Notes from the week it happened.....

My dad was sick.

Wednesday night....My brother called me to say my dad was sick and he thought I should know.  My dad had been sick before....he'd had a bout of the flu around Christmas time.  This seemed similar to me.  I wasn't sure why it merited a call.

Thursday morning....my dad sent me text -- responding to an earlier request I'd sent.  He let me know that he'd been in bed since Tuesday evening.  He told he he thought he'd been getting better but had fallen three times about midnight and that it now hurt to roll over in bed.  He figured he'd maybe cracked a rib.  But he still offered to host the Attorney General at his coffee group.  I asked if he needed help getting to the doctor.  He said he planned on waiting until Friday to see if there was a change.  My last text to my dad was..."I don't think that's a good idea.  Why suffer.  It's not noble."

Thursday, my brother takes my dad to the doctor.  The doctor notes an elevated white count but no cracked rib.  Sends dad home.

Thursday evening, my dad is in unbearable pain.  He asks for an ambulance to take him to the hospital. (this is incredibly not typical).  My brother goes with him.  I leave work early and go sit with my mother.  My sister plans to come home from California.  After we get word from the hospital -- it's his gall bladder -- it's severely infected.  They will start to treat infection and then remove it once the infection is better....in maybe 5-6 weeks.

I leave to go home but go to the hospital first.  I've never seen my dad in such pain.  It's gut wrenching.  They prepare to take my dad to put in a port and a drain...then they will move him to ICU.  There is nothing to be done but sit and wait....so my brother and I head home.  In the parking lot, Randy tells me...."You know, I'm fully committed to him being immortal"

Friday morning, prior to the start of my work day, I head to the hospital.  To my surprise, dad is sitting up in ICU....looking really good.  We chat briefly and then the ICU doctor comes in on rounds.  Everything is looking good, he says....other than his gall bladder and a gall stone the size of a golf ball...Surgery should wait....means pain will stay for a while longer....but safer to wait.  They will be sending him to the regular post surgical ward.  He's doing great.  On track to be released maybe Monday.  I talk to my mom after the doctor was there.  I have her talk to my dad.  I brought him his pajamas in a banana bag...an inside joke between my mom and dad.  Then I leave so  he can rest.

Friday afternoon, my sister arrives

Saturday morning, I head to the hospital again prior to work.  Dad is in the regular wing now.  I wait outside his room for a bit because he's trying to go to the bathroom.  I don't want to embarrass him.  He sits in the chair for a while.  We visit briefly.  I tell him about being stung by a wasp that morning at the gas station.  The new doctor comes in on rounds again.  They are talking about sending him home maybe even tomorrow or Monday.  Good news....  After the doctor leaves, it's clear dad is uncomfortable....pain.  He needs to head back to the bathroom.  I tell him I'll leave.  I let the nurses know as I leave.

Sunday morning before 6....the phone rings.  Bill answers.  It's my sister.  Dad is gone.

Triggered....

So....this past summer, my daughters and I have been binge watching the Gilmore Girls.  We hadn't caught an episode for a while....and last night we had some time together so I started us on the episode where we left off in the middle.  It had been long enough that I'd forgotten.  Richard was in the hospital with a heart attack and Emily was calling their lawyer to have him fax a copy of the will and checking on if Richard had a DNR.

Bess told me one of their substitute teacher's had a puzzle ring like Grandpa's but she couldn't remember how to do it anymore.

I held Bess as we both cried.  I held Evie's hand after Bess had to leave the room and go shower.

We've loved watching the Gilmore Girls.  I knew the actor playing Richard Gilmore had died in real life and that they would pay tribute to him in the upcoming "A Year in the Life" episodes....I wasn't sure I would be able to watch them....I knew I wouldn't be able to watch them without a lot of kleenex.  Hearing the actors say so many of the things we'd heard....We'll be moving him out of ICU today and then just another night and he should be able to come home...

This time for the Gilmores, there will be a happy ending.  Come November, Richard will be gone too...officially.

Obviously, a fictional loss is just that...but it reminds us of real loss.  

