The family has said that memorial donations to the American Cancer Society, the American Lung Association, Makemie Woods, or other appropriate charity are welcome.  Words of sympathy can be sent to: Gloria Hall, PO Box 39, Lanexa VA 23089

Frank's service was held April 3rd, at the J Leroy Charity funeral home in Charles City, about 20 minutes or so from camp.  Many members of Frank's family and Gloria's family were present, and the camp was well represented by year-round staff, summer staff and camp committee members.  Seymour did a lovely job reading a prayer that Frank and Gloria had prayed together throughout his illness. 
The eulogy I wrote and delivered follows. There was laughter and tears, and I think Frank probably enjoyed that. The greatest compliment I received was from Frank's children, who unanimously said that I really knew Frank.  Indeed, I am blessed for having known Frank.

The Eulogy:  It is an honor to be asked to participate in Frank’s service in this way.   The word “eulogy” comes from the Greek for “good words,” and I have nothing but good words for Frank.

I’ve known Frank since 1992, when I began my work at the Makemie Woods Camp and Conference center.  Frank had been the maintenance manger for two years prior to my coming there, and together with Seymour, they anticipated my arrival with a certain anxiety.  Frank, a retired serviceman and decorated veteran, was now going to have to work for a woman.  And a woman preacher at that!

Frank tested me right off, the very first day I met him.  He told me he didn’t have much use for church or preachers.  He told me dirty jokes.  He told me he didn’t think I would last long.  Told me his wife was black, and he didn’t care whether I liked that or not.   All this in a truck ride to and from West Point to buy appliances for the camp.  And by the end of the day, he told me he loved the camp and what it did for kids, that he did in fact hope I “worked out,” and that he would do everything he could to help the camp succeed.  He gave me his word.

Frank worked hard, and he played hard.  As I have talked with some you, his family, every one of you has testified to what a joker he was.  How he loved to tell jokes, and play pranks.  He loved to tell stories about his pranks–in fact some of his favorites to tell involve how he managed to trick my husband repeatedly, sending Anthony to the store for nails that didn’t exist, getting him to pull the wrong end of the hose so he got a face full of water.  Frank loved making people laugh.

He also loved to tell stories about his life and his experiences, about being a professional baseball player before he was drafted, about Vietnam, about the comradery of being in the service, and the incompetence of the military.  About working for the state, and some of the weird stuff that happens at rest areas.  Through his stories, I developed a great respect for Frank.  I learned how he was haunted by memories of the war, about how he lost his lung, about the way the agent orange affected his body in the heat, even 30 years later.  I learned why he smoked so much, I learned why he drank himself to sleep at night.

See, Frank could have been a bitter old man.  One might say he had a right to be.   But he wasn’t.  He had a good heart, and a positive and compassionate spirit.  If a friend was in need, or even a stranger, he would help in any way he could.  If something needed fixing at the camp, it didn’t  matter what hour of day or night it was, his response was always, “I’ll be right over.”  He had given me his word–and he meant it.  I’d like to think that the ministry of the camp, working with the young people gave his life some meaning in his late years.  And he loved his family, and he loved Gloria, and her children and her grandchildren as his own.  I don’t think I ever saw him speak or act in any way that was selfish–Gloria tells me that he even in his final hours, he was thinking of little Monica, and insisted that Gloria go out and get her an Easter basket.

Frank made a difference–I sent an e-mail to the hundreds of young people who worked at the camp with him, and I have gotten back many responses reminiscing about what they learned from him.  I want to share one with you, from Sarah Coburn:

Frank was a great teacher to me -- a living example of not judging the book by its cover. He spent most of his adult life battling Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, alcoholism, the effects of Agent Orange. He smoked like a chimney. He liked to tell dirty jokes and pretend he was a lecherous old man. I don't think I ever heard the name of Jesus come from his lips, but his was a pure soul. I believe sometimes that we meet people who have hearts that are bigger than the rest of ours, and its because of the love they carry, just waiting to be let loose. I'm convinced that there was no empty space where Frank's lost lung should have been -- his heart was big enough to fill that space and the rest of his body, too.

Over time, Frank would say that I was the only preacher he ever liked. Sometimes when our conversations would take a more serious turn, he would talk about his regrets, his shame, over things he had done in the war, over broken relationships with family members...  He would say that he believed in God, but that he didn’t believe God could forgive him, would forgive him.  It was clear that Frank had never forgiven himself, and when I would tell him that God loved him and wanted him to forgive himself, and receive that grace... well Frank just couldn’t do that.

Maybe some of you here today understand how he felt.  To feel so unloveable, so shameful that even God can’t love you, that even God can’t forgive you.

Gloria tells me that they prayed together the prayer Seymour read earlier, every day since Frank has been sick.  She tells me that just a few weeks ago, Frank was baptized by the chaplain at the hospital.  She tells me that just before Frank died, he wanted to tell her something, but he couldn’t get the words to come out.

I have been privileged to be with people when they pass from this life into the next.  I have seen when they move from the struggle to hang onto this life and finally receive the peace of the life to come.  Gloria tells me that Frank died like that, that he was ready to go, that closed his eyes and he claimed the peace, and the peace claimed him, on Easter morning.  How appropriate.

And so Frank, I am going to be so bold as to say what I think you wanted to tell Gloria, because I believe on Sunday you truly and finally understood what Easter means.  After all, I am a preacher.

Paul asks us in the 8th chapter of Romans: “Can anything ever separate us from Christ’s love?  Does it mean that he no longer loves us if we have trouble or calamity, or are persecuted, or are hungry or cold or in danger or threatened with death?”  “No,” says Paul. “No, despite all these things, overwhelming victory is ours through Christ, who loved us.”
   He goes on.  “And I am convinced that NOTHING can ever separate us from his love.  Death can’t, and life can’t.  The angels can’t, and the demons can’t.  Our fears for today, our worries about tomorrow, and even the powers of hell can’t keep God’s love away.  Whether we are high above the sky, or in the deepest ocean, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
 
Frank, you knew the demons, the nightmares, the regrets, the shame.  But in the end you understood that God loves you, God forgives you, and that there truly is peace, peace that passes understanding.

And to you gathered here, on Frank’s behalf, I hope you, too, understand that the Holy Spirit is present in our midst, that the Jesus who died Good Friday and rose again on Easter, he did that because loves you–and nothing can separate you from that love.

Good words, Frank.  Peace be with you, the peace that passes understanding and keeps you, and me, and all who believe in Christ Jesus our Lord–that peace will be with you forever.  Amen.