Himself, and I heard His story played out in the life of a man who was dedicated to his family and to his work and to his neighbors.

Because my grandfather picked up that family and took them to the University Christian Church on that day, my family switched their membership to that church. And since my family had switched their membership, my mother Judith Elaine Dunn eventually met a man named Lyle Leonard Welch. And if they had never met, then I would certainly not be standing among you today. I would not be able to be a part of this family sharing the love of a grandfather who cared for us all. Because of my grandfather’s generosity to a family on a wintry Sunday morning, I am here now remembering him together with you.

For my grandfather is indeed a great man, despite his simple descriptors. He has lived in poverty and wealth, in joy and sorrow, in love and frustration, in nostalgia and hope. He has seen the fear of war and the glory of victory, the sweat of hard work and the success of industry, and the rise and fall of nations. He has walked the world for ninety years, some good and some bad, some remembered and some forgotten.

But we do know that eventually these years must come to an end. For we know that we all fall asleep and hopefully wake up to be with the Lord. And though my grandfather now sees the Lord a sight better than most, we are still here looking down the noses on our faces as we stare up into heaven, hoping that we might see some inkling of glory. And we will be left with his story and because of that he will live on beyond my parents and beyond me and my siblings and, Lord willing, beyond my children. They will know that Dwight Duane Dunn was a man who strived on this earth with the best and the worst and told his story to a young kid on a warm Florida summer day who will never forget it.
The last time I saw my grandfather was this summer in Florida. I remember his demeanor, quiet and gentle, caring and peacefully mighty. And though his eyes were often closed, I imagined them when they were wide open, always looking for someone to help. And though his hands were folded, I remembered them once carving wooden figures for others and working goodness on this earth. And though his heart was failing, we know that it was always filled with those whom he loved, God and his neighbor, his family and friends, his children and grand children and great grandchildren and great great grandchildren.

And I remember the last thing I said to him as my parents drove me off to the airport to go home, left with the memories of who he was and wondering what he would look like in glory. I shook his ragged hands and I looked into his caring eyes and I felt the warmth of his mighty heart and I said to him, “I’ll see you again.” And I will.