How not to say the wrong thing...Comfort In, Dump Out

The Ring Theory
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Op-Ed 

How not to say the wrong thing

It works in all kinds of crises -- medical, legal, even existential. It's the 'Ring Theory' of kvetching. The first rule is comfort in, dump out.

April 07, 2013|Susan Silk and Barry Goldman

When Susan had breast cancer, we heard a lot of lame remarks, but our favorite came from one of Susan's colleagues. She wanted, she needed, to visit Susan after the surgery, but Susan didn't feel like having visitors, and she said so. Her colleague's response? "This isn't just about you."

"It's not?" Susan wondered. "My breast cancer is not about me? It's about you?"

The same theme came up again when our friend Katie had a brain aneurysm. She was in intensive care for a long time and finally got out and into a step-down unit. She was no longer covered with tubes and lines and monitors, but she was still in rough shape. A friend came and saw her and then stepped into the hall with Katie's husband, Pat. "I wasn't prepared for this," she told him. "I don't know if I can handle it."

This woman loves Katie, and she said what she did because the sight of Katie in this condition moved her so deeply. But it was the wrong thing to say. And it was wrong in the same way Susan's colleague's remark was wrong.

Susan has since developed a simple technique to help people avoid this mistake. It works for all kinds of crises: medical, legal, financial, romantic, even existential. She calls it the Ring Theory.

Draw a circle. This is the center ring. In it, put the name of the person at the center of the current trauma. For Katie's aneurysm, that's Katie. Now draw a larger circle around the first one. In that ring put the name of the person next closest to the trauma. In the case of Katie's aneurysm, that was Katie's husband, Pat. Repeat the process as many times as you need to. In each larger ring put the next closest people. Parents and children before more distant relatives. Intimate friends in smaller rings, less intimate friends in larger ones. When you are done you have a Kvetching Order. One of Susan's patients found it useful to tape it to her refrigerator.

Here are the rules. The person in the center ring can say anything she wants to anyone, anywhere. She can kvetch and complain and whine and moan and curse the heavens and say, "Life is unfair" and "Why me?" That's the one payoff for being in the center ring.

Everyone else can say those things too, but only to people in larger rings.

When you are talking to a person in a ring smaller than yours, someone closer to the center of the crisis, the goal is to help. Listening is often more helpful than talking. But if you're going to open your mouth, ask yourself if what you are about to say is likely to provide comfort and support. If it isn't, don't say it. Don't, for example, give advice. People who are suffering from trauma don't need advice. They need comfort and support. So say, "I'm sorry" or "This must really be hard for you" or "Can I bring you a pot roast?" Don't say, "You should hear what happened to me" or "Here's what I would do if I were you." And don't say, "This is really bringing me down."

If you want to scream or cry or complain, if you want to tell someone how shocked you are or how icky you feel, or whine about how it reminds you of all the terrible things that have happened to you lately, that's fine. It's a perfectly normal response. Just do it to someone in a bigger ring.

Comfort IN, dump OUT.

There was nothing wrong with Katie's friend saying she was not prepared for how horrible Katie looked, or even that she didn't think she could handle it. The mistake was that she said those things to Pat. She dumped IN.

Complaining to someone in a smaller ring than yours doesn't do either of you any good. On the other hand, being supportive to her principal caregiver may be the best thing you can do for the patient.

Most of us know this. Almost nobody would complain to the patient about how rotten she looks. Almost no one would say that looking at her makes them think of the fragility of life and their own closeness to death. In other words, we know enough not to dump into the center ring. Ring Theory merely expands that intuition and makes it more concrete: Don't just avoid dumping into the center ring, avoid dumping into any ring smaller than your own.

Remember, you can say whatever you want if you just wait until you're talking to someone in a larger ring than yours.

And don't worry. You'll get your turn in the center ring. You can count on that.

Susan Silk is a clinical psychologist. Barry Goldman is an arbitrator and mediator and the author of "The Science of Settlement: Ideas for Negotiators."

