Heartwarming funeral speech - for dad

Version 1

It is hard to stand here and say goodbye to my dad, Michael. His quiet confidence filled every room and told you, without words, that things would work out. When he did speak, his advice, dad jokes, and gentle reminders stayed with you for life.

Dad spent almost 30 years as an electrician at the same company. He was the go-to guy during blackouts and weekend callouts. At home, I would find him in the garage, fixing gadgets with tools I had never seen. Solving problems was his super-power, and he loved using it to help others.

Yet his true gift was how he treated people. Our house was the neighborhood hub. Whether we were playing basketball, soccer, or cards, Dad was there - grill spatula in one hand, Yankees cap on, smile wide. He made every child feel welcome and safe.

I will miss our Sunday rituals most. Rain or shine, Dad drove to Tony’s Deli for “the best bagels in town.” He returned with a warm stack and the newspaper tucked under his arm. Around that table he would grumble about the latest Yankees loss, laugh about workplace mishaps, and turn an ordinary morning into a memory.

His humor was dry and perfectly timed. When I got cocky, he would say, “Don’t get too big for your boots.” It kept me grounded. And still does.

Dad was also a storyteller. He loved talking about growing up in Queens, sneaking into Yankee Stadium, or riding a bike through a neighborhood parade. Those tales showed his spirit: mischievous, honest, and always focused on the simple joys of life.

He was not perfect. He could be stubborn and set in his ways, but every opinion came from love and a desire to see us thrive. When plans fell apart, he’d quote John Lennon: “Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.” Dad rolled with whatever came next, keeping his humor and his heart intact.

So let’s remember Dad for who he was - a man who lived simply, loved deeply, and laughed often. A Yankees game, a fresh cup of diner coffee, and time with family were all he needed. When you hear someone say, “Don’t get too big for your boots,” smile and think of Michael - still keeping us steady, one wise crack at a time.

Rest easy, Dad. Your light will never dim in our hearts.

Version 2

My father was more than a dad. He was my best friend, my role model, and the strongest soul I know. He lived with quiet grace and asked for no applause, yet touched countless lives.

Dad wore many hats - friend, brother, husband, father, and grandfather, and he wore them well. He was the first to show up when someone needed help and the last to leave before the job was done. You could count on him for clear advice and a steadier perspective.

He rarely said “I love you,” but you felt it. He showed up for school plays, late-night talks, and every important moment for me, Sophie, Mom, and his grandkids. His presence said, “You matter.”

Memories of Dad are rooted in simple times: yelling at the New York Giants on TV, shivering through a camping trip when we forgot to turn on the heater, or helping Mom down a steep Smoky Mountains trail. Ordinary scenes became treasured stories because he was in them.

Nothing made him happier than being “Pops.” Emma and Caleb lit up his world. He would read the same book ten times, build blanket forts, and sing bedtime lullabies until they drifted off. Their laughter was his favorite soundtrack.

Family traditions mattered to him, too - especially his famous Sunday roast dinners. “Nothing beats a roast on a Sunday,” he’d say. No matter how busy life grew, we gathered around that table, trading stories while the roast filled the house with warmth. I will keep that tradition alive, though Dad’s roast will always be the gold standard.

He loved projects. We built sheds, treehouses, and memories in the backyard. Once, I tried staining furniture but grabbed the can he handed me and it was motor oil. We laughed about that mistake for years. Even after he slowed down, he ran the show from “his throne,” the old armchair in the living room, offering tips with a grin and a twinkle in his eye.

While sorting his things this week, we found a letter he wrote to Sophie and me. I want to share two lines that capture his spirit:

“Always help others. Give, and you’ll receive far more in return.”

“People may forget your words, but they’ll never forget how you made them feel.”

Dad lived both truths every day. He was extraordinary not because he tried to be, but because kindness and strength were simply who he was.

Dad, we love you now and forever. Thank you for the lessons, the laughter, and the love. Your legacy lives on in every life you touched. And in every Sunday roast we share.