Keith's Eulogy

In February of 2005, I went on my Junior Retreat to prepare for confirmation. And as an angsty 17-year-old, I was not exactly thrilled. A weekend away, surrounded by peers I didn’t know that well, in a cabin in the woods? No thanks. I would’ve much rather been home writing bad poetry or hanging out with my close friends. My dad knew all this. But he promised me I’d have a good time. And when Daddyo made a promise like that, it usually meant something good was about to happen.

So I went. Still skeptical. Still sulking a little. But on the second night, something unexpected happened. We were handed letters — personal, handwritten letters from people who loved us. I remember holding the envelope with my name on it, feeling that first flicker of something real stirring inside me. I opened it and read the words that have stayed with me for the rest of my life. I’d like to share it with you now:

"Dear Katie – I love you. Your family loves you. God loves you. Never give up. Be true to yourself. Just remember, you only get out of life what you put into it. This retreat was made for you. Take away all that it gives to you. Give what you see others need. Listen and be the most positive person you can. I hope and will be praying for you that this retreat is a life-changing and positive adventure.  Love always, Your Dad."

I did end up having fun. He was right. (As usual.)

But that letter wasn’t just about that weekend. It was a gift — a compass, a map, a mantra. And as I’ve grown older, as I’ve faced grief and joy, heartbreak and hope, that single phrase keeps echoing:

“Never give up. Be true to yourself. You only get out of life what you put into it.”

That was my dad’s philosophy in one sentence. It wasn’t just advice he gave — it was the way he lived.

My dad put everything into life. And what he got back was more than most people could ever dream of: a world full of love, adventure, mischief, music, late-night storytelling, the smell of a good summer storm, happy dogs with soft eyes, whiskey poured with care, and people — so many people — who loved him deeply.

But not just loved him. Belonged to him. Because my dad didn’t just collect friends — he gathered them, like kindling for the fire that warmed every room he was in.

There’s this word — chosen. It comes from Old Norse, and it means “to seek out.” And then there’s the word family — from the Latin familia, meaning “those who dwell together,” or “descend from a common ancestor.” But I like the other meaning better: village.

Because my dad? He built a village.

And he did it with his whole heart.

He chased wild dreams and lived boldly. He survived brutal winters in Alaska, where he made friends and found stories in the snow. He wandered the hills of Kentucky like he had secret kinship with the trees, the limestone, the sky. He even traveled to Afghanistan just to see what was going on over there. He had an unstoppable curiosity, a thirst for good people, and the kind of charm that made everyone feel like they were the most important person in the room.

He fell hopelessly, helplessly in love on a random night at a party — hard — and stayed in love with my mom for 45 years, making her laugh every single day, even his last. He raised three kids who inherited his stubborn streak, his big heart, and his uncanny timing for an inappropriate joke.

And he also helped raise a couple dozen more — nieces, nephews, neighbor kids, friends of friends, stray souls who needed someone to believe in them. If you needed help, he’d show up. If you needed a laugh, he’d make one happen. If you needed a second chance? He had those in spades.

He never met a stranger. Because he sought people out. He built connection. He built trust. He built home — in everyone he loved.

And when he landed in the hospital toward the end, he was still cracking jokes, still asking about our well-being, still charming the nurses, still lifting people up even while his body was letting go. That’s who he was.

So yes, he got out of life what he put into it. He poured out love, humor, grit, loyalty, and fire — and the world gave it all back to him a hundredfold.

He left behind stories that will be told for decades, probably embellished just the way he liked. He left behind family and friends who will carry him in our voices and our laughter and our stubborn refusal to quit. He left behind a village.

And he left behind that one piece of advice — simple, powerful, true:

Never give up. Be true to yourself. You only get out of life what you put into it.

He gave it all.

And in return, he got us.