What I Learned From My Dad’s Death

Tom Shrader departs from his usual expository format to share deeply personal lessons learned from his father's recent death at age 82. Through stories of his father's simple life, character, and relationships with people of all backgrounds, Shrader reflects on the importance of valuing people over position, keeping short accounts, and being prepared for eternity. He concludes by emphasizing that good works don't determine salvation—only faith in Christ secures our eternal destination.

“You're really not ready for life until you are ready for death.”

— Tom Shrader

Series: How Do I Stay Straight in a Crooked World (2006)

Recorded: 2006 at Cannon Beach Conference Center

Duration: 57 min

Themes: death, grief, character, relationships, humility, salvation, faith, legacy, grieving loss, facing mortality, adult child, losing parent, middle aged, processing death, examining faith, preparing for eternity

Scripture: Romans 3:23, John 3:16, Romans 6:23, John 14:6, Ephesians 2:8-9, Philippians 4, 2 Corinthians 5:8

Theological Themes: soteriology, salvation by faith, eternal security, works righteousness, grace alone, justification, sanctification, eschatology

Full Transcript

As Jeff was thanking the band and introducing them, I don't know if you fully comprehend, but these guys don't all play together either. They're from different places, and to come together and to have that sort of spirit and that sort of skill is a gift from God. So thank you for allowing us to be here this week. It has really been a privilege.

It's always a little bit scary for me, really, coming into a group because you don't know each other. We don't have the background together, and it's always a little scary for me. Sometimes I feel like I'm a little bit like coffee—I'm a little bit of an acquired taste. Not everybody gets every line and every joke and every comment, and so I appreciate your bearing with me. I really did feel like really early on in the week, literally right from the very beginning, we did well together. So thank you for that. That's a privilege for us.

The room's a little bit different. These flowers are up higher today, so I'm trapped up here. Susan and I have an 8:15 flight in Portland, so we're out of here. We put our first bag in the car. I travel really heavy. Susan's gotten really good, but I travel with loads and loads of stuff—clothes that I'll never wear and such. I just do it. I don't know why. It's dumb, and I'm trying to learn that. We made our first trip to the car to get stuff loaded, and we're out of here really early in the morning. So I won't see you again after this, so again, thank you very much.

A Different Kind of Talk Tonight

You had the outlines. I want to say something totally different to you tonight. You can put your Bibles away. You are not going to need them. I know that's frustrating probably for many of you. It almost seems counterintuitive to Cannon Beach Christian Conference Center because the Scripture is so much a part of what they do and really what I do, but I just want to have a chat with you. I'm not even sure exactly what my purpose is other than to just kind of share my experience with you.

Over the years, I've learned, and this is more the pastoral side now, that as things happen in our life, there's great benefit in sharing them. And so I want to talk to you about my dad.

The Phone Call

It was July 1st, which was a Saturday night, and I got a phone call from my brother saying that my dad had just collapsed. You could just tell from the tone, really, of the conversation that it was really serious. They had tried to revive him, and they had kind of a faint pulse, and they had worked on him for 45 minutes, and they were putting him in the ambulance. It just had a tone to it that you knew wasn't really good.

And so that's always the problem of being 1,500 miles away, so I got on the phone and made the arrangements to go back and actually packed, not knowing—again, like I said, I pack and travel heavy, but really thinking maybe I'd be there a couple of weeks even. I got a call the next morning that he had died that evening. So it really becomes the basis for our conversation tonight.

A Different Kind of Funeral

Very strange for me. I've done a lot of funerals, and the funerals that we do are probably a little bit different. There's rarely a visitation and an open casket and all those things, and that's what there was back there. When I got there, I have three brothers, and I got off the plane, and they were the three boys to greet me, and that caught me a little off guard.

So there's the four of us there, and I'm the oldest, and I'm probably the most compliant of the group—I'm kidding. But there's four of us like me, and I saw really early, okay, we've got to be really careful here. So I really did try to say, okay, we want to get through this, and there were decisions to make.

I have two brothers that live at home in Davenport. And so when it was decision-making time, in fact, they even said, "Tom, don't you want to participate in this?" I said, "I really don't because you're going to make decisions that you all are going to have to live with, and I don't want you calling me up, yelling at me for making this decision that put a burden on you."

The Visitation

So it was a wonderful time. We had a visitation. It was scheduled for four hours, and we're sitting around. I said, "You've got to be kidding. What are we going to do for four hours?" And we were, the entire four hours, busy. There was a room, I would say, maybe a little bit like this room, and it was filled with people.

If you wanted to come through the line and greet my mother and the boys, you stood in line a little over an hour to get through. It was quite a deal. It was really encouraging to me. He was 82 years old.

It was kind of funny because you go through these moments, and in moments like this, I'm sure your brain operates like mine does. There's a somberness to it, obviously. I mean, there's the casket, and there he is, and you glance over and kind of look at him and expect him to kind of respond, which obviously he didn't. And then there were just moments of great humor. I would just look in this line, and there were all these old people. All I could think of is this funeral director is going to go home and order a new car. He's seeing nothing but prospects as far as he can see in this room. There were just clients lined up for this guy, and it was an interesting night for him.

