A Eulogy of Sorts: Dad’s Funeral

If I’m completely honest, I’ve half-written eulogies in my head before this moment. Dad has faced impossible situations before this one, situations I couldn’t fathom him rising out of.

And yet, somehow he did. 

Again and again.

Looking back, I’m not so convinced it was him crawling back as much as Jesus pulling Dad back from the edge by the scruff of his neck; 

there was still life that needed to be lived, soul work that needed to be done. 

My thoughts of Dad have been swirling in fragments of images,

melodies, 

words, 

phrases

that speak of a multi-faceted shared life experience that was a wild ride of extremes.

Nothing I could put into words could adequately summarize Dad or do this moment true justice, not even if I narrowed my scope to the impact he had on my life alone. As you’ve already known or heard, Dad's was a life lived big. Big personality. Big love. Big impact on others.

It would take years for me to pull it all together. 

But still, I find myself aching to affix words to the swirling fragments I mentioned, to pin something down before time sands the edges of emotion and memory and the tiny parts--however insignificant--slip through my mind’s fingers. 

So, with that...

When I left the rehab facility the day Dad died, the 10-degree air bit into my lungs in a rush I wasn’t expecting. 

At once, a comment Dad made two days prior in his hospital room played--almost audibly--in my head,

 “You know, Lace, I really think Jesus is giving me new lungs.”

I remembered watching his belly rise and fall beneath his green gown, breathing with the most ease I had seen in months. 

I kissed his head and squeezed his hand that evening, making note of the way my thumb looked next to his. It was every bit a twin to his, just younger and bonier.

And then came another fragment:

Laughing as a teen, lifting my hand and planting my palm against Dad’s.

I’ve always had that man's hands.

I’d be lying if I said I remembered what I said when I prayed over him before I left his room for the night, but I do remember Dad mentioning a release from fear and a sense of being carried and forgiven. I left that night with an agreed belief that Jesus was healing Dad’s lungs. 

You know, now, I still believe Jesus was doing a work there, that God was touching Dad’s lungs-at least in a sense.

He was there with Dad doing soul work, growing hope, casting out fear, celebrating the beauty of repentance, pouring over him in a way that brought the hope from Heaven over to be embraced on this side of eternity. 

Maybe he was bridging Dad’s transition to his ultimate home.

There have been undeniable gifts in this. 

There has been undeniable goodness. 

When I surrender my expectations and allow myself to lift my eyes, a holy perspective reminds me how rooted in the palm of God’s hand we’ve been and continue to be.

Standing here, I want to say that it has been an incredible privilege to be the daughter of Jeff Heilman.

I say this now with full conviction--not because of the many great things I know he was or the wonderful things he did--but because of the transformative power of Jesus in very broken lives and in very broken places. 

To be real and honest, there were seasons of life with Dad where a younger, bitter, insecure version of me felt like collateral damage in the wake of his heartbreaking decisions that spilled over into our home. 

I don't need to air all that here though, because the beauty of his story, 

our story,

my story, 

is that I was granted a front-seat view of what it looks like when God is in relentless, loving pursuit of his children.

I saw God meet Dad in valleys time and time again--

with his health,

with his finances, 

with his relationships, 

with his very home. 

Regardless of what led to those brutal seasons--his choices or the reality of living in a broken world--it was “valley work” that transformed my Dad, that transformed our family. 

Denying the brokenness in Dad’s story robs his incredible testimony of its power. 

That brokenness drove him to his knees, and the Lord raised him up as more than an overcomer. Raised him up as a new creation--

as a fiercely loving dad and grandfather,

as a present husband,

as a friend,

as a witness…

The Lord raised me up, too. It was surrender and my own “valley work” that healed my resentment,

led me to repent of unforgiveness,

allowed me to love without hesitation,

allowed me to embrace the wonderful things about the man and all the parts of me that I denied for so long but that truly are very much my father,

down to the random metaphors that I catch streaming out of my mouth, to the way I love yellow, to the way I badger people to “listen to this song” in hopes they will love the lyrics or the melody as much as I do. 

I see his determination, humor, and beautiful fire in Rach.

Want me to lift that 500 lb bucket? I could probably do it.  

I see his hairline, wit and endless knowledge of supremely random facts in Matt. Fun Fact: The same guy who plays Veruca Salt’s dad in “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” also appears in the music video for the song: “All I Need is a Miracle.” Matt has ample YouTube proof.

I see the power of the story of a larger-than-life man who was radically transformed by Jesus in the faces of those who knew him. 

And I couldn’t be more blessed.