The Stories They Tell

My wife and I attended the funeral of a dear family friend this week. He wasn't family by blood, but he had been like an uncle to my wife while she was growing up. By the time I married into the family 31 years ago, he had already become part of its fabric. Over the years, I came to appreciate his kindness, his quiet nature, and the influence he had on those around him. I benefited from that relationship, and I'm grateful I had the opportunity to know him.

As family and friends shared memories of his life, one story quietly settled into my heart.

His son told how his father never threw away bent nails.

If he pulled a bent nail from a board, he didn't toss it aside. He would lay it on a log or another solid surface and patiently tap it straight with his hammer. It took a little more time than reaching for a new nail, but to him it was worth the effort.

For several days afterward, I found myself coming back to that simple story. There were many beautiful memories shared that afternoon, but this was the one that followed me home. I couldn't explain why. Of all the stories that could have stayed with me, why bent nails?

As I reflected on it, another memory quietly surfaced.

Nearly ten years ago I attended the funeral of another dear family friend. As his son prepared to speak, he went into his father's study. What caught his attention wasn't a trophy, a plaque, or an award. It was the many sets of scriptures sitting on his desk. There wasn't just one set. There were several, all worn from years of use. You could tell they had been opened hundreds, maybe thousands, of times.

At first, I couldn't see the connection between the two funerals. Bent nails and worn scriptures don't seem to have much in common. Yet my mind kept placing those memories side by side, almost as if they belonged together. It wasn't until later that I began to understand why.

As those thoughts settled, my mind turned to my dad.

My father passed away on April 11, 1996, just three days after his 60th birthday. Next week I'll celebrate my 62nd birthday. Somehow those two numbers have caused me to pause and reflect more deeply than I normally would.

My dad lived an extraordinary life. He had been a fighter pilot, a helicopter rescue pilot in the Air Force, an oral surgeon, and, when he passed away, a professor at a university here in Utah. Those accomplishments tell you what he did.

What I remember tells me who he was.

He was in the stands

As an oral surgeon, he had a demanding career, yet he always seemed to make time for us. Football practices. Games. The ordinary moments that probably didn't seem very important at the time.

I remember my senior year of high school when my parents left on one of their annual trips just before the first football game of the season. During my four years of high school football, we lost only three games—and every one of them was the first game of the season while my parents were away. We entered the season ranked number one, and my friends were convinced we couldn't begin the season without my dad in the stands. They kept telling me to ask him if they could postpone the trip. A few of them even asked my parents themselves.

I did ask.

He still went.

As it turned out, we lost that first game.

At the time, I was disappointed. Today, as a husband and father myself, I smile at that memory. I understand now why my parents needed that time together. Age has a way of changing our perspective.

Later that same season, I tore my knee and needed surgery. Because my dad was an oral surgeon, he was able to be in the operating room with me. Looking back, I don't remember much about the surgery itself.

I remember that my dad was there.

Looking back now, I realize those ordinary moments meant everything.

But one thing never changed.

I never questioned whether my dad loved me.

Neither did my five brothers.

As I reflected on all of this, my thoughts turned to my own children and grandchildren. That's when this became much more personal than I expected.

I realized how much I wish my grandchildren could have known my dad. They would have loved him, but as I sat there thinking about it, I found myself smiling through the tears because I know something else just as surely.

He would have loved them!

I can almost picture him in the stands cheering them on the way he cheered for me. I can see him laughing with them in the backyard, teasing them, making each one feel important. Those are memories they'll never have, and I hadn't realized until this week how much I grieve that loss.

Maybe that's why these funeral memories have stayed with me. Maybe that's why they've affected me so deeply.

Looking back, I began to see my own life a little differently. Coaching my boys in football and baseball. Sitting in auditoriums for my daughter's choir concerts. Showing up for games, performances, birthdays, family dinners, vacations, and all the ordinary moments that are so easy to overlook while we're living them.

Until this week, I would have told you I was simply trying to be a good dad and grandfather. Now I wonder if the reason I coached my boys, sat in those choir concerts, showed up for their games, and have tried so hard to be present for my grandchildren is because I'm still living the example my father gave me.

As I sat with these thoughts, I realized that all three fathers had left something behind.

One left the memory of patiently straightening bent nails.

One left a desk filled with well-used sets of scripture.

My father left children who never questioned his love.

None of those moments would have seemed extraordinary while they were happening. No one would have looked at them and thought, “This is the legacy they’ll leave.”

They were simply the quiet habits of faithful men, lived day after day, year after year, until they became the stories their children would one day tell.

As I've thought about those three fathers this week, I've realized none of them were trying to leave a legacy. They were simply living their lives. Loving their families. Doing ordinary things faithfully. Yet those ordinary moments became unforgettable because they revealed who they really were.

As I reflected on that, I found myself asking a question I hadn't expected.

What will my grandchildren know about me through those stories?

Will they remember what I accomplished?

Or will they remember where I was?

I hope they'll remember the ordinary moments. The games. The Conversations. The family dinners. The vacations. The times I simply showed up. Because this week has reminded me that those ordinary moments often become the stories that last for generations.

I've been the bent nail more than once in my life. Bent by disappointment. Bent by circumstances. Bent by my own mistakes. Bent by experiences I never would have chosen.

Yet the Master Carpenter has never given up on me.

He has patiently worked with me, strengthened me, forgiven me, and reminded me that my worth has never depended on whether life left a few bends behind.

As I approach my sixty-second birthday, one question continues to echo in my mind.

If one of my children stood to speak at my funeral someday, what story would they tell?

I hope they won't remember my accomplishments nearly as much as they'll remember that I showed up. I hope they'll remember they were loved. And if, through those ordinary moments, they came to know the Master Carpenter just a little better, I can't imagine a greater legacy.

I'm grateful He never gave up on this bent nail.