My Dad's Background

So let me tell you a little bit about my dad. You're obviously never going to meet him and probably never hear about him again. He was born June 13, 1924, and the most important thing that he would want you to know is that he was born in a place called Melrose, Iowa, which means nothing to you. It's the central, south-central part of the state of Iowa filled with Irish Catholics. That's what was predominantly around. In fact, Melrose is called Iowa's Little Ireland.

they were the Shamrocks, and every person from Melrose wants you to know this. In 1937—this is the last highlight they've had in Melrose—in the state of Iowa, there were no systems like you have here with athletics where you have 1A, 2A, 3A, 4A, 5A. There was none of that in Iowa. Melrose is a town then of 400, and I can't remember exactly how many boys were in the senior class, but just a handful.

In 1936-37, the Melrose high school team went 36-0 and won the state title. If you've watched Hoosiers, it really is that kind of a story. And that's what they will talk about. If you meet somebody from Melrose, I mean, if you're walking in Cannon Beach and you see some guy who's got on an Iowa shirt, you go, "Where are you from?" He says, "Melrose." You say, "Oh, what about that?" He'll go, "1937, we won the state." That's what they talk about.

I did a funeral about four months ago, and we're doing this shared time, and a guy got up and he said, "You know, my brother was in this area," and I said, "Oh, wow, Melrose." And he said, "Melrose, 1937, they won the state championship." Everybody knows this. And my dad would want you to know that.

A Closely Knit Community

They are a committed people. We have a shirt-tail relative who has these two wonderful houses down at Dana Point. He overlooks the ocean. It's just a wonderful place. And he spends six months a year in Melrose, and he would stay there every year, all year long if he could. They love this place. Little town, very closely knit, all the same families. They all know each other.

My dad's father, grandpa, worked on the railroad with absolutely nothing job. He was at the bottom. Get the org chart. That's him at the bottom. There were six kids, and I never knew this growing up. They lived in this little house—I don't know how I would describe it—this dumpy little house. There was a little kitchen that was probably about the size of this room here, and then a living room like that. And then downstairs was a bedroom, and upstairs was one giant bedroom. All the boys and all the girls stayed in that bedroom. So probably a little awkward when you're maturing and in high school and all that.

Down a piece was the restroom, and then there was a well out this way, and it was a little dump. What I did not know until years later is that my grandma and grandpa rented that. I always thought they owned that. And that was their place.

Memories and Conversations

When we were at home, I stayed—when we went back a couple weeks ago—Susan and I stayed with my mom, and her sister was staying there. We had these memories. I've learned over the years some things that you can do to stimulate conversation, and one of them is to get out a map. So I would get the map out, and we would point to all these little towns, and they had memories of each town. There was a mining town, and that was where all the Germans were, and all the Polish were here, and this is where we used to go, and that's where you got meat and all that goes with it. They started just reminiscing about their childhood.

My aunt talked about when she was a little girl, seeing this Mickey Mouse watch and wanting it and sharing that with her folks all year long. "Mickey Mouse, Mickey Mouse, Mickey Mouse, that's what I want for Christmas." Christmas came and went, and there was never a watch. Now I don't know that it means anything to you, but the irony of that for me—I don't know anybody who waits for Christmas to get anybody anything anymore. Isn't that the difficulty of Christmas, is trying to figure out what to get somebody? We're giving them hot air balloon rides and all sorts of stuff to try to be creative. It was really interesting for me to listen to them talk about that.

A Different Time

They talked about—my mom, her sister, they had a brother, and then obviously her mom and dad—that the five of them would bathe once a week, and they would all use the same water. And they were never sick. I don't get that. I hope this doesn't gross you out. That's not my intention here.

We had some relatives who made it big, and making it big means they got out of there. He was working in Washington, D.C., and when they would come home, my aunt was saying, when they'd come home to visit—you know how when somebody special comes, you get out the best china or the best cutlery or whatever it is—they said when they came to visit, they'd get a new roll of toilet paper. Other than that, it was literally the Sears catalogs and all that goes with it. Whole different time, isn't it? My mom said, "We were rich compared to the Schraders." So that's kind of His background. And maybe not even that unusual for that generation.

The Greatest Generation

Probably the defining moment, and you understand this, would have been World War II. In Tom Brokaw's book, The Greatest Generation, he talks about my dad's generation, maybe your dad's generation, or maybe your generation, or your grandpa's generation. Indulge me as I read. He's talking about walking down the beaches of Normandy with these men as they're commemorating the 40th anniversary of Normandy.

"As I walked on the beaches with the American veterans who landed there, now returned for this anniversary, men in their 60s and 70s, and listened to their stories in the cafes in the inns, I was deeply moved and profoundly grateful for all they'd done. I realized that they had been around me as I was growing up and that I had failed to appreciate what they'd been through or what they'd accomplished.

These men and women came of age in the Great Depression when economic despair hovered over the land like a plague. They had watched their parents lose their businesses, their farms, their jobs, their hopes. They had learned to accept a future that played out one day at a time. Then just as there was a glimmer of economic recovery,"

When the war exploded across Europe and Asia and Pearl Harbor made it irrefutably clear that America was not a fortress, this generation was summoned to the parade ground and told to train for war. They left their ranches, their jobs on Main Street. They gave up their place in the assembly line. They quit school or went from cap and gown directly into uniform. They answered the call to help save the world from the two most powerful, ruthless military machines ever assembled, instruments of conquest in the hands of fascist maniacs. They faced great odds and a late start, but they did not protest.

