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| Gary Wayne Souder 10/22/48-2/25/24 (photos by niece Denise Showalter Martin) |
There were more tears shed and more heartfelt emotions expressed at my friend and former parishioner Gary Souder's memorial service Saturday than I've experienced at similar events honoring esteemed authors, professors, church leaders or well known and wealthy philanthropists. And I've been to many a memorial service in my time.
In his own quiet and unassuming way, he embodied and lived the text chosen for the service in his memory, I Corinthians 13, the Love Chapter. "Love is patient. Love is kind..."
Many of those in attendance expressed their deep appreciation for how Gary's life had blessed them. I'm posting but two of the many memories shared, the first by his beloved daughter Kari:
How many people can say they had the best dad in the world? I know of at least 2. I'm not just saying that because Dad was my first love.
Dad was a teacher, not the kind of teacher that would give you the answer. But the kind that listened patiently when you asked a question. Then he would question you and stubbornly wait until you were able to figure it out.
He could turn any experience into a learning moment.
He was our coach, one who would never consider allowing special privileges just because I was the coach's daughter. Privilege had to be earned.
He wouldn't let me play football, even though he coached that too. He said I may be tougher than those boys, but a girl's got no business on a football field.
That one stung a bit. But he was probably right.
Dad was a taxi driver. On Saturdays I would ride my bike to the Morris's farm or the Troung's house in Broadway. After playing all day I wouldn't feel like the uphill ride back, so I let the air out of my tire and called Dad. He acted like he didn't know what I did when he came to get me in his old green ford, the mule. He charged me a nickel though.
He drove to Bergton to pick Tran and Denise up from camp at Highland so they could make it to their softball game. They being our best players and only hope to win may have had something to do with it.
He would drive to the school on mothers day to pick me up, along with Marcia and Melinda to pick out flowers for our moms. Then if we were lucky, we'd stop at the drugstore for a root beer float before he drove us back to school.
He was a pretty fair medic. Pulling splinters with his old timer or drilling smashed fingernails to relieve the pressure. Merthiolate would fix everything else.
Sometimes he was my alarm clock, my star chart or encyclopedias, the full set.
Dad was our boss, he gave opportunity to so many kids by offering them work in the honey house.
He was also a very skilled procrastinator.
He was my hero. The bravest, strongest smartest man in the world
I'm not sure he could have retained this title with out the strength and support he got from my mom.
He actually changed the world. Just by being himself. He made life a better place for so many people. Around the summer of 86 or 87 he looked around and saw a bunch of bored girls complaining they didn't have anything to do. So what does he do? He starts them a softball team. We were horrible. Really Horrible. But because of him, we never gave up and we had A LOT of fun.
The other teams were jealous. They had to win to get ice cream at JJ's. Win or lose we only had to play our best.
Dad wasn't able to find a record of anyone who had defined the algebraic expression for the arc of a softball, but of course he had to figure it out. When he tried explaining it to me I made it about a third of the way down the first page before getting totally lost. But he must have gotten something out of it, because he taught a whole lot of Broadway High Gobbler girls how to pitch a softball.
Softball became his passion. When his team didn't have practice or a game he was fixing up the strike zone or working on the field. Softball was life.
He would pile all us kids into the back of his truck after church to go swimming at Long Rock, or camping for the weekend at the Cove. He could identify a tree by its leaf or bird from its song. He cooked us a rattlesnake. He showed us that life is something you do. Give it your best shot and if that doesn't work give it something else until you figure it out.
This was by a long time friend Tony Brenneman:
Becky and I had just gotten married, and moved to a house about two miles from Gary and Karla's, and it wasn't long before Gary and I developed a close friendship.
I could spend hours telling stories about Gary. He would give hours of volunteer time to many people and organizations. Here at the Zion church, he engineered a significant part of the electrical system, and then spent days doing the labor to get the job done, all as a volunteer. He designed and built the concrete steps in front of the church. He served on the building committee for the front addition. And he was Zion’s moving service for many years. If someone was moving to another home, he would take all the bee hives off his flatbed truck, be the first to show up on moving day, and be the last to leave.
One evening when I was working on building my first home, I was ready to leave. Gary comes driving in about 9 at night, after working bees all day, gets out of the truck and says, "Sorry I'm late!"
You have heard others share many stories about Garys caring spirit.
Gary marched to a different drummer. He was amazingly sharp with mathematics, had a degree in electrical engineering, and had a lot of knowledge in other areas as well, so I often wondered why he chose tending bees instead of holding down a 9 to 5 job with paid vacation, and a higher income.
Gary followed his heart, not the values of this world. The poem written by Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken, tells the story of Gary’s life.
And both that morning equally lay,
I kept the first for another day.
I shall be telling this with a sigh somewhere ages and ages hence,
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
He sounds like a man with a short gifted life.
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