My dad was a seeker.  

Growing up, my mother, Joan, was the rock in our family.  Constant.  Always supportive.  Best friend to many.  Other kids wanted her as a Mom.  They would hang out at our house.  Later in life, to the question of what it’s like to be married to Bob, Joan would often answer, “Which one”?  

Bob and Joan grew up in and around the small town of Poynette, Wisconsin.  They knew each other growing up.  Bob served in the Navy, he and Joan married, and Bob then started his career in Milwaukee.  He grew to become another Bob, the IBM Bob.  More than once, other kids commented that they felt like Dad was interviewing them during family dinner.  Dad did well, rising through the corporate ranks, while Joan remained home with the family.  His children cherished spending time with him camping, vacationing, and boating.  Family-dad instead of IBM-Bob.  That was the real dad that outsiders did not see.  Enthused.  Fun.  Supportive.  Playful.  Loving.

Things were going pretty well until Bob got a wake-up call in the form of a DUI.  He decided to quit drinking and join AA.  That and an outpatient treatment program would change his path more than he even knew at the time.  Bob grew as his family grew.  His priorities changed—another Bob.  

The following Bob started abruptly.  Tragically.  Cataclysmically.  His son Joe instantly lost his life driving a semi in an accident.  Bob’s world shattered.  He would emerge from this wounded, with his wounded family, and with a diagnosis of “bipolar.”  Earlier in his IBM career, he had a guy who did great work but had mental health issues.  It was all good until the guy stopped taking his meds.  Then it went bad until they got him back on his meds.  Dad made a vow that if he ever needed that kind of help, he would always take his meds.  And he made good on that promise, living with bipolar to age 89.

Not that his journey was smooth.  There were 6 or 7 mental health hospitalizations he referred to as his “sojourns with insanity.” But, as painful as those were for his family, they were fascinating and, at times, enjoyable trips for Bob.  

My dad was a seeker.

In Texas, Bob and Joan would open an outpatient addiction treatment facility and become certified addiction counselors.  Bob worked after IBM as an addiction counselor.  They both saved lives.

Texan Bob, post-IBM-white-button-down-collar Bob, older Bob protested in Dallas for marginalized communities and worked to make his congregation “welcoming.”  Bob became a good nurse and househusband to Joan as she fought and faded with cancer.  Bob was single-Bob before marrying  Mary Lou.  Bob then went to Texas Women’s University to get a bachelor’s at age 65.  He returned to his childhood passion of woodworking but connected it with nature, selecting and cutting his own tree stumps, aging them, and lathe-turning them into his own artistic expressions.  He built sea kayaks for him and Mary Lou and furniture for his grandchildren.

Bob was a journeyman of his life and a student of others.  He read biographies, studied Native American culture and history, followed naturalists like Sigurd Olson and Alfred Leopold, read philosopher Henry David Thoreau, studied psychotherapist Carl Young, examined Christianity, Islam, Muslim, and Native American faiths, adopted and practiced Buddhism, meditated, attended retreats, and “journalled” daily for years.  His evolving Christian faith, AA 12-step practice, Buddhist practice and beliefs, and commitment to rights for marginalized communities were outward manifestations of a man with a vibrant inner life.  

Words and ideas and “knowing” were special for Bob.  In his later years, we would sometimes discuss, or kind of talk around, things like this.  He helped me affirm my belief that what is most important to me, and I believe to him, are things neither of us can verbalize.  I’ve come to understand that this kind of “knowing” or “being” is richly rewarding, intensely personal, deeply connective, and ironically isolating.  Thanks, Dad, honestly.

Like me, Dad couldn’t talk about his family very much, very seriously, without breaking down.  I understand that.  He signed many of his letters and writings with “Families are Forever.”  It seemed corny the first time I saw it. But, I’ve changed my opinion.  I wonder what the word “family” meant to him in this context.  And what the word “forever” meant to him.  

I’ll leave “forever” for you to ponder, but believe that by “family,” he meant more than immediate blood-relation family.  And don’t we all know that?  Did he mean the Family of Humankind? Sentient beings?  All that is Holy? More?

I do know that family includes two individuals to whom Dad and I owe special thanks; Dad’s close and family friend Bob Johnson and his nephew Paul Cutsforth.  When Mary Lou passed, Dad’s world changed cataclysmically a second time.  Dad barely made it through Mary Lou’s funeral in Dallas before Bob J, and Paul helped me get him into what would be his last inpatient “sojourn with insanity.”  

Once released, we moved Dad to assisted living in Minnesota to take care of him.  He lost his home, wife, church, Buddhist community, support system, woodworking shop, people, driving, control of his life, everything -- overnight.  It took 12 or 18 months for Dad to process, but he did overcome it.  The last Bob was known as “Lars.”  The assisted living center people loved him; he got to continue seeing Bob and Nancy J., make new friends, and spend time with my family.  

I could have never done it without my family’s support.  Again, special thanks to Bob J and Paul.  You both helped save Dad.  Come to think of it; Bob J helped save Dad-the-seeker on his journey that started with sobriety.  So Bob J gets two saves.  Oh, and Paul has another double-save that he or Bob J can share with you as well.

My dad was a seeker. He did well.  I am proud of him.  The skinny kid from Poynette, the “townie,” did well and good indeed! 

There is one last thing I need to share with y’all (I was in Dallas for 11 years).  When Dad returned from traveling, with Joan or Mary Lou, back from Wisconsin or other places, he would usually recall the trip chronologically by who he saw and where he went.  That’s not odd at all.  What’s quirky is he would remember and recite what he ate -- at each place.  Dad loved food;   loved eating it, loved sharing it.  He loved picking up the tab, and he gets to do so one last time after this service for those who are comfortable attending.