It’s a little presumptuous for me to even write this post. My dad was born in 1934, twenty-five years before me, but I am the one who had the heart attack and who has to take medicine for high blood pressure. Not him. He is pushing through his mid-eighties, mowing his yard and remodeling anything he can get his hands on, with all his vitals showing perfect. So, he may be preaching my funeral instead of me helping my sisters plan his. But watching the funeral and memorial services for a famous American father who died last week got me to thinking about how my dad’s memorial service would contrast with this fellow’s — if I’m privileged to be there for my dad at the end of his life.
