Years ago, I started writing an episode of my Food for Thought podcast called “Write Your Own Eulogy.” I never finished it, but the idea has stayed with me, and recently, for reasons I couldn’t have anticipated, I’ve been thinking about it again.
In some contemplative traditions and courses on mindful death and dying, participants are invited to write their own eulogy. It’s an exercise in reflecting on your life while you’re still living it, not to dwell morbidly on death but to think more intentionally about life.
What would you want people to say about you when you’re gone? What would you want them to remember? What would you hope your life stood for?
And perhaps more importantly, what would the answers to those questions tell you about how you’re living right now?
Of course, the point isn’t to come up with the perfect answers. It’s to recognize that we still have some say in what those answers might be.
I’ve been thinking about returning to that unfinished podcast episode and exploring these questions more deeply. But in the meantime, I found myself writing a different eulogy.
My father’s.
The Impossible Task of Summarizing a Life
My father, John Patrick, died on July 27, 2026, at the age of 94. I recently returned from his funeral, where I had the honor of writing and delivering his eulogy. I had already written his obituary, which was its own meaningful exercise, but writing his eulogy was something else entirely.
An obituary is, in many ways, a public record of a life. It tells people who someone was, where they came from, what they did, whom they loved, and whom they left behind.
A eulogy is different. It’s an opportunity to reflect on the person behind those facts, to capture something of who they were and what they meant to the people who knew and loved them.
As I sat down to write my father’s eulogy, I was struck by the impossibility of capturing 94 years of his life in just a few pages, a few minutes, a few stories.
I began to realize that I couldn’t possibly capture every aspect of who he was.
Nor did I have to.
The Mosaic of a Life
One of the most meaningful realizations I had while writing my father’s eulogy was that I wasn’t writing the story of his life. I was writing my story of his life, informed by what I knew of him and by what others (and he) had shared with me.
My father was a father to me and my sister, a grandfather to his grandchildren, a husband, a son, a friend, a soldier, a colleague, a neighbor. He was a familiar face to people who knew him through his work, a character in stories told by old friends, and a presence in the lives of people I may never meet.
Each of those people knew a different version of him.
Not necessarily a contradictory version, although sometimes that, too. But a different version, shaped by the circumstances in which they knew him, the years they shared with him, the experiences they had together, and the particular relationship that existed between them.
Some knew his generosity. Some knew his humor. Some knew his stubbornness. Some knew his vulnerability. Some knew the younger man he had been, while others knew only the older man he became.
And none of those people, including me, knew all of him.
I knew him as my father. Others knew him as a friend, a fellow soldier, an uncle, a cousin, a neighbor. Each of us had our own memories and experiences, our own understanding of who he was.
I began to think of these different perspectives as pieces of a mosaic. Each of us held a piece of a much larger picture, and together, our memories and experiences revealed more of who he was than any one of us could have known alone.
I found that realization comforting. I didn’t have to capture every aspect of who my father was. I could honor him by sharing what I knew, knowing that others carried memories, experiences, and stories that were equally part of his life.
But what I didn’t expect was how much this realization would affect the way I thought about my own life.
We Are More Than Someone Else’s Story of Us
I began thinking about all the people I’ve known throughout my life and how differently each of them might describe me.
Some might remember my generosity, loyalty, and compassion; others might recall moments when I was frustrated, impatient, hurt, or simply not at my best.
And I’ve realized that sometimes I’ve allowed those more negative perceptions to carry more weight than all the others. I can find myself dwelling on someone’s criticism, questioning my own character because of how one person has experienced me.
But writing my father’s eulogy has helped me see this differently.
There may be things about me that someone finds challenging, or times when I haven’t shown up as the person I aspire to be. I can acknowledge that, reflect on it, and take responsibility for my part in a relationship without allowing those experiences to define the entirety of who I am.
That person’s experience of me may be entirely valid, but it’s still only one experience.
One perspective.
One piece of the mosaic.
Just as I couldn’t possibly tell the whole story of my father’s life, no one person can tell the whole story of mine. Nor can I tell the whole story of anyone else’s.
There’s something both comforting and humbling about that realization. Comforting because it reminds me that no one person’s perception of me defines who I am. And humbling because the same is true of my perceptions of others.