At a time in their lives when their days and nights should have been filled with innocent adventure and love and the lessons of a work-a-day world, they were fighting, often hand to hand and in the most primitive conditions possible. My dad was part of this generation, and it's interesting - I've thought about this all my life. I can't imagine him leaving his small world. You're in Melrose, you might get to Des Moines every fourth year for the state fair, but other than that, you're not going anywhere.

From Small Town Fear to Military Service

My dad was petrified of the water. If my dad was here at Cannon Beach and we were walking down this beach, I'm telling you, he would be as far away from that water as he could be. The hook for my dad was if you said, "I'll pay for it." He loved to hear that. He loved to hear any sentence that ended with or began with, "I'll pay for it."

Three or four years ago, we were doing an Alaskan cruise and I said, "Hey, Dad, we're going to take 100, 150 people, whatever, why don't you and Mom go with us?" And I said, "I'll pay for it." And he said, "I don't want to get on another boat. We hadn't been on a boat since this."

So you see this little guy from Melrose, Iowa, who doesn't know anything other than in 1937, he won the state basketball championship. And off he goes. He enlisted and was sworn into the service on April 21st, 1943, and discharged on March 29th, 1946. On April 10th, 1945, he was shot for which he subsequently received a Purple Heart. Really not that big a deal, though. Lots of guys did it.

The Greatest Generation Returns Home

Here's what sets the table. When the United States entered World War II, the U.S. government turned to ordinary Americans and asked of them extraordinary service, sacrifice, and heroics. Many Americans met those high expectations and then returned home to lead ordinary lives. That's my point.

When the war ended, more than 12 million men and women put their uniforms aside and returned to civilian life. Just to give you perspective, you've got 120,000 troops in Iraq right now - 12 million returned home from World War II. There's about 700 to 1,000 World War II veterans right now dying every day.

They went back to work at their old jobs or started small businesses. They became big city cops and firemen. They finished their degrees or enrolled in college for the first time. They became school teachers, insurance salesmen, craftsmen, local politicians. They weren't widely known outside their families or their communities.

For many, the war years were enough adventure to last a lifetime. They were proud of what they accomplished. See if this doesn't sound like your parents that were engaged in this. They were proud of what they accomplished, but they rarely discussed their experiences, even with one another. They became once again ordinary people, the kind of men and women who have always been the foundation of the American way. And that was my dad.

Working His Way Through College

My point here is to not single him out. There's no reason to do that. He's like a lot of these guys. He came back, and he became the only person in his family to go to college. To do that, he went from Melrose up to Davenport, about three hours by car, three and a half.

I deal a lot with college students, and I love to listen to them. And I do smile as I listen to them talk about the difficulties and the rigors of academics and full-time school and how hard it is. He went to school full-time, then he had a full-time job at Oscar Mayer. He worked in the kill part of the plant. He killed pigs so you'd have bacon and ham. And then he had a part-time job working in a mortuary, and he would drive and pick up bodies. And the reason he did that is he got free room and board. So he was going to school full-time, working full-time, and had a part-time job. Busy guy.

Meeting Mom and Building a Life

He went home one weekend and went to a dance. It was at this dance that he and my mother met eyes across the room. My mom found out he was from Melrose, and she got all excited because all the boys from Melrose could really dance. She's refined that statement. All the boys from Melrose could really dance except one. And that would be my dad.

These dates are important just to kind of understand the kind of guy he is. He graduated from college on a Sunday, June 6, 1948. He married my mom on June 7, a Monday. That was an interesting... Just hit the pause button. As I was talking to my mom and my aunt, they were talking about how weddings rarely took place on the weekends. They were more weekday events. I think my aunt was married on a Thursday or something. It's kind of interesting. We don't think of that.

On June 7, 1948, a Monday, he married my mom. They went to Colorado Springs. That's what they did. They didn't have a car or anything. So they took the train to Colorado Springs, Pikes Peak. My aunt says she got one piece of literature from my mom on the honeymoon. She got a postcard saying, "Wish you were with us." I don't know what that means. Probably an insult to my dad somehow.

So get the dates. June 6th, graduation. June 7th, married. June 14th, 1948, he started work at Davenport Bank and Trust Company and retired from there 42 years later in 1990. Kind of a stability factor in this guy's life. Wonderful guy. It was interesting to meet the

Guys that worked with him loved going with him. They said he did a Columbo act, which I could see him doing. His whole thing was, "Tell me about this. What's your business?" That's what they hired him for.

I did not understand the attraction to banking. To me, banking in and of itself is not a stimulating thing. I did not really understand until this funeral that he didn't care about banking either. He cared about people. And that was his deal. These young guys loved him. They loved to work with him. They loved to be around him.

