12/10/2025
By Kristyn Jo Benedyk
A Eulogy For My Father & A Challenge For Those Who Remain…
I read Kathleen’s eulogy before writing mine, and it describes my dad perfectly. So I am going to take a bit of a different approach.
This is the third time in six years that I have stood here and feebly attempted to convey the greatness of a loved one in mere minutes.
While preparing, I realized that when we lose someone – especially when we sit beside them and watch them take their final breath - the fragility and preciousness of life is so evident.
We leave that experience reminding ourselves that “life is short” and declaring that we must “live each day to its fullest”.
And yet, in time, we slip back into old patterns. Worrying about if something we said sounded stupid or losing sleep over things simply not worthy of our time.
I suppose we sort of have to – to some extent. If we woke up every morning proclaiming “I’m going to die someday so I better make this one count!” we’d likely live in a perpetual state of pressure and anxiety.
So the question is: how do we find that middle? The balance.
I don’t have that answer of course, but I do have a challenge. I’d like to tell you about three of my favorite qualities about my dad, and then challenge us all to use these traits as a means to hold the awareness of how beautiful yet fleeting life is at the center of our minds for at least a few moments each day.
Universally, everyone who has talked to me about my dad over these last few weeks has said the same word: generous.
I was lucky to grow up in a home where virtues like honesty, integrity, compassion, and generosity were not just discussed but demonstrated daily.
If someone needed help, and my parents were in the position to provide it, it was done. Family, friends, even strangers. Growing up, it wasn’t uncommon for someone to be living with us at any given time. At one point I’m pretty sure a gentleman came to do some plumbing work in our basement and wound up staying a good two months.
During a particularly cold night in the city, instead of giving money to a man asking for change, my dad took him to a hotel and prepaid for him to be housed, warm, and showered during the cold spell.
When the recession hit in the 2000s, my parents chose to use their retirement to continue to pay all of their employees – for years – rather than lay them off. I know looking at things retrospectively, it would be easy for someone to say that wasn’t the right choice. But I’m still proud of that decision. Their decision to sacrifice without being asked, to give at all costs, and to choose hope without evidence.
So my challenge is: what can you do each day, or perhaps each week or month, to GIVE. To be generous as an active reminder of the tenderness of life.
Maybe that means hitting the $1 donation button when you check out at Jewel. Maybe it means volunteering your time at a non profit. Maybe it means donating blood.
I challenge you to find your ways to add an extra dose of giving to your undoubtedly already kind and caring lives.
The second trait is vulnerability.
Everyone saw my dad as a tough guy – larger than life – and to most guys trying to date one of his daughters, he was a pretty scary dude. But anyone who knew him knew he was a big softie.
Not for one second of my life did I ever question if my dad loved me or was proud of me. My dad was my favorite person to share good news with, because he would cry. And to cry happy tears, well that’s a special kind of beautiful.
But, he also cried if he ever accidentally did something that hurt you. We’re all human. And his heart was so big that it broke if he knew he made you feel bad. He was never hesitant to say sorry.
His willingness to be vulnerable extended beyond family. When Kim, Kath, and I wanted matching sister tattoos, my parents had to take us since I was only 16. And then, Mom and Dad both decided “why not” and we all got out first tattoos together.
My dad got the symbols for faith and family – but he also got the comedy and tragedy masks. It wasn’t because he was a fan of the theatre; he wanted people to ask him why he got it. And he wanted to tell them it was because he was bipolar. He wanted to start dialogues that could make other people feel safe enough to talk about mental health. This was thirty years ago, and he could see even then how important it is for people, especially men, to be able to talk about these often taboo topics.
So my challenge is: how can you choose vulnerability as an act of defiance in a world where strength is celebrated as a sign of success?
Maybe it means finding time once a week to text a loved one all of the things you value about them. Maybe it means not just saying “fine” when someone asks how you are doing and you aren’t okay. Maybe it means having the courage to say you are sorry – either moving forward – or going back and repairing past hurts.
I hope at the minimum it means saying the words “I love you” and “I am proud of you” openly and freely.