Notes on how to greet a grieving family

So....these are solely my thoughts based on having survived the ritual.  And as tough a week as it is for those most closely related to the deceased, I can see a purpose to the grind that is our tradition of the funeral.  That being said....I do have some simple rules that can make the process a little easier for the family.

At the visitation/wake or after the funeral....

 -- if nothing else applies -- a simple -- "I'm sorry.  NAME was a really good person."

1. Introduce yourself

2. Briefly explain your connection to the person who has died (if that's not known - obviously)

3. If you have a story to share about their loved one -- keep it brief and appropriate to the situation (anything off color should be saved for another time) -- Let me not overemphasize -- BRIEF.  There are other people waiting to talk to the family and the family is overwhelmed.   

4. Offer the family member water.  

5.  Did I mention briefly?

At my dad's visitation and funeral, as well as at my cousin's wife's funeral, there were many people who were paying their respects to the family and the lines got long...the funeral directors will usually try to tell the family to keep the line moving.  They really can't say that to anyone else....but if you are there to pay your respects -- don't force the family member to be a traffic control person as well.  Keep it Brief.  If there is no one else in line....then obviously...you can have a nice chat....but if there are others waiting....be considerate and keep it short.

There are moments of laughter amongst the tears.  That is really a nice gift.  It's the sign of hope -- life will go on.  There will be a new normal....but there will be a normal again.

Some funny moments -- my mom told one other older lady that she and my dad were joined at the hip.  The other older lady, being a little hard of hearing....launched into her story about having her hip replaced.  

As I was standing there greeting people at the visitation, I heard one gal tell another about my dad's children -- "well, there is Randy and Shelly and then the youngest is Angie"  Since, I'm the youngest....and I'm not Angie.....I decided to speak up.  "Actually, I'm the youngest and my name is Kristi"  Apparently, still not understanding that their acquaintance Angie was not part of my family....I was asked if Angie and her  husband were here....I just gave a shrug and nodded no.   I'm wondering if Angie ever claimed to be part of our family or if it was just assumed.  And by the way....the two gals never did tell me "sorry for your loss" or why they were there.  I guess only Angie knows for sure.  :)

At the funeral, there was a well-meaning gentleman....I think he talked to at least four of us....finally getting to my mom.  This guy....I'm still not sure what he was trying to tell us.  It truly had nothing to do with my dad...not even a little....and he just droned on and on.  Don't be that guy.

Another -- don't be that guy.....example.  There was another prominent member of our town who had gotten crosswise with our family.  But he came to the funeral.  He even came to the reception and ate food....but never spoke to a single member of the family.  My feeling on this....it was nice of him to come to the service....but if you aren't going to speak to even one family member....just leave after the service....don't take advantage of their hospitality and not have the decency to express your condolences.  Tacky....and a pretty good insight into this character and why my family is not a fan.

The reason for wind.....

Biosphere 2 was a sorta crazy science experiment in the Arizona desert where the shut up some scientists in a big dome with a bunch of ecosystems to see how well they could do....the experiment wasn't a smashing success -- and in fact one of the things that happened was that the trees were weak and fell over....turns out that in spite of all the planning and engineering, they forgot one thing....wind.

From How-to-Geek:

Out in the real world, good old Biosphere 1, trees are exposed to wind from the time they are saplings. The wind pushes against the trunk and branches of the tree causing the tree to sway in the wind and the branches to move about. This movement actually changes the tree and creates what is known as “stress (reaction) wood.” The stress wood strengthens the tree by changing the ratios of cellulose, lignin, and normal wood such that the tree can grow properly and stand strongly against the constant pull of gravity.

The trees grown in Biosphere 2, in the absence of the nearly constant and variable action of the wind upon their trunks and branches, failed to grow the stress wood that would help them strand strong. Without the stress of the wind during their development, they couldn’t support their mature mass. Biosphere 2 might not have been a particularly successful experiment, but at least we can take that bit of wisdom away from it all: the stresses endured in youth provide the strength to hold yourself up as an adult.