Like I said, he was at the bank 42 years. There were a lot of guys at the bank who worked there longer than that. It was a very stable place. It ended up being the largest bank in the state of Iowa. The guys out at the dealership in town - Johnny Lujak, remember Johnny Lujak, the Heisman Trophy winner? He started a Chevy dealership in our town. One of the guys who runs it now, John's son-in-law, said when your dad came into the dealership, it was like a celebrity arrived. That's how he was. Everybody knew him.

How's Your Mom Doing?

The most frequent question I'm getting is, "How's your mom doing?" They were married 58 years, rarely apart. Since 1990, they haven't been apart hardly at all. I think she's doing pretty well.

It's kind of weird. We're walking out of the funeral home, and she stops. I said, "What are you doing?" She said, "I'm looking for your dad." We had three or four of those moments. So I think she's okay. My dad handled all the finance stuff, so she's a little bit lost in that realm.

The Saturday night before we left, I took her down to show her how to put gas in the car. It was really cute. We drove down, and she said, "If we go this way, we don't have to go on any busy streets." So we went down there, and I said, "All right, now you're going to have to figure this out. What do you think we ought to do first?" She said, "Well, let's find the gas cap." So we went back there, and she's pushing on it. She can't get it open. I said, "Well, there's a switch in the car." So I flipped that.

She said, "We're going to pay cash." I said, "Well, I can't help you then. I've never paid cash for gasoline. I don't know what you do. They may take it in there, I don't know." We got the car filled and went in to pay for the gas. She said, "No, no, no. I want to pay for this gas." She paid the lady and said, "This is the first time I've ever put gas in the car." The lady blew her off like she wasn't even there. I was kind of half angry. Then I thought, "I wonder how many times I've done exactly the same thing, where somebody's sharing with me something so important to them, and my mind's focused on the next deal." So she's doing okay.

Lesson One: The Beauty of the Simple Life

Let me give you the lessons that I learned from my dad. Number one, I learned the beauty of the simple life. My dad was not a simpleton, but my dad was a simple man. He could watch the airplanes land at Sky Harbor Airport every night, all night. He loved to get the radio and sit out in the back, literally just sit and listen to the radio and watch the airplanes come in.

One day we're driving, and we used to have a lot of citrus down in our area. We're at a stop sign, and I look over at him, and he's kind of choked up. I said, "Are you doing all right?" He said, "Yeah." I said, "Well, what are you thinking?" He said, "When I was a little boy, I knew that oranges grew on trees, but I never thought I'd see one." That was the thought process.

He never really went for big time college sports, couldn't care less. He liked the high school stuff, the simple stuff, the little local college. It was not unusual to call him, and I'd say, "What are you doing?" He said, "I just went to a high school game." I'd say, "Well, how'd they do?" He said, "No, they weren't playing." He would mention two teams. I said, "Do you know a kid on either team?" "No, I don't know anybody on either team." He loved that.

We're watching TV one night. The Powerball's at $100 million. I said to him, "If you won $100 million, what would you do?" He said, "I'd never win $100 million because I'd never pay a dollar for the ticket." I said, "Well, if I bought you the ticket and gave it to you, what would you do with $100 million?" Do you know what he said? "Wouldn't affect my life at all, wouldn't change anything." My dad really did teach us the beauty of a simple life, that you didn't need a bunch of stuff, that you could enjoy the small, easy things.

Lesson Two: People Matter

Here's the second thing that my dad taught me: People matter. I got a ton of cards. It was amazing how many cards we got and emails we got. I was telling Jeff at dinner, I came home and we were going through the mail after the funeral. There was a letter from my dad. That was kind of weird.

It was a perfect representation of what he would do. There was a little note saying, "I'll bet it's hot. How's it going?" Then a newspaper article of somebody I didn't know. Every time I got a letter, it would either be Iowa football, high school football, or most often what would it be? Obituary. He'd call and say, "You remember old Harold Piper?" I'd say, "I don't remember." He'd go, "Yeah, you do. You remember old Piper?" I'd say, "No, I don't." He'd go, "Yeah, you remember old Piper?"

His cardiologist came to the memorial service. This sounds weird, but Dr. Bantu was from India, and his wife was also from India—she was an internist and he was a cardiologist. Dr. Bantu came up to me at the service, and he was weeping. He said, "I came to this town, and nobody would have anything to do with me, and I had absolutely no way of ever getting any credit. I met with your dad, and I explained my situation to him. He sat and he talked to me. He didn't ask me about my finances. He asked me about my life and what was going on." Dr. Bantu is really successful in our area now. Here's what he said: "Everything I have, I owe to your dad."

People Mattered More Than Status

It was a long four hours of visitation. At one end was a screen where they had pictures of my dad—I actually selected all the pictures, so every picture had my dad in it except one cool picture of my mom sitting on the luggage waiting to go on their honeymoon. The kids were there, and some friends of mine had actually flown back, which was amazing. I was watching these pictures and getting a little swept away in them.

A man came up and said, "Mr. Schrader." I said, "Yes." He said, "My name is Tyrone Orr." I said, "Mr. Orr, I've never met you, but you are a legend in our house." Tyrone Orr is an African-American fellow. My dad used to drink once a week out of an Orr Mortuary mug.

