Next Monday is April 15, the sixth anniversary of my dad’s untimely death, as he helped a stranger dig his car out of the deep, heavy spring snow that covered the Twin Cities that weekend. The following is the eulogy I wrote and delivered at his funeral. I share it here because I want Bob’s memory to live on and because I miss my dad dearly.

A friend and I recently discussed the discrepancy between eulogy virtues and resume virtues. We found it disquieting to ponder how we want others to remember us. Our eulogy virtues express our character and intention, which have a lasting impact; they’re our legacy, unlike the titles and accomplishments on our resumes. Here I am, writing my father’s eulogy just weeks later.

My dad left a massive legacy. He was a helper of all beings and died living who he was. He had a gentle spirit and was an organizer of fun. Two days ago, I heard from our next-door neighbor from my childhood years; she shared with me, “I remember him (dad) leaving for work always impeccably dressed, and he used to shoot hoops with Brook (her son) some evenings. I remember the Halloween that we weren’t going to go out for candy and your dad dressed Brook in his old MP uniform, and we ended up trick or treating.”

My dad was larger than life. He was invincible. He was generous, passionate, and happy. He was full of energy and big ideas and shared them with everyone he met. He was MY lifeline. Without exaggeration, I would not be who and where I am today if not for my dad and his belief in me.

He didn’t make living up to his standards easy, but they were always fair. There were hoops to jump through with any request made upon him and one-way conversations to withstand, but in the end, he would give with unequaled generosity.

About a year and a half ago, I began riding my bike for transportation. On my first long commute to NE Minneapolis, I came out of a 45-minute appointment to find my bike gone. I called my dad because he lived and worked close to where I was, and I knew he would come to my rescue. And he did. He knew I was heartbroken at the loss of my bike (I love my bikes!), which at the time was just one of a string of painful losses, so we drove straight to a bike shop, and he replaced my stolen bike. That is the kind of man and father he was. I always knew I would be okay because I had my dad.

I have a new project that my dad was as excited about as I am: a women’s cycling group. He couldn’t stop himself from brainstorming ideas to make it successful and fun (all the while telling me about all the projects and committees he’s working on, of course).

Last week, my dad came up in conversation while I spoke with Rich, the store manager at the bike shop I'm partnering with on this project. You see, Bob was also an avid cyclist. He enjoyed long Sunday morning rides from NE Minneapolis to downtown Saint Paul and back, with a coffee and newspaper break about halfway. I told Rich he would soon meet my dad because Bob needed little reason to talk to folks and was eager to meet the new friends I spoke about. I also told Rich that my dad loves cycling, that he's a loyal customer, and that they would be fortunate to know him. I said all of this with visceral pride and joy. I couldn't wait to bring my dad to meet my friends at the bike shop.

That was ten days ago.

I wonder now, as I scream that I can’t do life without my dad, if it is a parent’s charge to prepare their children for life without them? I seem to have failed that lesson.

My dad is my mentor, and he will always be my mentor. I am who I am because of his role modeling and support. He taught me how to self-reflect through his curiosity and receptivity. We learned together.

During a conversation a couple of years ago, my dad asked me what grade he earned as a father. “B? C? Probably a B-?” He told me, “I figured when you had a kid, it raised itself,” and that it was much later he learned that wasn’t true. I answered that he earned an A+ for having the courage to ask.

Bob was incredibly compassionate — he had a loving heart. He valued physical closeness, though sometimes squeezing your knee until you laughed and squirmed in pain was his form of affection. He loved to sing. He would turn the music up so loud in the car that he couldn’t hear himself singing. Sometimes, Dad forgot the windows were open and wagged his finger at some stranger while singing at them. Or he’d drive around the block repeatedly to finish a favorite song, and if you were in the car with him, you were going along for the ride whether you liked it or not.

My dad wanted to learn from his experiences and share them with everyone. He liked people and wanted to support every person he met without judgment or expectation. He told me just last Friday that my son Joey is like me because we are both drawn to protecting the underdog. I wonder if my dad ever recognized that he was the same.

My dad was ardent about my security and well-being. Not long after I began working for myself, he shared his “wisdom” about how hard I would work. I waited until he finished and said, “If you’re angry with me, it’s okay; you can tell me you’re angry. I know it comes from a place of caring and concern.” His response was, “I’m not angry!” Then we both paused momentarily, and he said: “Well, okay, if this is what you’re going to do, how do we market it?” His demeanor and energy had changed in a moment. He heard me forgive him for being angry and refocused on finding solutions. He never again showed disappointment in my choice but supported every path I chose (always focused on the big picture, marketing, and ROI).

I feel deeply grateful that my dad valued learning, personal growth, and conversation. One afternoon, some years ago, he talked with a good friend and neighbor while I was at his home. The neighbor described a trip he had recently taken, and Bob’s response was to share a journey he made to the same place. When the neighbor left, my dad asked me something about their interaction, and I asked him, “What might happen if you let him (neighbor) have his story? What if you just listened and asked questions to give him a chance to tell you more?” My dad said, “But I’m connecting with him when I tell him about my trip.” (He was a master at finding the commonalities within stories and enjoyed sharing them.)

A few years later, I was at a clinic to have surgery, and my dad was there with me, along with my dear friend Gerry. While I was in pre-op, they sat together talking about Montana as Gerry has a home there, and my dad loves everything about Montana, the mountains, and being outdoors. After Gerry left and my dad and I were waiting together, he said aloud, but primarily to himself, “Why do I do that? Why can’t I just listen? Why do I talk so much and not listen more?” I didn’t say anything as I recognized his words from our long-ago conversation.

He had heard me, and my words marinated until he was ready to receive them. Not long after his quiet self-inquiry, the anesthesiologist came to my room, and we chatted while she worked. Before she left, she asked for my business card, and when she was gone, my dad said with excitement, “I know what you do and how you do it—you look people in the eye, and you listen to them. And you smile.” Followed, of course, by “How do we market that?”

At that moment, he looked at me as a role model for making connections and wondered how I built my relationships with my clients. He would often say with wonder, “All of your clients are your soul mates.” I wonder if he saw how we learned from and with one another and how much I was like him.

Bob leaves big shoes to fill. I feel his presence everywhere. He is always on my mind and in my heart, especially as I parent my children—I hope I can do for them all that my dad did for me.

To follow up on the stolen bike story, three weeks after Bob died, my stolen bike reappeared near the place it was stolen with a “For Sale” sign attached. It seems Bob found it and placed it where and when he knew I would find it.

Holly Margl is the award-winning author of Witnessing Grief; Inviting Trauma and Loss to Our Coaching Conversations, An Enneagram Perspective, coach, coach mentor, and trainer specializing in grief, trauma, and the Enneagram.