Trees are amazing -- but to survive and thrive, they need to endure stress.  Without the stresses of the wind, they cannot stand. 

The first....

This will be a year of firsts....the firsts without my dad.  Yesterday, was the first of the firsts....and it was my first birthday without my dad.  I'm not sure what to say about how I feel or how I got through it.  It's pretty much like everything else.  It's not what I want...but I have to go forward anyway.  I don't have a choice.  Not really.  I put one foot in front of the other because there are other people counting on me.  I put one foot in front of the other because bills still need to be paid.  I put one foot in front of the other because that's what my dad would have wanted me to do.  It's not what I want to do.

And yet....it is.  I know I have to go on living.  I know I need to lean into God because I'm not strong.  I know I hurt deep in my heart in ways I couldn't imagine.  I have to keep making a choice to live with something that I didn't choose.  But maybe that's part of a universal truth.  We have very little control of the world around us.  We can't control the situations in which we find ourselves.  But the only control we actually may have is over our own choices.  I know my dad would want me to make good choices.  And so in spite of feeling like I don't have a choice....I do.   And by choosing to continue to walk forward, I celebrate the choices my dad made, I celebrate the choices I'm allowed to make.  And so I choose to see more of the sweet in the bittersweet.  I've been telling my mom that we need to dwell in the good.  It is a choice.  Why it has to be the one that takes more effort is beyond me....but I guess that's just one more of life's silly jokes.

So it was a first yesterday....and a bunch more firsts are coming.  I'm not going lie to myself and say this is gonna be easy.  It's going to be hard....but I know I will get through it.  I have a new angel in heaven helping me celebrate.

I miss my dad

It's been a rough couple of weeks at work.  All I could think during part of the day yesterday was...."I miss my dad."  And I cried.  Quite honestly, I wouldn't have called him for real until my emotions were under control.  I have this terrible habit -- even when mad, I cry.  I really despise that.  Anyway. I wanted to tell him about work.  He'd be a great listener.  He likely wouldn't have said too much to all my rantings.  He'd laugh when I made smart aleck remarks about silly decisions of others.  Maybe he's make some short off hand comment that encouraged me or acknowledged the difficulty work can be at times.  And he'd give me the gift of listening and feeling heard.

I miss my dad.  Sometimes that makes me feel weak.  I think about my cousin who lost her only son. I can't imagine even getting out of bed anymore.  Or my friends whose oldest son died after battling depression and dependency.  How do you go on?  Or a facebook friend whose oldest son was murdered.  Privately, I haven't understood why she continues to post to facebook about him.  Heck - he was involved in drugs.  Fortunately -- I didn't ever give voice to those judgmental thoughts.  Because if your oldest son is murdered -- does your grief differ if it wasn't a savory death?  How could I ever grade the worthiness of grief?  Pretty smug and more than a little stupid.  Oh....and what in the world is "savory death?"  Again....I'm learning daily.  Some lessons in humility and compassion that I clearly need to learn.  I'm forever changed.  But one thing remains.....I miss my dad.

The Legendary Office

My dad's office was a wonderland.  It was always one of the highlights of any tour of the building that housed the beauty school and the company's corporate office.  The office, as was much of the building's interior spaces, was designed by my dad's friend Bob Klandrud.  The carved black wood door led you into a space that was full of delights and surprises.  Black cabinets and bookshelves filled with books, brass antique instruments and large racing trophies dominated the space.  My dad's desk was to the immediate left...perpendicular to the door.  It shared a wall with his assistant's office. There was a sliding door to the immediate left of his office entrance...if you did a quick u-turn, you would find yourself in Diane Gyberg's office.  There was also a sliding panel in the wall so they could talk while both staying at their desk.  The first assistant I remember was Marge...she was a beautiful lady with dark hair and applied her eyebrows with make-up.  A distinguishing feature to a child.  Diane became his assistant while I was still in elementary school.  She once told me the first time she met me was when my dad was holding me as an infant.

