My Dad is Amazing!

Joseph Wood Moyle (1940 - 2024)

My dad, Joseph Wood Moyle, was truly amazing.  A loving, kind, and witty man, my sister Eunice and I adored him. He adored us right back. His life-long vocations and avocations – equal parts creative, service-oriented, and self-made – and his corny humor inspired us to give our small business a try, get into greeting cards, and, eventually, write children’s books.  He died peacefully on July 3, 2024, wrapped in a cozy quilt and surrounded by music, stories, family, and love. It was a sweet, final sleep.

Eunice, Dad, and me

Our dad was all the things I write about in My Dad is Amazing!

Funnier than a bunch of underpants!

While our dad’s jokes may have gotten more groans than guffaws, his wry asides, sidelong glances (with one bushy eyebrow raised), knowing smirks, and occasional gallows humor routinely rescued comedy from the jaws of tragedy, and kept life’s molehills in perspective. What’s more, as our co-conspirator, he taught Eunice and I how to see the humor in everything. It’s only after we’ve allowed ourselves to fully feel our grief that we can release it with a big belly laugh and let love in. He’s who we hear when we read the words:  “Don’t give up. No, never, nope. Where there is humor, there is hope.”

Steadier than a team of turtles!

Raised in Minnesota, where the mosquito is the state bird and winters are frigid and unyielding, our dad had a stiff, stoic endurance that made him both difficult to penetrate at times, but also eminently reliable. No matter what, he would just “get on with it.”   We’ll never forget his patience and forbearance. Slow and steady wins the race!

Sweeter than a pile of pancakes!

While he didn’t show affection or say “I love you” much when we were kids, he was unwaveringly kind.  We knew he loved us. He made the most delicious pancakes for us every Sunday morning, and taught us how to patiently watch as the batter bubbles popped – that’s when the pancakes would be ready to turn, yielding a yummy, sunny golden brown.  They were sweet, and he was sweeter!

How can we make sense of death and explain it to our children?

In all my writing, my deepest aim is to help children understand life, and to love themselves and others.  So how to explain and help them understand death?  Our dad’s death brought me face-to-face with this question, and here is what I know now, and what I have shared with my own children:

• Death, like birth, is a natural part of the cycle of life.  Just as families and parents prepare to welcome a new baby with great love and anticipation, we all prepare for the death of an elder – a parent, grandparent, great-grandparent, spouse, uncle, aunt, and friend. We do this, sometimes intentionally and often without even knowing it, by drawing close to them as their death approaches, patiently caring for them, forgiving them, loving them, and holding them, supporting them, and giving them what they most wanted during their final transition. In my dad’s case, it was the soothing sounds of a good book, his favorite childhood folk songs, and the effortless music of Eva Cassidy and Diana Krall, two of his favorite artists.

• Death reminds us that every life is precious and we are each here for our own reasons. We are all here to love others the way they want to be loved, and to be loved the way we want to be loved.  As we reflect back on a person’s life, we see all the ways a person did their best to do this, loving others the best way they knew how, and doing their best to love themselves and advocate for the way they needed to be loved.  Some of us are wildly successful in these life tasks. Others only partially succeed, but even so, we each do our best, and our best is always enough.

• Ancestors are all around us.  When we die, our spirit leaves the body and returns to the Everything – the sun, the stars, the trees, the flowers, and the air we breathe.  At the time of death, a person becomes an ancestor. All of their wisdom and gifts become available to their descendants, if they are open to receiving them. We can call on our ancestors at any time. I told my sons:  “Now his kindness is yours; his strength, his intelligence, his wit; his love of the world, different cultures, and music; his humor, his courage and perseverance. All of his gifts are now yours.”

• Dying is like flying. It frees us from the heaviness of being human. While we lose the sensual delights of living on earth, we no longer need to worry, suffer, work so hard to survive, follow rules, or deal with the often exhausting process of growing ourselves up while holding space for others as they navigate their own bumpy journeys. Life on Earth with other humans is the ultimate test of building a plane while flying it. Death is the ultimate flight, as nature designed it.

Our dad was born on January 1st, 1940 – the first day of a new year and a new decade.  He left at 10:14 a.m. (his last laugh was that these numbers, 1140, match his date of birth, 1/1/40).  At his death, it was already July 4th in Asia, where he spent his Foreign Service career, and where he met our mother. 

Tonight, there will be fireworks to celebrate the country that he loved, the family and children he loved, and the liberty and courage of people who, like him, served and serve our nation.  The fireworks will also celebrate our dad and his final freedom.

Dad, you’re amazing! To which he would say:  Kid, you’re amazing, too.