There are people we admire.
Then there are people who inspire us.
Admiration is easy.
Inspiration changes us.
Pops changed me.
His name was Jay.
Technically he was my father-in-law.
In reality, he became much more than that.
When I married Elizabeth, I wasn't just joining a marriage.
I was joining a family.
One that welcomed me from the very beginning.
Jay and Peggy never treated me like an outsider.
They didn't make me earn my place.
They didn't make me prove myself.
They looked at me, saw that I loved Elizabeth, and decided that was enough.
That acceptance meant more than I understood at the time.
Looking back now, I realize how rare a gift it was.
Jay was a Shriner.
He was a Mason.
But those titles never impressed me nearly as much as the man himself.
One thing I learned from Jay and the men around him was that they never seemed interested in talking about the good things they did.
They simply did them.
If somebody needed help, they helped.
If somebody was hungry, they fed them.
If there was work to do, they showed up.
No speeches.
No applause.
No need for recognition.
Just action.
One of my favorite stories involved an oxygen machine.
A family needed one.
They were hours away.
Jay and another Shriner got into a car, bought one, and drove it to them.
That was the entire story.
No fuss.
No self-congratulation.
Just people helping people.
That was Pops.
He also loved to cook.
In my memories he is almost always wearing an apron.
Standing over a grill.
Checking brisket.
Talking with friends.
Making sure everybody was fed.
Food was one of the ways he showed love.
He introduced me to jalapeño poppers.
At the time I had no idea those little peppers would become one of my favorite foods.
Like so many things in life, it seemed insignificant at the moment.
Years later I still remember it.
The thing about Pops was that he never seemed to separate service from everyday life.
Whether he was cooking for family, helping at a fundraiser, feeding people at Camp Alzafar, or supporting Special Olympics events, he approached it all the same way.
People mattered.
Helping mattered.
Community mattered.
Every year there was a trail ride that benefited Special Olympics participants.
Volunteers fed everyone.
Frito pies.
Hot dogs.
Corn on the cob.
Simple food.
Simple acts.
Simple kindness.
I started helping because of Jay.
What surprised me was how much I loved it.
Standing there serving meals, watching people smile, I discovered something.
Helping others feels good.
Not because you get credit.
Because you become part of something bigger than yourself.
Years later I would begin donating to St. Jude Children's Research Hospital.
Nobody asked me to.
I simply found myself wanting to help.
And when I trace that feeling back to its source, I usually end up standing beside Pops in an apron.
That is influence.
That is inspiration.
Camp Alzafar was part of his world.
The dances.
The river.
The cookouts.
The chili cook-offs.
The baseball games.
The friendships.
One of my favorite memories is watching Elizabeth dance with him.
They both loved dancing.
Peggy's lung problems made it harder for her to spend time on the dance floor, so Elizabeth often stepped in.
When the music started, Pops would escort her out there.
I was perfectly happy to watch.
I had learned to dance before our wedding.
I could two-step just fine.
But those dances belonged to them.
Watching them together told me everything I needed to know.
Jay may have entered Elizabeth's life as a stepfather.
But somewhere along the way he had simply become Dad.
Years passed.
Then Pops began slowing down.
At first nobody knew why.
There were doctor visits.
Tests.
Questions.
Eventually there was an answer.
Mesothelioma.
Cancer.
The doctors gave him six weeks.
Pops had other ideas.
When doctors explained the risks of surgery, he gave them an answer that perfectly captured who he was.
"I don't want to die."
"I want to live to a hundred."
That was Pops.
The doctors predicted six weeks.
He lived nine months.
Nine months longer than anyone expected.
Nine months of stubborn determination.
Nine months of refusing to quit.
One of my favorite memories from that time became part of the funeral video I created for him.
He was sitting on the back porch in a rocking chair.
Playing a harmonica.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing extraordinary.
Just Pops.
Every time I see that image I smile.
Every time I see it, I hurt a little too.
One of the saddest moments came near the end.
Elizabeth was talking to him.
Trying to help him understand what was happening.
And he asked a question that still breaks my heart.
"When am I going to get better?"
"I still have a lot of things I want to do."
That was the tragedy.
Not that he was dying.
That he was still living.
Still planning.
Still dreaming.
Still looking forward.
The night before he slipped into a coma, the family made him one of his favorite meals.
A steak.
A baked potato.
A salad.
He enjoyed every bite.
The next morning he would not wake up.
Three days later, surrounded by family and with Peggy holding his hand, Pops quietly slipped away.
The world kept moving.
The camp remained.
The dances continued.
The river still flowed.
But something important was missing.
The man who had connected so many of us to that world was gone.
Years later I still find myself wishing I could have been better for him.
Better for Peggy.
Not because they ever expected more from me.
Quite the opposite.
They accepted me exactly as I was.
Maybe that is why I still wish I could give them more.
One more weekend at camp.
One more cookout.
One more dance.
One more conversation.
One more chance to say thank you.
But life doesn't work that way.
What it does give us is memory.
And influence.
This morning I carried a box of food into work for a company food drive.
As I set it on my desk, I found myself thinking about Pops.
Years have passed since he left us.
Yet somehow he was still there.
In the donation.
In the desire to help.
In the appreciation for people quietly doing good things.
That is his legacy.
Not the organizations he joined.
Not the titles he held.
Not the awards he may have received.
His legacy is the simple fact that he made the people around him better.
He certainly made me better.
And if I am remembered half as fondly as Pops, I will consider my life a success.