Celebrating the life of my dad

My dad was born on October 31, 1958, and we lost him suddenly on July 17, 2025. Yesterday, hundreds of family members, friends, and colleagues came together to celebrate his life and the mark he left on each of us.

No words can ever fully capture a person’s life—but we tried. We remembered him the best way we could: through stories, laughter, and love. Here are some of our words:

Through His Hands, Amber Christ

Thank you all for being here today to celebrate our dad.

The last time I talked to my dad on the phone, he was out on his side-by-side – real shocker, right? I called to ask if I could share a piece of his story in a news interview I was doing for work. And in true Dad fashion, he said: “Hell, baby—make me famous.”

What he didn’t realize is that he was already famous where it matters most—here, in this family, in this community, with all of you. He was famous in the ways that count: for his love, his humor, and for being so completely himself.

When I think of my dad, I think of his hands. They were so large—long fingers, always tan and rough from working. They held so much of his life and ours.

I see them cradling my daughter Penelope for the first time, pretty much encompassing her entire body. I see them holding Jade on his lap, her finger looped in his or clasping Karen’s hands on the dance floor; I see him holding them together to blow air through making this whistle sound that no one could ever replicate; or trying to hold us down as he gave us squeegies – long squeeky kisses that we begged for at bedtime that tickled so much with his beard leaving a burn on our cheeks. I can feel them in the huge hugs he would give and pats on the back congratulating us – at all the graduations – there were so many of those  – and all the weddings and anniversaries – and there were even more of those.

I see his hands doing work. Gripping the steering wheel of his tandem, me in the passenger seat, the metal fan whirring, the smell of gas and grease and dirt in the air. I see his hands answering the phone in our kitchen every night when Vernie would call to tell him the next day’s job and what time he needed to come in. I see them pulling the levers to lift the bucket and scoop on the backhoe. And god, he loved his excavator. But more than the machine, he loved what it allowed him to do: to dig, to uncover, to find relics hidden beneath the surface. That was Dad—always looking for the story that he could retell.

And more often than not work was play for him.

I see him mowing grass, digging for arrowheads or mushrooms, building the deck around our pool with Uncle Jim, or hammering together the doghouse in our backyard—for the dog he brought home that I am certain he surprised us with – including my mom. I see his hands washing the countless cars he has owned over the years – gosh did he love cars. Or really vehicles of all sorts – boats, side by sides, three wheelers, even lawn mowers  – oh, and  remember his short time with a motorcycle.

I see his hands wrapped around our ankles in the pool, pulling us under the water as fast as he could in what he called the “frogger”, or using his hands to push water along with Uncle Scott and Uncle Terry creating the world’s strongest smallest whirlpool in our above ground pool. I see them packing up the cooler in ice; with a full package of bacon and a whole carton of eggs and jumping in the back of the truck to head out for a spontaneous weekend camping along some treeline in a field – where we would sit around a fire with him telling us what we thought was his own ghost story but was really just the plot of Evil Dead. I see him lighting a giant fuse on a cardboard box he stuffed with every firework imaginable and then running like hell.

And of course, I see him holding a drink and a cigarette, telling stories. As my great uncle Terry put it, his last best memory of Dad was a classic bull session at Bradley’s wedding in May —a long night of laughter and tall tales.

Because my dad embraced being a big kid. And yeah, sometimes that was challenging. But it’s also what shaped me—and all of us kids.

He’s the reason my daughter says ‘woo doggies’ when she has a stinky poop – that we put the records on Saturday mornings way too loud and dance around; why I bought a 1970 VW bus that I couldn’t wait for him to see; that I love camping and exploring; he’s the reason I can’t get enough of scary movies or scary books and haunted houses; and anything sci-fi and talking to him about it; why I love vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup and turning it into chocolate soup; why I put bacon in my oatmeal. While my dad would stretch the truth for a good laugh, or to make a story land just right, I became a seeker of fact, wanting to get everything exactly right. Hence, the lawyer gig.

But over time, I’ve learned that love lives in the grey space between the facts and the story. It thrives there. It asks us to hold both—to let the facts matter, and to let the heart of the story matter even more. Love is about showing up for the complicated, human version that is often not black or white –—the version that’s messy, generous, hard, exaggerated, and sometimes contradictory.

That’s where my dad and I met each other—in that grey space. In that mess of love. And of course, I wanted more time for that love. For me. For Karen. For all nine of us kids. And especially for Jade. For my daughter. For all his grandkids. For my grandparents and aunts and uncles and all of you in this room.

There is a poem by Andrea Gibson written in their last days. They wrote:

“Dying is the opposite of leaving. When I left my body, I did not go away. That portal of light was not a portal to elsewhere, but a portal to here. I am more here than I ever was before. I am more with you than I ever could have imagined. So close you look past me when wondering where I am. It’s okay. I know that to be human is to be farsighted. But feel me now, walking the chambers of your heart, pressing my palms to the soft walls of your living.”