Tyrone told me his story. He had gone to my dad and said, "I want to start this business, and nobody's going to loan me any money." My dad said, "I don't care about the credit references. Give me some character references. Tell me people who know you." Tyrone said, "I went away. Your dad called me three days later, and he said, 'You come in. We're going to set you up with anything you need.'"

With Mr. Orr was a lady I assumed was his wife. We had this wonderful conversation and were saying goodbye when she said, "I'm not ready to go yet." It wasn't his wife—it was his 80-year-old mother. She said, "Let me tell you a story about your dad." She told me that when he was at the bank, during years when race was really an issue, she had a heater that was out in the middle of winter and no one would come out and work on her house. She said, "I don't know why, but I wanted to see your dad. I said, 'Mr. Schrader, I got a problem. My heater's out.' He said to me, 'You go home.'" Before she got home, there was somebody there who fixed it and said, "Don't worry. We'll take care of it."

Character Over Color

Here's my point—here's what my dad taught me. He didn't teach me that Mr. Orr isn't black—he's black. I don't know how you'd miss that. And Dr. Bantu isn't Indian—he's Indian. But what he taught me was that really doesn't matter. You don't get hung up on that. That's not the issue. The issue is His heart, and the issue is the character. People matter, and people make a difference, and it matters how you respond to them. It's not about getting something back from them. It's about dealing with them as human beings.

I never heard in my entire life in my house one racial slur—ever. Never. I sense, though I don't know because I never heard any of us kids say that, but I sense if we'd have said something like that, he would have beaten us blue, because people matter. Because people matter.

Values Are Caught, Not Taught

Here's the third thing my dad taught me: values are caught, not necessarily taught. This is kind of weird. I'm sitting around with the boys, and I said, "Guys, do you remember one piece of advice that dad gave you?" The four of us sat around, and we could not come up with one piece of advice that dad had given us. Not one. Not one time. And yet, his fingerprints were all over us.

One author writes about his own father: "He didn't tell me how to live. He lived and let me watch him do it." That's what my dad was. He wasn't into giving you these lessons. He just lived this way. Somehow, we learned that you don't buy something unless you can pay for it. You don't have credit. If you don't have the money, you don't get it. People matter. Somehow, we got that.

Now, I will tell you, that's not an excuse. We need to teach and model.

A Different Generation

Here's another thing. For some of you who are in my generation, let me tell you something I've learned about our dads: that generation was basically better grandparents than parents. They were a little better with that. My nephew, my brother's son, my dad's grandson, got up at the visitation and talked about my dad taking him out to the country club just a couple of weeks before and saying, "Listen, John, I know you're going through some stuff, but we'll get through this." I don't remember him ever doing that with us.

I have friends my age who get angry: "My dad never told me that he loved me." My dad told me he loved me every day. Here's what he said: "You can sleep here and eat here." That's how he did it. They didn't have time. They didn't have time to figure this thing out. They didn't have Dr. Dobson. They were busy working just to make ends meet. There were four of us. You don't think of it going on. Kids come in our house now and they just raid everything. They grab Cokes. My mom, every night, would

We'd take a 12-ounce Pepsi, four glasses, dump it in four glasses, give us saltine crackers and peanuts. We thought we were in heaven with that. It's the way it was. I remember only one night growing up staying in a hotel. We never would have ever been able to come to a place like Cannon Beach Christian Conference Center. But his fingerprints were all over us.

Paul writes this to the church at Philippi in Philippians chapter 4: "The things you heard and learned and received from me, you do them." Now, to those of us who are parents, rather than sit around and say, "My dad always told me He loved me." Okay, I got it. I'm sure there's pain attached to it, but let's rock on. You can't fix it. He's not going to tell you. That's just the way it is.

So you can feel bad about it and you can mope and sulk. Or here's what you can do. You can say, "You know what? I'm not going to let my kid be able to say that. I'm going to tell him I love him all the time." Lessons.

You're Leaving a Legacy Whether You Realize It or Not

Here's the next thing my dad taught me. You're leaving a legacy whether you realize it or not. It's kind of like the witnessing thing we talked about. Your life is not legacy neutral.

I was home and my mom, like I said, my dad handled all the money. My dad, the only real luxury really that He had was He loved to play golf and so He joined a country club. Big deal to him. Loved it. That was his deal. He played golf three, four, five times a week in the summer. I mean, He's out there all the time. It was really funny, about a month before He died, He said, "It's getting really hard to get a game because these guys are all dying. It's getting really tough to get a game."

Well, I'm sitting in the living room while I'm home and my mom's opening the mail and I hear this shriek. What had happened is for the first time in her life, she saw the country club bill. It happened to be when they were also doing the quarterly assessment. So she said, "Tom, look at this bill." I said, "You know what, mom, it doesn't matter. First of all, there's an assessment in there." She said, "We got to get out of this thing tomorrow." I said, "Okay, whatever." She gave me the bill to look at.

When I was a kid and I'm sure the country club learned these things. When we were kids, we just walked to them to sign. Then these parents would get these bills and I'm sure they're going, "Hey, I never ordered 14 cheeseburgers on a Tuesday." So now every purchase is itemized with the server, their time and the order.