The features that delighted visitors were from a control panel of buttons behind my dad's desk....buttons that controlled the offices many lights.  But there were also the special switches that raised and lowered the circular table in the office and another that lowered a screen from the ceiling.  A special slide projector was housed in a cabinet to take advantage of the screen.  Usually the slides were from motorcycle trips to Medicine Creek ranch in western South Dakota.  There was also a mini-fridge....much more rare in that day with cold, bottled water.  The office was very large....it felt even larger because it usually was open to a common sitting area and then into my uncles office.  Of course ther were switches that would activate motorized sliding doors if privacy was required.  My dad's office also contained a private small room...used pretty much every afternoon for a restorative nap.  There were multiple doors in and out of the office.  My dad said it was always good to have multiple ways to come and go in case ther was someone you didn't want to see.

Then there was the executive bathroom....complete with a switch to raise and lower the toilet seat, a red phone with its own extension--- for when a call couldn't wait, a push button shoe shine machine with fluffy red and black buffers and a shower.

The red carpet, colorful 70's drapes and black cabinets were so distinct....and the extra special magical details....there were many boys who visited the office who thought they'd come as close to a James Bond office as possible....I think there were grownups who thought that too. 

If you sat in one of the chairs across from my dad, there were photos of us kids under the glass on the immense desk.  Other areas of the desk were stacked neatly with reports or executive newsletters, but he was especially proud of his children and the grands.  I remember on many occasions opening one of his filing drawers were he kept a file for each of us....they contained cards or special report cards or other mementos.

My dad's office...legendary.

Dad on his desk - the sliding panel to Diane's office
is behind him.

The deep red carpet that was in the executive office,
dad sitting at the round table that could be raised and lowered

Article for Alumni Magazine from 1999

Fall 1999 (Volume 3, Issue 1) of CrossSections, the USF Alumni Magazine

Shipwrecks

From the internet: 

I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not. 

I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents...

Shipwreck by Ivan Aivazovsky - in the public domain

I wish I could say you get used to people dying. But I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. 

Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.

As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.

Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too. 

If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.

Some funny memories.....

A dear family friend found a fax message my dad had sent to her husband.  Art was one of my dad's best friends.  They had gotten to know each other through USF and when Art sold his business in California, he and his wife Barbara moved back to Sioux Falls.  Art passed away in December 2000.  I was in the hospital in Sioux Falls delivering Evie.  Evie's first outing at just over a week old, was to Art's visitation.

At the visitation I told you about the FAX message Art received from Gordon  many years ago when a fax was THE technology.   I'm glad I kept searching because I found it.

Attached is a copy of his fax.  Needless to say,  as soon as Art got the message (May 12, 1993), he called Gordon and they both went out to play.

The fact I still have this fax shows how much we enjoyed it. 

Thinking of all of you this morning as I write this email. 

Love,
Barb

Receiving this post, got our family chatting about the different technologies and the changes....which brought up a memory about my dad's office phone from when I was a little girl.  It was really high tech for it's time....

Although G had a phone that had a punch card dialing system. It was soooooooo cool. You had this card stock card and you punched out the numbers for the phone number and then each number he dialed had it's own card and you'd insert the card and it would dial it. So cutting edge!

I always wanted to call people whenever I was in his office ....I was probably all of 5...No no you can't dial the bank....maybe grandma -- but not over and over again.

That prompted my nephew to mention Late Night Talk Show host extraordinaire - Johnny Carson. Which prompted another memory of my dad....

Grandpa saw Johnny Carson crossing the street one day. We asked -- did you say anything? His response...."I got to go to the John"


SaveSave

Don't compare

The title of this site is a reference to C.S. Lewis' book "A Grief Observed"  Lewis wrote in the face of his grief in the loss of his wife, Joy.  A great and thoughtful writer, Lewis reached and inspired so many.  I'm not nearly so lofty.  But I reach out to writing as a way to work through the loss of my father.

