My Dad Was Kind of a Superhero, I'm Sure Going to Miss Him, My Eulogy

It’s a strange thing to wake up an orphan. Particularly when, in the way of the modern world, that news comes from a grief-stricken Facebook post of one brother, that reaches you before the message left by another. I thought I was prepared for it, but like most of the big things in life, getting married, having your first kid, you never really are.

Not only did I become an orphan, just a little over a week ago, but in some sense, a patriarch, as well. With the passing of our father, we are the oldest generation in our bloodline, and I stand as the oldest of his seven children, a big role to fill.

I know none of them expect anything from me, except that I love them as best I can. But, somehow for me, the way I see myself is changing. My relationship with my father was the most important of any human relationship in my life, second only to my wife. It had its ups and downs, but, to me, he started and ended, a hero.

Study to show yourself approved to God, a workman that needs not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.

Preach the word; be ready in season and out of season; reprove, rebuke, exhort, with great patience and instruction.

These words, from the letters of a former Christian murdering Pharisee, to a young evangelist are the nearest I can find to describe my father’s life. This was him.

From his birth on July 20th, 1948, in Shawnee Oklahoma, until his passing on July 14th in the intensive care unit of Baptist Hospital, this man followed that mission to the best of his ability, maybe more passionately than anyone I’ve ever known.

For the first six years of my life, that was what I wanted, to join him in “the most important job anyone could ever have” according to him. But, of course, I ran away and joined the circus.

If you ever knew my father for more than a few minutes, you’ll remember two things, his effortless smile, that would have looked ridiculously staged on any other face, and the way he said your name. He believed in the absolute value of every single individual on this planet and it showed.

While other young men in 1973 were off experimenting with free love, he was spearheading relief efforts in a tiny town, not far from here, that had suffered a devastating flood, at the age of 25. He wasn’t just a helper, he was the leader, gathering supplies, marshaling local ministers and churches to bring more, and tirelessly documenting the loss and the response.

As I Looked through his scrapbook, a tiny piece of paper caught my attention. “Let this man into town” it reads, and it’s signed by the mayor of Dover Oklahoma, a permit to get him past the cordon of police and rescue workers, to the people who needed him most. To me, it was a symbol of who he was.

It never changed. Whether it was money raised for that purpose, or half of the groceries our family had been given by someone else, if you needed it, it was yours.

He was preceded in death by his wife of 27 years, Janett Sue Morris, and his parents, Rex and Judy Morris. He is survived by his wife Angel Du Morris, his children Mark, Steven, Timothy, Jonathan, Michael, Esther and Tabitha, and a young niece, Abby, who he thought of as his own daughter in many ways, and their spouses, Angel, Naisha, Cheryl, Katie, Jon and Mike. One brother, Gerald Morris, and one sister, Kathleen Morris Clemens. The current count stands at 26 grandchildren, including my newly acquired son-in-law, and too many spiritual children to count.

When I first thought about having a pastor come to preach at this service, my initial response was that I didn’t want anyone to feel like there was an agenda. I’ve been to funerals where people are scared into making some, seemingly life altering “eternal” decision, and I’ve never really believed that’s how it works.

But as I thought about it, I realized, that, like the Apostle Paul said, “For me to live is Christ, to die is gain,” is as close to a motto as the man had.

I’m not going to ask you about your eternal destination. But, I hope that the rest of what I say, challenges you, whatever you believe, to make the most of whatever days you have left in this life, because that is what my father lived for.

Growing up with Randy Morris as a father was anything but boring. From moving every two years, to epic road trips that spanned the country, to outdoor adventures, that included, getting lost 100 miles from nowhere, breaking down on more than one occasion, and once, Steve and I thought we were going to have to drag his unconscious body through the snow, when he started showing signs of hypothermia.

We ate a lot of spam and hard tack on those adventures, and way too much oatmeal, when we were home, but looking back, I had what most could consider an idyllic childhood. My father made sure that our family loved each other, and to this day, we have the best family get togethers, and with few exceptions, tales of holiday drama seem like stories from a foreign planet.

I’m not exaggerating when I say, I don’t know how I would have survived many times in life, without my family. From asking advice from mom about our first baby, to getting help with a string of old cars, theatrical productions, and various home improvement projects, this man created a community that has thrived, with him, and in his absence as he left to care for his ailing mother, and ultimately to start a new life with Angel in General Santos City, on Mendinao, in the Philippines.