I'm holding this bill and I'm looking at it. Here's his life for a month. Here's the day. Every time there'd be a cart for nine holes because He'd walked nine, there'd be a cart, then there'd be soup and an iced tea, soup and an iced tea. Then one day just a soup. So my guess would be that's the day somebody popped for the iced tea.

Then remember, my nephew had said that dad had taken him to the country club and then there was a steak sandwich. Interesting, the kid who's not paying for a steak sandwich, soup and an iced tea and a cap from the pro shop. So I'm sure He bought the kid a cap. I'm thinking, this is weird. This is eerie. This is like my dad's life from the last month.

Building Your Memory

You're building a legacy. People have a view about you right now. There is this moment in time, not terribly long from now, when there are going to be people gathered together, some out of obligation, some out of love, to memorialize you.

Now at our joint, what we let them do is we let everybody talk. Wouldn't it be great if people would get up at that moment and actually say something nice about you and not have to lie? Wouldn't that be cool? What's the memory? What's the thought? Again, it's inevitable that you're building this legacy.

Death Is Inevitable

Couple more points. You don't need to write this down. Death is inevitable. Here's how my dad died. It was Saturday evening. Saturday evening, every Saturday evening, He watched Lawrence Welk. Then He went upstairs, and He went upstairs, took a bath, put on His pajamas, went to bed every Saturday. He watched Lawrence Welk. He went upstairs. My mom heard a thud. She went up. He wasn't responding. Got the neighbor, and that's where He went.

Now, here's what's really kind of weird. When my brother called that Saturday night to say my dad had just had the heart attack, I was watching Lawrence Welk. Watch it every Saturday night, at least the beginning. Every time I see Lawrence Welk, I think of my dad, and I think of my grandpa. We go and visit my grandpa, and Lawrence Welk would be on the radio. My dad made us watch this, and I moaned and groaned and whined about it, kind of like Susan does now, every Saturday night, because I'm saying "Seven o'clock, seven o'clock." She's saying, "No, Tom," I go click, and He goes "Boom, boom, ba-boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom." Fifty years on television.

My dad falls over dead, and here's what people were saying to me, and this is not a time to be a literalist. But they were saying, "We were shocked to hear your father died." Really? You were shocked? Did you think He was going to live forever? I don't want to be over-technical here, but we were shocked by the timing. We weren't shocked by the fact He died.

He's 82, and whether you're 22, 82, 100, whatever it is, you're going to die. Death is unavoidable, and it was just, it was, again, one of those moments where it's almost surreal. I personally, "We're shocked by your father's death, we're shocked by your father's death, we're shocked by your father's death." That's fine, and I know it's not a time to be picky, but I did make some notes because I knew I'd want to talk about it. We're not shocked by his death. We're shocked by the timing.

What happened to my father on July 2nd this year is going to happen to you, and to me, and to all of us. Death is unavoidable. This is a part of life. You aren't the exception. These rules apply to you. You're going to die. Somebody has said,

I think it's exactly right: you're really not ready for life until you are ready for death. Since I was a little boy, I've been obsessed with this idea of dying, and I don't think in a morbid way, just the reality that it's going to take place. There's an urgency. I remember as a boy, and the irony of this drips now, I remember as a boy saying to my mom, "I wish we didn't have to sleep. I wish we could just go, go, go, go, go." Now I'm saying, "All I want to do is sleep. Leave me alone, get away from me. Lost all my zip."

But you can't avoid this. And when you're prepared for that moment, then you're prepared to live.

I Did Say Goodbye

Really close to the next point. With it being so sudden, people are saying this. Second thing I hear: "With it being so sudden, it's too bad you didn't have a chance to say goodbye to your dad." I was thinking about that.

I get really emotional every time I fly home. I don't know why. It's Iowa—I love Iowa, like I said, but not enough to live there. But I love it. And it's so different than where we live. The minute we get over into Missouri and up into Iowa, and now it's so green, and the minute I see this—and then Davenport Bank, where my dad worked. Pardon me, I know this isn't appropriate, but it dominates the skyline of Davenport. This big high rise in the middle of town. An icon, built in 1929. The minute I see it, I'm very emotional.

And I'm thinking about it as we're driving in, and I'm thinking about that—the suddenness of it, and "it's too bad I didn't have a chance to say goodbye." Here you go, now this is really, really, really, really, really important: I did say goodbye to my dad. I just didn't realize that's what I was doing.

When I talked to him on the phone—he would call every Monday—when I talked to him on the phone, our last conversation, when I said goodbye, that was it. I didn't understand it.

Keep Short Accounts

You've got to be careful here, but I think it's important to understand that every time you're saying goodbye to someone, it could be the last time. Now, you can get carried away with this. You know, you're at home saying, "I'm going to the grocery store." And you're like, "Ah, ah, ah, ah, the grocery store. Ah, ah, ah, ah"—I'm not talking about that.

Here's what I'm talking about. And again, Larry Wright taught me this: keep short accounts. You got a problem with somebody, get it on the table, get it over with, and just keep short accounts. You've got to be ready.