I wasn't prepared for the magnitude of how much my heart would hurt.  I was 50 and the grief has totally knocked me out....but not down.  I will spend some time reflecting on what Lewis wrote.  Beyond that, I'm just going to follow threads where they go.  Loss of someone significant is not linear.  There isn't much of a road map.  There is joy and sorrow.  A new appreciation for the meaning of the word bittersweet.  I plan to share as much as I can honestly.  To help me process my feelings as I try to work through them, to find a focus --  a purpose and to honor my father.

But what I've learned so far is how much I didn't know....and still don't know about loss.  Perhaps how flat my response has been to others who've experienced loss....no matter the size.  And that's another thing, I'm working to avoid be comparing....because it's not fair.  By comparing my grief to someone else's it diminishes genuine feelings of someone else.  Maybe it has a role in evaluating....however, I want to tread carefully.  Each person and their relationships and loss is unique and should be respected.

On this note, I found the introduction to my version of Lewis' "A Grief Observed" to strike a bit of a wrong tone.  Madeleine L'Engle - another great writer - talked about her loss of a spouse was greater than Lewis' loss of his spouse, because she had a longer relationship and therefore his observations weren't comparable.  I'm not sure how she fully intended her introduction and perhaps I read it wrong but I felt it was a bit dismissive  or suggestive that he couldn't feel as deeply.  The reality is we all feel things through our unique filter of experience and Lewis' grief would include elements that L'Engle's wouldn't and vice versa.  Both lost beloved partners.  

In the hierarchy of loss in our family, my deference goes to my mother -- her relationship of her partner shouldn't be compared to my loss of a father.  However, is it fair to compare the loss my siblings feel to the loss I feel?  I don't believe that's any more fair than asking which child a parent loves more....a parent loves each child equally although the relationships are unique based on personalities of the participants.  How is anyone's grief process helped by saying ones is greater.  Because my brother worked and talked daily with my dad....does that mean his loss tips the scales to him? 

Years later after the death of my cousin's son, I still shed occasional tears for his loss -- but I don't pretend to have experience as profound a loss as my cousin or the wife of her son....but I do still grieve.

So -- one of my big reminders and issues -- honor each person's loss and don't compare.  Just honor the contribution to your life of the one who has gone.

Daddy's girl

Daddy's girl.  Yep.  But I'm not sure if that even begins to sum up how much I loved this man.

I was always so proud and excited to be able to introduce my dad to people.  I knew they'd be happy to have the experience of knowing this really good man.

I may had taken for granted at times how special it was to love and be loved so much.  A college acquaintance and co-worker confessed she was jealous of my relationship with my dad.  I was blown away...for a number of reasons.  Her vulnerability in saying that to me may have topped the list.  I've held on to that observation from her.  I did my best to honor the investment and support I had from my dad.

The Memorial Service Bulletin

Remarks for the service 9/2/2016

Good Afternoon.  I'm Kristi -- the youngest of Gordon and Dee's children.  You may not know that I'm the inspiration for the term "the third time's the charm".  Quite frankly, I'm also a bit of the black sheep.  You see, just like my brother and sister, I also went to beauty school. But I rejected a beauty shop's atmosphere of gossip and innuendo and instead choose a career in politics.  One of many mistakes I may have made over the years.  Like so many parents know....children will rebel.  So this quiet man's children became a preacher, a speaker and a press secretary.  

We didn't expect to be here today....but just like when he got behind the wheel.  Gordon went fast.

Gordon always loved a good joke.  How many of you here were offered his ring...only to have it break into pieces.  Or be offered on of his special diamond pins....dime and pins.

It would be tempting for me to tell you what a great man my father was....but your presence here today demonstrates you already know this about him.

If you didn't know this, the Bible uses many names to describe God and His character.  This is something, my brother, the seminary graduate is better qualified to tell you.  But, I believe that the generous, gentle loving man we all knew Gordon to be -- my daddy -- spent his life reflecting the love he received from our Heavenly Father, our Abba -- daddy -- God.  

Gordon loved each and everyone of us right where we were and that love inspired us to be more.  I also believe Gordon saw God's handiwork and design in each and every one of us.  Gordon's wish would be that each of us would know a personal relationship with our savior.

