When you lose your dog and your dad in the same week.

It's been the worst month of my life and I have a long road of grieving ahead. But I'm okay. Love and laughter is saving me, yet again.

I shared on social media a couple weeks ago that our elderly English Bulldog, Bruno— the sweet baby Rob and I shared throughout most of our marriage, had died in his sleep. Rob was next to him, unaware, while the two watched a movie together.

The outpouring of love I received was overwhelming and I thank all of you who left comments, or DMs— each one meant the world to me.

But then, the unthinkable happened. A few short days later, my beloved dad died unexpectedly. I was an intense daddy’s girl, so this is uncharted emotional territory for me. The reality of his death, his permanent absence, is like a wisp of smoke you try to grab on to and wrestle to the ground, because you know you must in order to emotionally survive. But it slips through your fingers, outside of your grip, and just … fades into the air. You wonder if it was ever there at all. He’ll call, or text, any minute. “My darling Ann?” he’ll say, as he always does. Just wait, you’ll see.

I knew I would be the one to write and perform the eulogy. I couldn’t bear the thought someone else would do it, and God forbid, screw it up. With platitudes or impersonal, superficial anecdotes. It needed to be funny and irreverent, like him. I needed to tell everyone the truth of this man, for me. For my mom, my brother, my sister. Us.

I’m not nearly ready enough to say more. But I hope you’ll indulge me, and allow me to share with you the eulogy I shared last Thursday, July 6th.

xx

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My dad, Dick Lind, was a master craftsman behind the well-known business, Dick Lind Builders. He was more than a home builder, he was a passionate artist and leaves a legacy of countless stunning homes sprawled across the Omaha Metro area.

He was a deeply loving and doting husband, father and grandfather, known for his sharp wit, contagious sense of humor, uproarious laugh and overwhelming love for his family. He leaves a hole that can never be filled, but the threads of his work ethic, artistry, boisterous laugh and cutting sense of humor are intertwined within his children and grandchildren, as his legacy lives on.

Dick Lind was also very, very weird.

There is, and I’m convinced of this, no one like him and never will be. He was the funniest man I’ve ever known, with quips that were wild and inappropriate that if I were to share with you today would surely get me canceled. He went through incredible lengths for a laugh that every commonsense person would never consider attempting.

He would craft me text messages that were insane, but what’s worse is that he had a bizarrely high expectation that I respond back with something even better, to keep it going like we were in an improv class.

For instance,

My Little Annie,

I told your mom that her hair looked so beautiful, like she stuck her finger in an electrical socket, and you won’t believe this but she pulled a fence post out from the back of my truck and hit me in the face with it. I’ve lost an eye, but thank God I still have a good one left.

Bye!

And I had learned I better bring my A-Game, because previously if I got lazy in my response to his crazy texts with just a laugh emoji or some lame comment he couldn’t riff with, he would be genuinely disappointed in me. Very, “I have given you the world, would take a bullet for you a million times over, AND THIS IS THE BEST YOU CAN DO.”

So, when the text came through about my mom busting his eye out with a fence post, I really started to sweat like, Oh crap, what do I say funny in response TO THIS?  I’d spend hours trying to think of the best retort I could think of, and a few times I called my mom to vent about my plight and she’d be like, “He told me you haven’t written back yet and I told him he’s weird and needs to leave you alone.” But it was too late. By then there was nothing more important to me than nailing my follow up text to him. So, after laboring over it for hours, I finally thought I had something…

I text him and I say

I can call if you’re too afraid she’ll retaliate.

And attached a link to an elder abuse hotline.

I was just so giddy waiting for him to read it. And you know what he did? He left me on read. I saw “read” right under my text and HE NEVER WROTE ME BACK.

A week later I brought it up to my mom and she was like, “Ugh, I know, I think he was offended you thought he was elderly.”

When I was little, the whole family was watching TV and he came down in my mom’s short robe, with the belt tied around his head, his pasty white legs sticking out the bottom, a butter knife in his sock and he put his hands on his hips and said, “Rambo, the later years.”

He'd put two cell phones in his pockets, entered the room like Clint Eastwood, and would say, “Go ahead, call me.”

One time he found an old George Bush mask I’d worn for Halloween, put on my mom’s peacoat, came up from behind us and literally terrorized us. My mom screamed like she was in the Psycho shower scene, and from behind the mask he just laughed this belowey Santa laugh. HA HA HA HA HA.

He would pretend to be asleep by stuffing pillows under blankets and one time my brother came in and started talking to the pillow mound. My dad jumped out of the closet and yelled “Boo!” - as my brother’s spirit left his body. He screamed, real high pitched and fled down the stairs so fast he was gliding.

And when he got to my mom, she yelled up the stairs, “Dick, you’re gonna kill him!”

And again, all you could hear was the deep, belowey Santa laugh, HA HA HA HA HA.

I was the baby and an intense daddy’s girl. We were the same and we’d huddle up together and make fun of everybody at all the family reunions and laugh and laugh. I was horrifically spoiled. He doted on me— and all of us— so much, there were times it actually got a little annoying. Like “I get it, I’m the light of your life! I’m trying to hear the TV!”

I was spoiled rotten. I remember one time I was being real naughty and my mom swatted me on the butt, so I went running to my dad, ran into his arms and said “Mommy spanked me!” And he hugged me and he said, “She can be so mean, can’t she?” and we froze when from upstairs we heard, “Dick, how dare you! I’m the only one parenting around here!”

And he looks at me and says, “See, I told ya.”