I don't know, and this may be kind of weird, but I don't really have anything that I'd want to say to my dad that I didn't say to him, or a point I'd make, or a conversation that we had. I mean, I'd sort of like to get together maybe and see him again. That'd be kind of interesting, but I'm not walking around with a bunch of guilt. I kind of took care of it. Remember, we had to say it, we kind of said it, said it a couple times, and dealt with it.

What You Know Trumps What You Feel

I've got three more things. People listen. This was the coolest thing, and you got a sense of it from listening to me this week. This is just two cards from people in our church, and these represent a bunch of other cards, but it said this: "We sure understand your sorrow, as each of us have already lost our dads, and we want you to remember that what you know trumps what you feel." So this is exactly what we talked about, and this is the same idea. "Our prayers for you at this difficult time is that God will fill your heart with what you know." It's so cool to know that people are listening.

I will tell you also, it reinforces that doctrine is really important. It's amazing, and I hope it's an accurate view, but I can't tell you how many of you have said, "We really appreciate your practical teaching. It's so practical, it's so down to earth. We can understand it." All those things, which in a way, I think that's really cool. I like that, but in some way, it's kind of like, "You know, but it's not very deep."

And I'm okay with that. I've never really enjoyed listening to guys that I don't understand what they're saying. That's never been my deal, but I do hope that while it's practical, that you understand the doctrinal side of it. Like, oh, here you go—like the omniscience of God, the all-powerfulness of God, the sovereignty of God. Those things are really, really important. Those aren't just things we say, but those are things that allow us to take this stuff from the classroom to the laboratory and make it real.

That God is sovereign is really important, because if He isn't, this whole thing is just a crapshoot. That scripture is complete and inerrant is really important. Otherwise, it's just speculation. Otherwise, it's just your guess or mine, or we cut and paste, we do the Thomas Jefferson thing. Find what we like, get a little bit of Paul Harvey, a little bit of Oprah, a little bit of this guy, a little bit of that guy, throw in some Aristotle, shake it up, put your own opinion with it, and then it's what you have.

Struggle Is Vital

Two more things. My dad taught me that struggle is a vital part of life. Financial struggle—like I said, they didn't have much. And again, we didn't really understand all of that. Didn't have much. A physical struggle, spiritual struggle.

We found this note. My brother—I was upstairs, and my brother called. He was downstairs, and you're going through my dad's stuff. I don't know, I just—that wasn't my deal. I just didn't—that wasn't what I needed. And he called me and he said, "Tom, you got to come here and look at this." And he found this little piece of paper. Subsequently, he found a second piece.

And it's kind of weird to look down on this. And I said to my brother, "You know, you keep this. This is a special thing, you keep this. But I'd love to have a copy of this." And it's kind of weird to look down and see my dad's handwriting here because it's kind of distinctive. And these are just notes that he never—

dreamt that I would read to you. And he certainly never dreamt that anybody would ever see them. He felt kind of compelled to write them. They're weird for a guy that's 82. I don't think of guys at that age being terribly self-reflective or analyzing.

But here's what he wrote. They're just points: "I try to put God first in my life, but I know I fail. I tend to be nice to those who are nice to me. When I feel injured, I try to get back. I can be envious and jealous of others. I can be irritable and sulk around the house. I want things my way. I think of myself first."

Now, let me tell you something. If I had read that at the funeral home or at that funeral and said, "Who do you think wrote this?" there's not one person who would have ever said Jim Schrader. He wasn't schizophrenic. You know what he was? Just like you and me.

The Universal Nature of Our Struggle

Here, forget that it's my dad's writing. See if this doesn't sound a little bit like you: "I try to put God first in my life, but I know I fail. I tend to be nice to those who are nice to me. When I feel injured, I try to get back. I'm envious and jealous of others. I can be irritable and sulk around the house. I want things my way. I think of myself first." Does this sound like you at all?

First, my dad was not exempt from sin. That's exactly what Paul's saying. Paul's saying there's this weird struggle in my life. I'm a follower of Christ, and yet the things I want to do, I don't do, and the things I don't want to do, I do. Here's this terrible struggle between the flesh and the desires that I have and a new creature that I am.

The struggle's a vital part of life. My dad is 82 years old, and this struggle never left him. I don't think it'll leave you either. I think the minute that you begin to say, "Well, I really don't want things my way, and I really don't think of myself first," at that point, you've probably really deluded yourself.

Where Is He Right Now?

Here's the last question that I get all the time: Where's your dad right now? Now, I wanted to be so clear on this, because I'm not a scripted kind of guy, that I wrote this down.

My dad was a reliable friend, a solid worker, a caring man, active in his church, a faithful husband, a proud father, and a loving grandpa. None of those determine where he is now. You've got a lot of people that are gathered together at this funeral. My dad was born and raised Catholic—grade school, high school, college. For me, my dad was a Catholic guy, which I think makes answering this question, where is he right now, a little bit difficult. We tend to have the same words, but a little bit of a different dictionary.

Church and all that list right there was kind of important to him. It was really interesting. We gathered with the priest to plan the funeral, and I was determined just to be there. I didn't need this. He said, "Would any of you boys like to speak?" I didn't say anything. The boys said, "Well, Tom will talk." My other brother said, "I don't know if this guy's going to want you up there."