We thank you so deeply for the stories of Gordon's love-in-action in your lives.  We treasure them and will hold them close to our hearts.  By sharing these stories with our family, you are giving us Gordon's last present.

The obituary - in full

Gordon Albert Stewart, age 90, was released to his heavenly home on Sunday, August 28, 2016 after a brief illness.  Visitation will be Thursday, September 1st, at Miller Funeral Home from 5:00 - 7:00 p.m. and a memorial service will be held on Friday, September 2, at 1st Baptist Church in Sioux Falls at 1:00 p.m.

Born March 22, 1926, Gordon was the oldest of five children born to A.O. and Lillian Stewart in Norbeck, SD.  A.O. and Lillian had a small farm there were they raised their family.  Siblings David, Betty, Vonnie and Roger spent their youth learning the value of hard work, discipline and faith in God through the challenges of the Great Depression.  A.O. taught his children by giving them the  opportunity to choose their path.  At the age of 13, Gordon earned a lamb for a summer of farm work and had the choice to sell it or raise it.  Gordon raised the lamb and eventually had a flock which helped finance his first car, part of a lifelong love with all things motorized. 

World War II service in the Army called and Gordon served stateside as clerk typist.  He later encouraged his children to learn to type because “you just never knew when it might come in handy” — this was before the advent of the personal computer.  

After being discharged from the Army, Gordon planned to attend Sioux Falls College.  However, having missed so much school to work on the family farm, college coursework wasn’t too satisfying.  Experiences in his growing-up years in a post-depression farming situation in South Dakota instilled in Gordon the knowledge that success requires careful planning and hard work. While a student at Sioux Falls College in 1950, he bought a financially troubled beauty salon at 18th and Grange in Sioux Falls that employed his cousin, Belva, who operated it and wih his financial management, Gordon began a successful business career. 

In the June of 1950, Gordon decided to reinforce his knowledge of his business enterprise by enrolling in a local beauty academy. He continued his studies in Detroit and bought back training to South Dakota to help him build a large and loyal clientele.

In addition to staring a business and a new career, Gordon enjoyed the young adult fellowship at First Baptist Church.  While sitting in the balcony on Sunday, an attractive young lady caught his eye.  Deloris (Dee) Renner caught his heart as well as his eye and it wasn’t long until he convinced her to share his life.  Gordon and Dee’s wedding was the first wedding in the new sanctuary at First Baptist’s new 22nd and Covell location on a hot June day in 1952.  Gordon’s only request for the wedding was for Dee to be on time.  His request was made impossible to fulfill because the lack of air conditioning discouraged the guests from arriving before the last possible minute, leaving the bride waiting for the aisle to clear.

Dee, Gordon’s energetic spouse, was invaluable help in these early years of the salon business, assisting in a variety of ways, including laundering towels, acting as receptionist and helping with the bookkeeping. Gordon purchased three more salons and, in 1955, his brother David joined the business. 

As a solution to the shortage of skilled stylists, in 1956, the first Stewart School of Hairstyling opened in Sioux Falls. In 1959, a Sioux City Iowa school opened and another brother, Roger, joined Stewart Enterprises. 

Soon, growth spread throughout South Dakota and into Iowa and Nebraska. Training became a high priority and such featured nationally renowned guest hairstylists began sharing outstanding talent.  Stewart schools developed a curriculum that now surpasses most in the country. 

In the 1990s, Stewarts operated salons and schools in seven upper midwest states with additional salons operated by second generation Stewarts in California, Colorado, Massachusetts and Texas.  

Gordon and Dee were blessed with three children, Randy, Michelle and Kristi.  Gordon took an avid interest in encouraging the kids’ education and activities. A fixture in the stands or audience, proudly displaying the results of their hard work in his office for all to see.

