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Oh, yeah - and member "Rik" as well! Sorry, a bit road-weary tonight!
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In rememberance of Tony
- Thread starter Basil
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One more thing: Attempts were made to establish a live feed to Jerri's room, but there were some issues on the receiving end. The entire service was recorded, however, so she will be able to watch it later.
We celebrated Holy Communion during the service, and I did bring some of the consecrated bread to Jerri at the hospital after the service, so she could be included in that way.
All in all, today was a powerful day. I am completely drained. But wonderfully so!
We celebrated Holy Communion during the service, and I did bring some of the consecrated bread to Jerri at the hospital after the service, so she could be included in that way.
All in all, today was a powerful day. I am completely drained. But wonderfully so!
AutoistFamily
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Thanks to those of you who came to the funeral home and/or the church today to pay respects to Tony. It meant a great deal to Shannon and the rest of us. Thanks also for the beautiful floral arrangement that was delivered to the church this afternoon. We took it to Jerri's room after the service, and she is enjoying it.
I'd like to share the words that Shannon delivered at the funeral. As someone else said, her composure was remarkable -- certainly better than mine today. My beautiful wife has an iron will and nerves of steel, just like her dad. Here is what she had to say:
Good afternoon.
My Dad sometimes wondered aloud to my mom and me about what I would say at his funeral. He didn’t wonder whether I would have the will or the strength or the courage to speak, just what I would say when I spoke. It never occurred to my dad that I might not have the will, the strength or the courage to speak to you because, you see, I am Tony Barnhill’s daughter and Tony Barnhill thought his daughter could do anything. So, even though lacking the fortitude he believed I have, I’m here because he wanted me to speak to you.
A dear friend who lost her father told me last week that when she lost her dad she lost her biggest fan. Dads of daughters really believe their little girls are perfect—they see no flaws, no warts, no faults; they believe their daughters are invincible. What they sometimes don’t understand is that their daughters feel the same way about their fathers.
To me, Tony Barnhill was invincible. He was the strongest, most courageous and loving father I can imagine. And, he was larger than life. Jonathan Swift wrote “May you live all the days of your life.” He could have written that about my dad. Dad lived every day to the fullest, with passion.
My dad approached everything with great zeal. He was a talker who loved stories, loved tall tales, and he would have delighted in hearing the Tony stories that many of us have shared with one another in the past week. He would have loved seeing all of you gathered together here, all of his friends and loved ones, from all of the important parts of his life: his family, his friends, his military colleagues, his Junior ROTC students and his fellow British car enthusiasts. He is surely watching now with the biggest of grins on his face, and just aching to speak to every one of us, just one last time.
My dad loved to learn and explore, and he was excited about each new experience. Every day was a constant adventure for Dad. Any excursion with him, whether around the block or across the country, would include his running commentary on things he was seeing and what he thought about them, peppered with frequent excited exclamations like, “Hey, look over there, there’s a (fill-in-the-blank car)!”
Mom and Dad, Jeff, Will and I went to Disney World a few months ago. We’re still not sure who was the most excited to see the “real, live Mickey Mouse”—my Dad or Will (who was three and-a-half). At age 63, Dad was still a kid at heart.
I’ve heard from some of Dad’s Junior ROTC students about how hard he worked them and how high his expectations were for them. I know a little something about that side of Dad. He expected the absolute best from the people he cared about—especially young people—and he made you want to be a better person because of his enthusiasm.
Dad was a debater. He loved to argue and his patience knew no end for a good debate. He held steadfastly to his opinions, but when he was wrong—and proven wrong—he would admit his mistake, or declare “well, I learned something.”
He was a trailblazer who never took the easy, well traveled road. So many times I remember being with Dad in a crowd of people waiting to stream slowly through one open door in a set of double doors. Dad simply opened the closed door and walked through alone, with others following. He taught me two lessons in those actions: first, an opportunity may appear closed to you, but if you try, the door just might open. And second, he taught me the power of leadership—acting, instead of waiting to be lead.
People have always told me that I am my father’s daughter. There were times I wasn’t sure how to take that comment. Now, I know it’s the highest praise I’ll ever receive. Throughout my life, and especially this week, people have told me that my dad loved me, that I was the light in his sky and that there was nothing he wouldn’t do for me. I knew that. Everyday of my life, I knew that, and not because he said it, but because he showed it. If Tony Barnhill loved you, you knew it—as most of you here know from personal experience.