My dad was a patient teacher. Whether it was sharing what little he knew about cars, all hard won knowledge, keeping the collection of used trucks and cars our family went through on the road, or teaching one of the few guitar chords he knew, but used to write dozens of beautiful songs. He was always up for learning new things, and to the end, nothing excited him more than discovering a new fact, or idea that changed how he viewed some part of the world.

My father never gave up. Even when, after moving back to Oklahoma, in the slump of the oil crash, there were no jobs for former Church of Christ ministers with Bible degrees. If there was ever lack, it wasn’t in his efforts. We spent long, hot days, alongside him, cutting grass, trimming shrubs and hedges and eventually, washing windows, to try and make ends meet. But, in his heart, he was always a preacher.

That’s not to say he was perfect. There was one sunny afternoon in Manhattan Kansas I remember in particular. The first time I ever heard my dad utter a swear word. I was almost thirteen. Steve and I were in the garage, and the way I remember it, dad was finishing up a tune up and looking for some tool we had no doubt misplaced. I don’t remember which of us said whatever we shouldn’t have in that moment, but his frustration boiled over.

I think both of us were pretty certain one of us was going to die when the word “damn” left my father’s mouth. We’d never heard him even say darn, golly, gosh, gee, or crap, all words that could get your mouth washed out with soap in our house.

He loved music, I was struck by how many pictures there are with him playing guitar. Probably more than anything, it made me sad to realize, that in the last days of his life, his singing voice, which he was very proud of, was taken from him by his illness.

He loved long conversations, and it brought tears to my eyes when he told me, “Well, one good thing about it, I’ve learned that there are a lot of things that just don’t need to be said,” when I told him I was sorry it was so hard for him to speak.

A few months back, fearful we would never have the conversation, as we didn’t when my mother passed, I asked him, “If this is it, is there anything you want to say,” he took some time to think about it, but his only reply was, “I’m proud of each of you, and I’m not afraid to die.”

At first, this made me angry, my sense of drama demanded something more profound from a man who made his living as a lecturer and writer. I felt robbed. But, gradually, it has sunk in, he already said everything there was to say, every time he told us how proud he was, every time he stopped to listen, and every time he said, “I love you.” Every time he gave attention to those that no one else seemed to even acknowledge, every time he shared his faith, and every time he gave from a pocket much closer to empty than full.

In the past few months, I’ve grown to love another parent. I can never think of her as mom, since she's three years younger than me, yeah, my dad had game, but Angel Du Morris was a welcome addition to our family. I don’t know how everyone felt, but at least two of my siblings have expressed similar feelings. I didn’t know what to expect when I met her. I didn’t expect to feel much, other than polite kindness, but, in the way she cared for him, and their interactions, we saw more.

It was with her, in the end of his life, he was able to return to the thing he loved most, and live out the adventure he saw in sharing the gospel. It was with her, that he returned to the outdoors, the ocean, the mountains, and the forests of the Philippines, a place he and my mother longed to go for years.

He was so proud when he called to tell me that he had been officially named an associate pastor of their church in General Santos City. We laughed together as he told me about being hired to teach morals and character to members of the Philippine government and I told him, he needed to come home and teach that course here. And he was so excited as these simple lessons were spread, through translated recordings of his messages, circulated among over ten thousand businessmen in General Santos.

On his birthday I took Angel to collect his ashes. She laughed as she described to me translating for him as he preached. She had to question his American way of saying things and make sure his jokes, corny as they were, made sense for the island people who were now his congregation.

In more ways than one, he managed to come full circle. A life that started an hour from here, ended twenty minutes from here, after being lived across more than 10 states, on both coasts, as far south as Florida, as far north as Wyoming, and even across other continents. I told him once on his 50th birthday that he’d lived a life men two generations before him could have only dreamed about.

And now, he stands outside this world and looks back, a part, I believe, of the great cloud of witnesses. For me, this is a challenge. To reconsider, to examine, to make intentional choices about my own life, and the impact I’m making. To look more closely at the way I love, the things I say and the time I spend. It’s easy for us to make statements about the state of the world, and everything that is wrong, but I want to challenge you today to be the change you want to see.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Love your neighbor as you love yourself. As much as it is within your power, be at peace with all men. Live in such a way that men will see your good works and give glory to the creator. These were the things he believed in, and if we would all take them to heart as he did, we wouldn’t have to wait to see a better world. The one we live in now would be changed for the better.

I love you dad. You will be missed. I cannot speak for everyone, but for myself, I intend to take up this challenge. Not out of fear, or to escape wrath, but out of love and the knowledge that I can make life easier for some. This is not goodbye, because I feel you here, more than ever, but rather, we will see you soon.