Eulogy for Dad: 8 Examples to Copy

Good morning. I'm Sarah, Frank's daughter.

My dad was not a man of many words. He showed love by doing things. He checked the oil in my car every time I came home, even after I was forty. He shoveled the neighbors' driveways before anyone else was awake. He never once missed a ballgame, a recital or a graduation, and he never once said he was tired.

When I asked him once why he did so much for everyone, he shrugged and said, "Somebody has to."

Dad, you were that somebody for all of us. Thank you. We'll take it from here.

Hi, everyone. I'm Megan, and I was the youngest of Dad's three girls, which means I spent my whole childhood watching him get outnumbered and loving every minute of it.

Dad was a mechanic for thirty-five years. He came home every night with grease on his hands and a story about somebody's car, and he would wash up at the kitchen sink while my mother told him not to wash up at the kitchen sink.

When I was sixteen, he spent a whole summer teaching me to change a tire, check the fluids and drive a stick shift, because he said no daughter of his was going to be stuck on the side of the road waiting for someone to rescue her. He wanted us to be able to rescue ourselves.

And then, for the rest of his life, he rescued us anyway. Every flat tire, every move, every bad day: he was the first call.

Dad, I can change a tire. I can drive a stick. I'm going to be okay. But I will never stop wishing I could call you first.

Good afternoon. My name is Michael. I'm Tom's son.

My dad taught me most of what I know with three words: "Watch me first." Watch me first, then you try. That is how I learned to fish, to build a fence, to shave, and later how to be a husband and a father. He never lectured. He just did it right in front of you and trusted you were paying attention.

I was paying attention, Dad.

I watched him get up at five every morning for forty years. I watched him hold my mother's hand in every waiting room. I watched him apologize to me when he was wrong, which taught me more than anything he ever got right.

Now I have two boys of my own, and last week my oldest asked me how to tie a fishing knot. I heard myself say, "Watch me first."

So you're still teaching, Dad. Thank you.

Hello, everyone. I'm Chris, Dad's middle child, and he would want me to start by telling you there are sandwiches in the back and to please not let them go to waste. That was his love language: leftovers.

Dad had some firm beliefs. The thermostat was his and his alone. A road trip was not a road trip unless we left at four in the morning. And there was no problem in the world that could not be fixed with duct tape and a strong opinion.

He was also the worst joke-teller I have ever met. He would start laughing before the punchline, then forget the punchline, then laugh harder. We never heard the end of a single joke, and somehow it was the funniest thing in the world every time.

Under all that, he was the most dependable man I have ever known. When it mattered, he showed up, every single time.

Dad, I promise to keep the thermostat at sixty-eight. Probably.

Good morning. I'm James, the oldest of Deacon Robert's five children.

My father's faith was not something he talked about. It was something he did. He was at the early service every Sunday, and every Sunday afternoon he drove an elderly neighbor to visit her husband in the nursing home, for nine years, until they were both gone.

He prayed with us every night when we were small, the same simple prayer, and when I called him from college at my lowest point, he did not give me advice. He prayed that prayer with me over the phone.

He used to say, "Live so that the people who know you will know Him." We did. We do.

Dad, well done, good and faithful servant. Rest now. We will see you again.

Good morning. I'm Lisa, and my father served twenty-two years in the U.S. Army.

He did not talk much about the places he had been. What he talked about were the people: the men he served with, the ones who came home and the ones who did not. Every Memorial Day he called the families he still knew, and he never missed a call.

The Army gave him discipline, and he gave it to us: beds made, shoes lined up, and "on time" meant ten minutes early. But what he really brought home was loyalty. Once you were his, you were his for life.

In a few minutes, the honor guard will fold the flag that covered his service. Dad, you kept your oath to this country and your promises to us. You are relieved of duty. We have the watch from here.

Hi. I'm Jordan. Gary married my mom when I was nine, and I want to be honest: I did not make it easy for him.

I told him he was not my real dad about once a week for the first year. He never argued. He just kept showing up: to my games, my parent-teacher conferences, and the night I wrecked my first car, when he drove out at two in the morning and the first thing he asked was whether I was hurt.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped saying it, because it was not true anymore. He did not have to choose me, and he chose me every day for twenty-five years.

When my daughter was born, he held her and said, "Hey, kiddo, I'm your grandpa." Nobody ever questioned it.

Gary, you were my real dad. I'm sorry it took me a year to say so, and I'm grateful you never stopped waiting.

On behalf of my mother, my brothers and our whole family, thank you for being here to pray for my father, John.

Dad believed that faith was something you practiced with your hands. He served as an usher at this parish for thirty years, fixed whatever broke in the parish hall, and quietly paid for more than one family's groceries when work was slow.

He taught us to say grace before every meal and to mean it, to forgive quickly, and to never leave a job half done.

We give thanks to God for the gift of his life, for his love for our mother, and for the example he gave us. Dad, may the angels lead you into paradise. We love you.