That’s what I hope for all of us—that we keep feeling those big palms of his. That we let them press into the soft walls of our living.

That we laugh.

That we play.

And that that we tell the stories—true or embellished.

We love you, dad

My Hero, Ronnie Christ

Seems like every little boy’s first hero is their father. Having a Dad that was the size of a super hero made it a little easier. He was larger than life. A giant man, with a giant smile. He carried a big barrel chest with a giant heart, and little bitty chicken legs. He always carried a holster full of stories. My Uncle Jim would say he never let the truth get in the way of a good story. And- were they good sometimes. What I wouldn’t give to hear one right now.

My dad never met a stranger. I always envied that about him. Admired that. I’m the type when I go to meet someone somewhere; I’ll wait in my truck until they get there before I’ll go in side. I don’t want to go in alone. Not my Dad though. If I was meeting him; he was already in side and you’d think he was running for mayor. He’d make new friends, have people buying him drinks, and usually a pretty bartender smiling from ear to ear from one of his great stories.

I tell my son Tristen that he is a lot like my Dad. People just gravitate to them. They can just tell they’re good people. Kind people. We often attach ourselves to things in life that don’t really matter. We can’t take any of it with us. Only our character and good name follow us. My Dad never amassed a fortune, built an empire, or saved the world, but my Dad was kind. And…. kindness matters. The world needs more kindness. You can change lives with that. Kindness follows us. I think about my Dad’s legacy, and I believe it’s that. Because kindness also stays behind in all the people that received it.

I pray I can be like him one day. My hero, My Dad-

We’re going to miss you terribly-

Our Guardian, Kourtney Willich

They say the toughest things are the only things worth doing… so, here we go.

Today, we say goodbye to one of the most incredible souls to ever grace our lives—Jeff.

Jeff wasn’t just my stepdad. He was Dad. He was Grandpa Christ. He was a Son, a Brother, an Uncle — and a Friend. He was love in human form—kind, humble, sweet, and always thinking of others. I’m convinced we’re all here today because his heart was just that full.

Mom used to say, “He couldn’t hurt a fly.” I don’t think she thought that one through… because I know plenty of times he left salt trails through the house chasing flies with his salt gun!

He had this way of making everyone feel welcome, accepted, and loved just as they were. His spirit was young and free. His laugh—especially the giddy one that made his shoulders rise—was absolutely contagious. And his presence made every moment feel a little lighter, a little brighter, with his forever young attitude.

I’m confident everyone here had a moment with Jeff that made you laugh—or at least smile and shake your head.

Jeff loved muscle cars and cranked 70s music like it was the soundtrack of his life. I wear this uniform today to honor him—not because he served, but because he never missed a chance to support my husband and I, my brother Ronnie, and those like us who continue to serve. He was proud to be an American, through and through.

But more than anything, Jeff loved his people—his family.

He was the guy who showed up. The one who made you laugh when you wanted to cry. Who stood beside you when life got hard—usually with his big arm around your shoulder and that tap.

If you know Jeff, you know the tap.

We’ll miss his hugs, his humor, his warmth, and the way he made us all feel like we were home.

Jeff, now you’re home—now you can grow your hair out, just like Jesus!

Jeff may be gone from this world, but his love, his legacy, and his free spirit will live on in every one of us.

We love you, Jeff. Always and forever.

Big Man, Bigger Heart, James Frey Croft

Jeff had a big laugh. One of my strongest memories of Jeff is his booming laughter as he listened to two of his grandkids try to replicate my British accent – Jeff was perhaps one of the only members of the family with a laugh as loud as mine, and when we laughed together it shook the room.

Jeff gave big hugs – he was known to many as a big teddy bear, not just because he resembled one, but because his presence made people feel warm, safe, and cared for.

Jeff told big stories. He was legendary for enchanting those around him with his tales – a

skill recognised not only by his family and friends but by his coworkers and everyone who

knew and loved him.

And Jeff had a big heart – he loved his friends and adored his family – and we loved him back. Since his death hundreds of tributes to Jeff have been posted online: they say things like “we loved Jeff”, “Jeff was a great dad”, “He was such a fun guy”, “such a special person”, “Jeff was one of the best!”, “Jeff was one of the greats“, “Jeff was one of the good ones!” And he was.

Thank you, Jeff, for your big presence in our lives. For your:

– Big career

– Big laugh

– Big hugs

– Big stories

– Big heart

– And big appetite for life

66 years is not long enough to have had you in our lives, especially when it was clear you loved living so much. But it was long enough for us to benefit from your presence, to feel the joy, passion, and love you put into everything.