The third and final trait of my dad’s that I cherish – though this list certainly could have gone on forever – is how he showed up. Always.
He coached all of us girls in multiple sports. His strategy for coaching track wasn’t to win, it was to make sure everyone was included. That meant instead of stacking your relay with your fastest runners, you paired the speedy ones with the slow ones. I can say this because I was the slow one.
He had another unique way of showing up. When my dad would get home from work, he would just sit in his car. We would see him come home, but we knew he wasn’t “home” yet. I don’t know what he did during this time – listen to music, sit in silence – but I do know that when he opened that car door and came into the house, the business of the day was gone, and he was just fully with us.
He continued to show up into adulthood. One day when I lived in Cincinnati and was going through a hard time, I surrendered to the fact that I couldn’t do it on my own. I called my parents for help, and they were at my door in four hours, which is particularly telling since Cincinnati was five hours away.
Even this past year, every single time I would be at my parents’ house, the moment my mom would step out of the room, my dad would immediately tell me to make sure I was taking care of her, showing up for her.
Others first. Always.
While we are all devastated at this tremendous loss, I know that these last few years with this awful disease – of him having to be cared for rather than being the one taking care of everyone else – really hurt his spirit. And while we will miss him forever, there is slight solace in knowing that his body and mind and soul are no longer enduring such suffering.
So my final challenge to you is: how can you find more ways to show up? To show up to this life – that we know fully well as we stand here today – is too short.
Maybe it means putting your phone down during dinner. Maybe it means saying yes to playing when your child asks even though you’re tired. Or maybe like my dad it means being a 250 pound man dressed as a pink Care Bear for Halloween because your daughter asks you to.
I know everyone in this room already shows up – because you are doing it now – but what is one more way in this increasingly divided and difficult world – that you can show up? For your people, for your community, for every one we share this planet with.
That is my hope. That in the spirit and memory of my dad, we can leave here today seeking out more opportunities to be generous, vulnerable, and present.
To connect with life more deeply.
And to bravely choose to love fiercely even though we know one day it will inevitably break our heart.
RIP Dad Eulogy For My Father & A Challenge For Those Who Remain…
I read Kathleen’s eulogy before writing mine, and it describes my dad perfectly. So I am going to take a bit of a different approach.
This is the third time in six years that I have stood here and feebly attempted to convey the greatness of a loved one in mere minutes.
While preparing, I realized that when we lose someone – especially when we sit beside them and watch them take their final breath - the fragility and preciousness of life is so evident.
We leave that experience reminding ourselves that “life is short” and declaring that we must “live each day to its fullest”.
And yet, in time, we slip back into old patterns. Worrying about if something we said sounded stupid or losing sleep over things simply not worthy of our time.
I suppose we sort of have to – to some extent. If we woke up every morning proclaiming “I’m going to die someday so I better make this one count!” we’d likely live in a perpetual state of pressure and anxiety.
So the question is: how do we find that middle? The balance.
I don’t have that answer of course, but I do have a challenge. I’d like to tell you about three of my favorite qualities about my dad, and then challenge us all to use these traits as a means to hold the awareness of how beautiful yet fleeting life is at the center of our minds for at least a few moments each day.
Universally, everyone who has talked to me about my dad over these last few weeks has said the same word: generous.
I was lucky to grow up in a home where virtues like honesty, integrity, compassion, and generosity were not just discussed but demonstrated daily.
If someone needed help, and my parents were in the position to provide it, it was done. Family, friends, even strangers. Growing up, it wasn’t uncommon for someone to be living with us at any given time. At one point I’m pretty sure a gentleman came to do some plumbing work in our basement and wound up staying a good two months.
During a particularly cold night in the city, instead of giving money to a man asking for change, my dad took him to a hotel and prepaid for him to be housed, warm, and showered during the cold spell.
When the recession hit in the 2000s, my parents chose to use their retirement to continue to pay all of their employees – for years – rather than lay them off. I know looking at things retrospectively, it would be easy for someone to say that wasn’t the right choice. But I’m still proud of that decision. Their decision to sacrifice without being asked, to give at all costs, and to choose hope without evidence.