In spite of not completing his college course work, Gordon was dedicated to the importance of Christian education and served for decades on the University of Sioux Falls’ board of trustees, several as Chairman of the Board.  He and his siblings put forward money to build the Stewart Center, which is named in honor of A.O. and Lillian. He also served on the board of the Sioux Falls Parks and Recreation Department, was a board member of First National Bank and the then named Sioux Valley Hospital.  He was active in the community organizations including Forward Sioux Falls, the Downtown Rotary and the Sioux Falls Area Community Foundation.  He was honored as South Dakota Philanthropist of the Year.  In word and deed, Gordon demonstrated his commitment to Christ through his everyday actions. 

His hobbies involved all things motorized.  In 1962, bought a new Chevrolet Corvette. It was fast and Gordon had the tickets to prove it.  His enthusiasm for cars opened the opportunity to own one of 50 1964 Hemi Barracuda Lightweights. The car, known as The Hairbender dominated the region’s dragways.  In 1968, another limited production of Light Weights brought The Hairbender Too to dominate the tracks.  Gordon also went to driver’s school and spent weekends road racing an Italian built Osca and Lola.  The trophies from both the drag racing and road racing held places of honor at the Stewart company enterprises.  

Gordon also loved motorcycles and used it as a way to stay connected with his children and enjoyed weekends at a ranch in western South Dakota on dirt bikes and in dune buggies. 

In later years, Gordon and Dee enjoyed time spent in Santa Barbara, CA, walking along the sea wall and beaches and having coffee at the wharf and Java Station.  Gordon struck up friendships with a multitude of people from all social and economic walks of life.  He treasured these friendships and looked forward to the annual visits.  He drove to California, usually making the trip in two days claiming to be taking slow.    

Recently, he spent days working in grandson Parker’s growing business folding tee-shirts to be shipped to customers.  He was a regular supporter of his grandkids activities making those events a priority on his calendar.

Gordon was known to all as a gentle person, who cared deeply for his family and friends. Though not a man of many words those blessed with his presence could tell you of the wisdom he shared with countless people. Those closest to him could tell you many stories of how he encouraged people to pursue their dreams.

Grateful for having shared his life are his life’s love Dee, children Randall (Sara) of Sioux Falls, Michelle (Mark) Brenner of Santa Barbara, CA and Kristi (Bill) of Wall Lake. Grandchildren Parker Stewart of Sioux Falls, Connor Stewart of Sioux Falls, Paige Brenner of San Francisco, CA, Sam Brenner of Santa Barbara, CA, Evie Golden of Wall Lake and Bess Golden of Wall Lake and 4 great grandchildren Carter, Ashtyn, Braxton Stewart and Presley Stewart all of Sioux Falls.  Siblings Betty Fillbach, Vonnie Griffith and Roger (Carol) Stewart of Sioux Falls and nephews, nieces and extended family.  Gordon was welcomed into heaven by parents A.O. and Lillian Stewart, brother David and sister-in-law Fran.

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep
by Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep,
I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints on snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain
I am the gentle Autumn rain

When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight
I am the soft stars that shine at night
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there, I did not die

A poem included in one of the sympathy cards.

It feels too hard

It's been 6 or more weeks since my father died.  It's not gotten easier.  In someways, I think it feels harder.

I'm humbled.  There is so much I didn't know.  So much I wish I could change.  No one can go back.  So we can only go forward.  

I've not understood the grief with a person whom you loved so much and for so long.  I feel like an unfeeling clod when I think of my parents when they lost there own parents -- my grandparents.  And yet I believe it had to impact them in a similar way.  On my dad's desk, as I started to look for things to prepare for his funeral -- one of the things I found was the funeral book from his father.  I was not quite 5 when my Grandpa Stewart died.  45 years ago.  And the guest book from his funeral was on my dad's desk.  I'd never seen it before.  Frankly, I barely remember my Grandpa Stewart.  Maybe one memory that I can actually count as mine...and it's a brief flash of him sitting in his recliner as I came into their house on Hawthorne.  

A.O. and Lillian Stewart

There was a beautiful photo of my grandpa and grandma that my dad had kept on his desk in more recent years.  Maybe that was his way of honoring and remembering and feeling close again.  I guess I don't know because I never asked.  But I know it must have been special.