Introduction:
Jason and I are finally back in the studio—it’s been a while. We stepped away for a season, and during that time, Reed held the line with grace and strength. He stepped up in a big way. Before we dive in, Zach—I caught the last episode this morning. Only had about fifteen minutes, but it moved me deeply.
You had Mac, Mary, and Paul on—and you absolutely nailed it. If anything ever happens to me, I know you’re ready. Your hosting skills are sharp. Jason, I doubt you’ll watch it, but you should. It was powerful. I already knew the story, but something about hearing it in that context—it just hit differently. The emotion. The depth. It was a lot to take in.
I messaged our siblings today. Everyone had spoken at the funeral. I wrote, “We did it. We made it through.” But what caught me off guard was how my view of Dad expanded in the process. He seemed larger than life—perhaps more now than ever. In the chaos of planning and grieving, we didn’t realize the true scale of his legacy until we stepped back.
And now, to be here again—with you, Unashamed Nation—I’m grateful. Your support, messages, and tributes have been overwhelming. I’ve only been able to catch glimpses, but starting next week, I plan to sit down and truly listen. To receive it all.
As for the funeral—it was filmed. Initially, we planned to keep it small and private. Just for family. But the truth is, what unfolded was too meaningful to keep to ourselves. It was powerful. Raw. Holy. And we want the world to witness it.
This morning, I asked Reed how he felt about it. I’ll let him share in his own words. But for me? It was transcendent. Not perfect—but real. There was worship. The gospel was proclaimed. And a life that honored Jesus was honored in return.
Dad had always said, “When I die, don’t cry. Sing. Dance. Rejoice. I made it.” And he meant it. So we gathered, we planned—but life had other plans. What we experienced was beyond anything we could have designed.
The response was staggering. People reached out from everywhere. Texts, calls—from folks we hadn’t heard from in decades. Some we didn’t even remember. “How did you get my number?” became the phrase of the week.
So we pivoted. We moved the service to the church where Mom and Dad worshipped. The same room where Dad gave his life to Christ. Fitting, really. Almost poetic.
The night before, while prepping with others and hearing voices rise in worship, it struck me: this is the place. Gospel symbols above the stage—gifts from my father-in-law. Volunteers everywhere. The body of Christ—grieving and rejoicing together.
We had a family meeting. Willie asked, “What do y’all want to do?” Mom didn’t miss a beat. “I want all four boys to speak.” And I froze. We hadn’t talked about that at all. Then she clarified, “You boys.” I laughed. So did Reed.
I half-joked that this might become the longest funeral ever—we’re not known for being brief. But we did it. Jeff, terrified of public speaking, stood strong with Phyllis by his side. They were incredible. She gave him courage. It worked.
I had a joke about Jeff being the sister we never had—until we found Phyllis. Now we have two sisters. It’s a better story. And a deeper laugh.
Willie went the longest. Classic. Sai heckled him the whole time—I wish we’d had a mic on him. He said he didn’t want to speak. Of course, he did. He always does. And that’s Sai. Still echoing.
The church was packed. Friends. Family. Three, maybe four hundred people. And it was loud. Vibrant. A reunion of sorts. Spring was nearly over. My sister had been given $200 to clean the backyard. From FastGrowingTrees.com—how perfect is that? Life keeps moving. Growth continues.
One of the most beautiful moments came when our kids led worship. Young men and women in their 20s. They didn’t just sing—they stepped into their calling. Into the legacy. And when they lifted their voices, I didn’t think about what was next. I didn’t plan. I just worshipped.
Dad was never a paid pastor, but he lived the gospel everywhere—in the duck blind, the living room, Walmart, the car lot. “What’s your story?” he’d ask. And then came the gospel. Raw. Real. Bold.
He didn’t live in compartments. Church, business, family—it was all the same. All ministry. He found theology in duck calls and joy in the simplest things. That was Phil.
Even as he faded—slowly, painfully—he had moments. Moments of clarity. Of love. When he grabbed my daughter’s hand mid-song, it broke something open in me. When he whispered “Full strength ahead” to Sadie, we knew: He was still leading. Still teaching.
When I told him it was okay to go, he looked at me and said, “Let’s go.” He was ready. Always had been. And the next day—he did.
Resurrection is the promise. The graveyard is just a waiting room. And one day, that pine tree, those three crosses—they’ll witness something glorious. Maybe I’ll rig a deer cam—just to catch the moment.
But until then, we carry the legacy. We speak truth. We love without fear. We stay ready.
Thanks for walking with us, Unashamed Nation. The gospel continues. And so do we.