It allows me to give a little more grace to myself and to others, recognizing that each of us sees only part of the whole picture.
Writing Our Own Eulogies
Which brings me back to that unfinished podcast episode and the exercise of writing your own eulogy.
I still think there’s tremendous value in asking ourselves how we want to be remembered, what we want our lives to stand for, and what kind of impact we want to have on the people around us. But writing my father’s eulogy has added another dimension to those questions.
Ultimately, we don’t get to decide how everyone will remember us. We can influence those memories through the way we live, the choices we make, the kindness we extend, and the love we give. But the stories people tell about us will always be shaped by their own experiences and perspectives, emphasizing some aspects of who we are while overlooking others.
Writing my father’s eulogy taught me that a life isn’t one story, told by one person. Each of us contains more stories than any one person could ever tell.
A Eulogy for My Father, John L. Patrick
(1932–2026)
What follows is the eulogy I had the honor of delivering at my father's funeral. It is, of course, only one piece of his story, but it's the piece I wanted to share.
Trying to summarize 94 years in just a few minutes feels like an impossible task.
John Patrick was many different things to many different people. He was a husband, a father, a grandfather, a brother, an uncle; he was an athlete, a soldier, an author, a TV host, a friend, and a devout Catholic. To those who watched his show or read his books, he was simply ‘The Gambler.’
To those close to him, he went by many names: he was ‘Pa’ to me, ‘Pappy’ to his grandchildren, ‘Dat’ to my sister, ‘Uncle John’ to his nieces and nephews, ‘Bum’ to his father, ‘Eagle’ to his schoolmates and Army buddies, and ‘Sergeant’ to his platoon.
Each and every one of those roles meant the world to him, and he took each one deeply to heart.
And then, of course, there were the titles he gave himself. Apparently, he won a singing contest back in grammar school and was crowned ‘The Brownie King’—something he clearly never forgot and didn’t let any of us forget either.
It seems like that early accolade went to his head, because when my sister and I were little, he insisted we call him not the Brownie King but “King.” Just “King.” Luckily that didn’t stick, much to his disappointment I’m sure, but while he didn’t get the royal subjects he had hoped for, he did love to hold court, he commanded a room, and he had a natural gift for drawing people in—and drawing them out.
As much as he loved the spotlight, he had an equal passion for learning other people’s stories, whether they were a stranger he met on the street, a cashier at the checkout, or a server at a restaurant. He was genuinely curious about everyone he met. He wanted to know who people were, where they came from, and what made them tick.
Beneath all his bravado and underneath his larger-than-life persona, he had a huge heart, especially when it came to the most vulnerable. Throughout his life, he was always helping others, even when he had little to spare himself. And he extended that same compassion to animals, whether it was the dogs he lived with over the years, the shelter animals he donated to support, or my cats, who he insisted he wasn’t going to like, until he met them, fell in love, and talked about them with affection long after they passed.
That same devotion went double for the people in his life. He always had time, made time, and would drop whatever he was doing for family and friends.
When you called, when you visited, when you needed him—he was always there, always in your corner, as he was fond of saying. My brother-in-law said it best when he said, “I will always remember him as the man who made you feel that just seeing you made his day.” He really did make you feel like you were the most important person in the room—second only to himself, of course.
Whether he was asking about your friends, your family, your job, your health, your struggles, or your successes, he had a way of making everyone around him feel special.
And so, when I think about how to summarize my father and his 94 years...of course it’s impossible. He was indeed so many things to so many people, which means each one of us holds our own summary of him. We each had our own distinct relationship with him. We each have our own memories, our own stories, our own understandings and moments that are uniquely ours. And in sharing them with each other, we assemble the full tapestry of who he was.
So we’ll keep telling those stories today and always, and goodness knows he loved nothing more than a good story. But we can also honor him by taking a page out of his playbook...by taking an interest in the people around us, listening to their troubles and triumphs, making time, showing up, asking questions, being curious, lighting up when they enter the room, and making them feel like just seeing them has made your day.
That’s the spirit of John Patrick that I want to carry forward. And may it be so.
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What a beautiful, thought provoking post, and sucha lovely tribute to your father. 🩷