My mom is not able to be here today. I remember few times when Mom and Dad have not been together. Even during war, his calls and letters sustained her during his absences. For 40 years, his enthusiasm and energy have been balanced by her steadiness and calm. I can only imagine how much she misses him. Rarely have I seen a husband so devoted—so in awe—of his wife. Dad could spend a week’s vacation dining in fine restaurants that he liked, only to return home to a meal my mom cooked and remark that it was the best meal of the week. Dad was incredibly devoted to Mom and she is incredibly devoted to him.
Dad was enthusiastic about me, my mom, his friends, his country, his family and his cars, but I’ve never seen anything like his exuberance for his grandson. From the day he learned he would be a grandfather—and to a boy!—until last Monday, Dad absolutely adored Will. He was building a playroom for Will above his garage, and he’s almost restored Will’s car—that he won’t need for about 12 years. My last conversation with Dad was about Will. In his preschool, Will is studying letters. This week is “E” and, thinking ahead, Dad called me last Saturday to suggest that I bring Big Al, the Alabama elephant, to show and tell. He wasn’t referring to a stuffed toy elephant – Dad wanted the actual, live, Big Al elephant mascot to travel from Tuscaloosa to visit Will’s class! Just like I’m standing here today because he thought I could, Dad thought I could make that happen.
There was no dream too big, no mountain too high for Dad. He taught me that the word “no” is not in the vocabulary. “Dad, I can’t” was never an option. He taught me that I could do anything, or be anything, with some hard work and dedication.
I’m not the only person he taught, because Dad was a teacher at heart. In everything he did, with his students, his car friends, with my son and our family, he tried to turn everyday activities into life lessons. He was always trying to prepare those around him for the future. Nothing prepares a child, a wife, or a friend for death, but I suspect we’re all a little more prepared for today because of Dad’s lessons.
I may have lost my biggest fan last Monday, but Tony Barnhill’s biggest fan is still among us. Dad, I’m here and I’m going to make sure that I do everything I can to teach your grandson to be the kind of man you would have wanted him to be—the kind of man you were.
Thank you.
I'd like to share the words that Shannon delivered at the funeral. As someone else said, her composure was remarkable -- certainly better than mine today. My beautiful wife has an iron will and nerves of steel, just like her dad. Here is what she had to say:
Good afternoon.
My Dad sometimes wondered aloud to my mom and me about what I would say at his funeral. He didn’t wonder whether I would have the will or the strength or the courage to speak, just what I would say when I spoke. It never occurred to my dad that I might not have the will, the strength or the courage to speak to you because, you see, I am Tony Barnhill’s daughter and Tony Barnhill thought his daughter could do anything. So, even though lacking the fortitude he believed I have, I’m here because he wanted me to speak to you.
A dear friend who lost her father told me last week that when she lost her dad she lost her biggest fan. Dads of daughters really believe their little girls are perfect—they see no flaws, no warts, no faults; they believe their daughters are invincible. What they sometimes don’t understand is that their daughters feel the same way about their fathers.
To me, Tony Barnhill was invincible. He was the strongest, most courageous and loving father I can imagine. And, he was larger than life. Jonathan Swift wrote “May you live all the days of your life.” He could have written that about my dad. Dad lived every day to the fullest, with passion.
My dad approached everything with great zeal. He was a talker who loved stories, loved tall tales, and he would have delighted in hearing the Tony stories that many of us have shared with one another in the past week. He would have loved seeing all of you gathered together here, all of his friends and loved ones, from all of the important parts of his life: his family, his friends, his military colleagues, his Junior ROTC students and his fellow British car enthusiasts. He is surely watching now with the biggest of grins on his face, and just aching to speak to every one of us, just one last time.
My dad loved to learn and explore, and he was excited about each new experience. Every day was a constant adventure for Dad. Any excursion with him, whether around the block or across the country, would include his running commentary on things he was seeing and what he thought about them, peppered with frequent excited exclamations like, “Hey, look over there, there’s a (fill-in-the-blank car)!”
Mom and Dad, Jeff, Will and I went to Disney World a few months ago. We’re still not sure who was the most excited to see the “real, live Mickey Mouse”—my Dad or Will (who was three and-a-half). At age 63, Dad was still a kid at heart.