He was a very simple man, who had two loves- our family and building homes. He didn’t parent us in the traditional sense - he didn’t teach us how to fish, or change a tire, but he taught us everything we needed to know and then some by how he loved our mother, loved us, and diligently provided for us.

He adored our mother, sang to her, wrote love notes to her, called her little nicknames. Mom shared with me that once us kids were out of the house, whenever she entered the room in the morning, he would rise like she was the queen and he wouldn’t sit until she told him he could sit down. Sometimes, especially if she was annoyed with him, she wouldn’t tell him to sit, so after she made her coffee, she’d come back into the room and still find him standing. It was a gag, but it was also his love. She was his queen.

Dad was home by 5 PM for dinner every day, there was no wondering where he was, what he was up to. He provided for us, handsomely, made us feel protected and secure. When he was around, I was never afraid. And he never really seemed afraid of anything, either. All my life until recently, whenever I was concerned about the state of the world, or my life, I would say, “Dad, should I be worried?” And he had such an incredible way of dismissing it, but in a comforting way — it was nothing, so easily figureoutable. Not a single bad thing from personal financial collapse to World War 3 would happen on his watch … and I believed him.

I remember a tornado was threatening to touch down a mile from our house and my dad couldn’t have cared less. And as the sirens blew, we all fled to the basement, while he was upstairs, on the top floor, going to the bathroom. My mom called up to him, “Uh, Dick - I don’t think this is how you wanna go out!” But he was right, or lucky-- the tornado popped back up and we were fine.

He gave us all special nicknames, and he made each of us feel as if we were his favorite— and we were. He made us laugh, wildly, and taught us how to have a real good sense of humor and to not take ourselves too seriously. In our family, it’s actually an honor to be made fun of. He laughed the loudest at the jokes we cracked at his expense. Jenny is the same way. I do remember one time when we were all still at home, sitting around the table, going after mom perhaps a little too hard, and she firmly excused herself from the table. For the next hour dad and I were like, “Go apologize!” “No, you go apologize!” “I didn’t even say anything!” “You did too, you said her hair looked like black packing peanuts!”

But just by being who he was, a good, moral man with an incredible work ethic and strict attention to detail, who brought integrity and dignity to the work of his hands, a man who was madly in love with his wife and with his children, I knew precisely what my standards were for an ideal life. And I knew I could never compromise.

His adoring unconditional love gave me the security, the self-esteem, the self-confidence to be strong and bold and to pursue God’s calling on my life. Because even if I lost everything, even if I failed miserably, I would never lose his love. I would always be the apple of his eye. He would always be so proud. So, I could simply get up, and try again.

My dad was God’s intended earthly example to us of what it is to be loved by God.

This is the incredible gift good men give their families. His loyalty, his fidelity and love for us gave us security. And that security allowed us the audacity of high standards, the boldness to be entrepreneurs and to pursue our callings without fear. What’s the worst that can happen when you are so lavished in love by the coolest, funniest man alive?

When someone dies, it’s common to have regrets. You wish you would have said this, or that, or done something different. You nitpick your last conversation. It’s hellish, really.

So, if you’ll indulge me, I would like to close by telling my dad everything I wish I would have said before he left.

Dad, you are the most talented man I’ve ever known. You are an artist, gifted beyond words. And your children are so, so proud of you. You are our best friend, you are the light and the laughter of our family. We admire you, we adore you, and we aren’t quite sure how we can possibly live the rest of our lives without you. You are stereotypically Swedish and quirky and weird … and just perfect. You were also so private, few have the privilege of knowing how incredibly unique and hilarious you were. But in a way, we feel honored that you kept that part of yourself just for us.

During arguments with Rob, he has said, “My God, I’ve married Dick Lind,” and I don’t think he quite meant that as a compliment Daddy, but between you and me it’s always made me feel proud every time he’s said it. I love being the girl version of you, I love that I have your quirks, but I feel a little sorry for Rob and mom, it’s hard being married to us. We are ambitious. We’re laser focused, and we don’t stop until the job is done and perfect and most importantly, we don’t take no crap from nobody.

But even though we can be a little much, they can’t help but love us because honestly, Dad, we’re a ton of fun. Everybody wants us at the party, I mean, what are you gonna do?

You created such a fun family, Dad. Jenny’s laughter is so loud, just like yours, it will help soothe your absence in the weeks and months and years to come. Christian is quieter, but so clever and silly and hilarious and in your absence, I’m afraid he will now be the one I call to fix all the things that break in my house. I married a nurse, okay? Rob doesn’t know how to fix garbage disposals, so I had to rely on you, but now the burden is on Chris, so I hope he returns my texts.

Your humor is in all of your children. Your artistry and your talents live in each of us, and your legacy is alive and well through us. Your body may be gone, but you are here— just look at us.

And Dad, please don’t be offended, but we’re going to eat a lot of garlic now without you. The way you detested garlic meant we had to tamp down every single family gathering. We had to make the most boring mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving thanks to your palate. So, I’m afraid we’re going to be going buck wild now during the holidays.

But there will also be a larger-than-life void, in the shape of you, that we will have to figure out how to survive. I genuinely don’t know if a time will ever come, for the rest of my life, where I don’t long for just one more crazy text, and one last opportunity to nail my response back to you.

To hear, My darling Ann? when you greet me, just one more time.

I laugh a little bit thinking about you in heaven, it’s so hard to imagine with your quirky and irreverent personality. I’d like to think God will put you to work building our mansions for us, when it’s our time to join you.

And knowing someday that we will join you is the promise that brings us comfort, the vision that gives us hope.

We love you and we cannot wait to see you again.

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