So my challenge is: what can you do each day, or perhaps each week or month, to GIVE. To be generous as an active reminder of the tenderness of life.
Maybe that means hitting the $1 donation button when you check out at Jewel. Maybe it means volunteering your time at a non profit. Maybe it means donating blood.
I challenge you to find your ways to add an extra dose of giving to your undoubtedly already kind and caring lives.
The second trait is vulnerability.
Everyone saw my dad as a tough guy – larger than life – and to most guys trying to date one of his daughters, he was a pretty scary dude. But anyone who knew him knew he was a big softie.
Not for one second of my life did I ever question if my dad loved me or was proud of me. My dad was my favorite person to share good news with, because he would cry. And to cry happy tears, well that’s a special kind of beautiful.
But, he also cried if he ever accidentally did something that hurt you. We’re all human. And his heart was so big that it broke if he knew he made you feel bad. He was never hesitant to say sorry.
His willingness to be vulnerable extended beyond family. When Kim, Kath, and I wanted matching sister tattoos, my parents had to take us since I was only 16. And then, Mom and Dad both decided “why not” and we all got out first tattoos together.
My dad got the symbols for faith and family – but he also got the comedy and tragedy masks. It wasn’t because he was a fan of the theatre; he wanted people to ask him why he got it. And he wanted to tell them it was because he was bipolar. He wanted to start dialogues that could make other people feel safe enough to talk about mental health. This was thirty years ago, and he could see even then how important it is for people, especially men, to be able to talk about these often taboo topics.
So my challenge is: how can you choose vulnerability as an act of defiance in a world where strength is celebrated as a sign of success?
Maybe it means finding time once a week to text a loved one all of the things you value about them. Maybe it means not just saying “fine” when someone asks how you are doing and you aren’t okay. Maybe it means having the courage to say you are sorry – either moving forward – or going back and repairing past hurts.
I hope at the minimum it means saying the words “I love you” and “I am proud of you” openly and freely.
The third and final trait of my dad’s that I cherish – though this list certainly could have gone on forever – is how he showed up. Always.
He coached all of us girls in multiple sports. His strategy for coaching track wasn’t to win, it was to make sure everyone was included. That meant instead of stacking your relay with your fastest runners, you paired the speedy ones with the slow ones. I can say this because I was the slow one.
He had another unique way of showing up. When my dad would get home from work, he would just sit in his car. We would see him come home, but we knew he wasn’t “home” yet. I don’t know what he did during this time – listen to music, sit in silence – but I do know that when he opened that car door and came into the house, the business of the day was gone, and he was just fully with us.
He continued to show up into adulthood. One day when I lived in Cincinnati and was going through a hard time, I surrendered to the fact that I couldn’t do it on my own. I called my parents for help, and they were at my door in four hours, which is particularly telling since Cincinnati was five hours away.
Even this past year, every single time I would be at my parents’ house, the moment my mom would step out of the room, my dad would immediately tell me to make sure I was taking care of her, showing up for her.
Others first. Always.
While we are all devastated at this tremendous loss, I know that these last few years with this awful disease – of him having to be cared for rather than being the one taking care of everyone else – really hurt his spirit. And while we will miss him forever, there is slight solace in knowing that his body and mind and soul are no longer enduring such suffering.
So my final challenge to you is: how can you find more ways to show up? To show up to this life – that we know fully well as we stand here today – is too short.
Maybe it means putting your phone down during dinner. Maybe it means saying yes to playing when your child asks even though you’re tired. Or maybe like my dad it means being a 250 pound man dressed as a pink Care Bear for Halloween because your daughter asks you to.
I know everyone in this room already shows up – because you are doing it now – but what is one more way in this increasingly divided and difficult world – that you can show up? For your people, for your community, for every one we share this planet with.
That is my hope. That in the spirit and memory of my dad, we can leave here today seeking out more opportunities to be generous, vulnerable, and present.
To connect with life more deeply.
And to bravely choose to love fiercely even though we know one day it will inevitably break our heart.
RIP Dad