I’ve heard from some of Dad’s Junior ROTC students about how hard he worked them and how high his expectations were for them. I know a little something about that side of Dad. He expected the absolute best from the people he cared about—especially young people—and he made you want to be a better person because of his enthusiasm.
Dad was a debater. He loved to argue and his patience knew no end for a good debate. He held steadfastly to his opinions, but when he was wrong—and proven wrong—he would admit his mistake, or declare “well, I learned something.”
He was a trailblazer who never took the easy, well traveled road. So many times I remember being with Dad in a crowd of people waiting to stream slowly through one open door in a set of double doors. Dad simply opened the closed door and walked through alone, with others following. He taught me two lessons in those actions: first, an opportunity may appear closed to you, but if you try, the door just might open. And second, he taught me the power of leadership—acting, instead of waiting to be lead.
People have always told me that I am my father’s daughter. There were times I wasn’t sure how to take that comment. Now, I know it’s the highest praise I’ll ever receive. Throughout my life, and especially this week, people have told me that my dad loved me, that I was the light in his sky and that there was nothing he wouldn’t do for me. I knew that. Everyday of my life, I knew that, and not because he said it, but because he showed it. If Tony Barnhill loved you, you knew it—as most of you here know from personal experience.
My mom is not able to be here today. I remember few times when Mom and Dad have not been together. Even during war, his calls and letters sustained her during his absences. For 40 years, his enthusiasm and energy have been balanced by her steadiness and calm. I can only imagine how much she misses him. Rarely have I seen a husband so devoted—so in awe—of his wife. Dad could spend a week’s vacation dining in fine restaurants that he liked, only to return home to a meal my mom cooked and remark that it was the best meal of the week. Dad was incredibly devoted to Mom and she is incredibly devoted to him.
Dad was enthusiastic about me, my mom, his friends, his country, his family and his cars, but I’ve never seen anything like his exuberance for his grandson. From the day he learned he would be a grandfather—and to a boy!—until last Monday, Dad absolutely adored Will. He was building a playroom for Will above his garage, and he’s almost restored Will’s car—that he won’t need for about 12 years. My last conversation with Dad was about Will. In his preschool, Will is studying letters. This week is “E” and, thinking ahead, Dad called me last Saturday to suggest that I bring Big Al, the Alabama elephant, to show and tell. He wasn’t referring to a stuffed toy elephant – Dad wanted the actual, live, Big Al elephant mascot to travel from Tuscaloosa to visit Will’s class! Just like I’m standing here today because he thought I could, Dad thought I could make that happen.
There was no dream too big, no mountain too high for Dad. He taught me that the word “no” is not in the vocabulary. “Dad, I can’t” was never an option. He taught me that I could do anything, or be anything, with some hard work and dedication.
I’m not the only person he taught, because Dad was a teacher at heart. In everything he did, with his students, his car friends, with my son and our family, he tried to turn everyday activities into life lessons. He was always trying to prepare those around him for the future. Nothing prepares a child, a wife, or a friend for death, but I suspect we’re all a little more prepared for today because of Dad’s lessons.
I may have lost my biggest fan last Monday, but Tony Barnhill’s biggest fan is still among us. Dad, I’m here and I’m going to make sure that I do everything I can to teach your grandson to be the kind of man you would have wanted him to be—the kind of man you were.
Thank you.
G
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Mickey Richaud said:
Well done good and faithful, well done !!!
bgbassplyr
Darth Vader
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An exceptional woman raised by exceptional parents. Her remarks caused a lump in my throat. May Tony's family, and ours, cherish all of the atributes that made Tony who he was.
RIP
RIP
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DrEntropy said:
Definitely a mixed bag, Bubba! I never would've had the honor of being a part of the Barnhill/Lisenby clan, were it not for the internet!
Mickey,-I too am sorry that we didn't connect. There were a lot of people there and I had the feeling that there were probably some that I'd missed. I too met Wray & Dave and another fellow by the name of Ken McCombe (sp). There was another fellow that my wife and I met in the parking lot of the funeral home but I never did hear his name clearly, much to my sorrow. Hopefully, we'll get the chance to meet another time under better circumstances.
- Dennis
- Dennis