I said, "Hey, here's the deal, man. I mean, I don't care, it doesn't matter to me." My brother, who's a little bit on the pushy side, said, "Tom will talk, and let him talk last." So we're walking out, and I said, "Okay, boys, here's the deal. You've got to give me—this is an away game. You've got to tell me, what do you want me to say? What can I say? What can I not say?" He said, "You talk, say whatever you want, and talk as long as you want. The heck with these guys. Let them do their thing, and then you do whatever you want to do."

The Gospel at the Funeral

When I got to that, I said, "I want to be really clear here. My dad was a reliable friend, and a solid worker, and a caring man, and active in this church, and a faithful husband, and a proud father, and a loving grandpa, but none of that determines where he is right now. All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and God so loved the world that He sent His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish and have eternal life. The wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus." Just what these little four and five year olds said to you. "I am the way, the truth, the life. No one comes to the Father but through Me. I'm saved by grace through faith, not of ourselves, a gift of God, not as a result of works that any man should boast."

I shared some of just my dad so they could understand who he was. Then I said this: If my dad could come here right now—he's been dead at this point three or four or five days—if my dad could come here right now, let me tell you what I think he would do. In our minds, we think he would run to my mother and hug her and be comforted, or run to the boys or run to the friends. I don't think that's what he'd do.

I think my dad would come into this room if he had this opportunity and he would say, "Listen, you've got to understand something. Death is not the end. After you die, there is a heaven to gain and a hell to shun. This isn't it. There's something deeper than this." That's what I think he'd do. That's what I think he'd say.

The Wake-Up Call of Death

Again, it's really important to me that you understand that my dad is a reliable friend and a solid worker and a caring man and active in his church and a faithful husband and a proud father and a loving grandpa, but none of that determines where you spend eternity. To be those things is really important, but they don't earn salvation. That's kind of been a theme all week long. It's the result of salvation.

What happened to my dad will happen to your parents if it hasn't already happened, and will one day happen to you, and you aren't the exception. My point in this whole discussion is not to be morbid or melancholy. I find death to always be a wake-up call. It's always a reminder. We were shocked to hear that your father died.

I couldn't get that out of my mind for two weeks. I cannot understand how you could be shocked. You really thought Jim Schrader would live forever?

At a funeral or at moments like this, or when somebody's really sick, it can be a great catalyst to think, sometimes for the first time, or reevaluate, or if necessary, redefine and redirect, or maybe just a source of encouragement. Like if you died tonight, have you got all those accounts short? Are you ready to meet your maker? Are you prepared that absent from the body is present with the Lord? What a wonderful truth.

The Truths We Forget

Just kind of in the day, they get shuffled back, don't they? Those are wonderful, powerful truths. It's kind of like probably living at Cannon Beach. I mean, my plan here when we get done is for Susan and me to go up, and I need to finish getting my bag together, and then change clothes, and then take a long walk down to Haystack Rock and back. I'll bet if you lived at Cannon Beach, you'd never walk to Haystack Rock and back. It's an unbelievable place. But you know, after a while, you go, yeah, I know, it's there.

Jeff was talking about when they want to get away in June. This makes me laugh. They go to Eastern Oregon to where it's dry and warm. I'm thinking, are you nuts? We're going to be in dry and warm tomorrow, 128 degrees. You always want what you don't have.

If you got straight hair, you want curly hair. If you got curly hair, you want straight hair. You got red hair, you want black hair. If you're tall, you want to be short. You never want to be short, but if you're tall, you're short. Skinny, you want to be fat. White, you want to be black. Black, you want to be white. You just always want whatever you don't have.

And here's these amazing truths of God and who He is, and we go, oh, yeah, yeah, I remember that. Yeah, past that, butter. I just pray that as you think about life, and maybe even as you think about this weekend, with all sorts of stuff this week, all this stuff that you'd remember this moment in particularly. This would be a time to think, or rethink, or reevaluate, or maybe to finally settle the issue on where you spend eternity.

You Aren't the Exception

It's just a wonderful truth, and I often say if I ever wrote a book, I think the title would be You Aren't the Exception, because we tend to think we are. Now, some things I learned from my dad and some reflection and hopefully beneficial to you as well.

Let me pray for us. Father, thank You for this night and this place. I thank You again for a vision that You gave to the McNeils and for us to be able to enjoy it. Thank You for Jeff and His continued leadership, not just of what's taken place, but to be able to sit and to see plans for the future and to read the little sheet that talks about that building and to talk about preparing for the future, for Janet and then for all of the staff, the staff that took care of the kids and that served us. Thank You for this wonderful place. Thank You for this privilege to be here, to have a time to get away.

A real test for us is not how we handle this week here, but now what happens as we reengage the world we live in. God, I pray that for some, maybe just one, but it would be cool if it was a whole bunch, but maybe just one of us, we draw a line in the sand. That this would be a moment where our life changes, that we would look back five, 10, 15 years from now and say, you know what? It was that week in August 2006 at Cannon Beach where, God, You really did touch my life.

God, help us see, feel, experience Your amazing grace, Your love for us. God, we were absolutely lost, destitute, spiritually bankrupt, and You saved us in spite of who we are. God, we love You because You first love us. We praise You and worship You and thank You in Jesus' name, amen.