Eulogy for a Good Man

A tribute to my dad.

My dad passed away last week. Thankfully I was able to get into town in time; I came as soon as he transitioned to hospice, and spent his final three days with him. Before I got on the plane, my mother asked me to start thinking about a eulogy - she wanted me to write something to read at his funeral. I wrote the first draft on the plane.

I read the eulogy aloud at his funeral on December 4, and afterward several people asked for a copy - so I thought it was easiest to just post it here.

If you read on, I think you might see hints of what inspired me to do gender equality work. My dad was kind, affectionate, selfless, and giving. He was also ahead of his time; a man who realized that what he did in the home greatly impacted what my mom could do outside the home.

I admit, this is hard to post because it is so deeply personal. But sometimes those are the most important posts to share.

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(Read aloud at Marvin Buban’s funeral on December 4, 2023.)

Have you seen Guardians of the Galaxy III? There’s a scene at the end, where a group of people, who have just heroically saved hundreds of children, are talking about what they are going to do next – now that the battle is over.  One character turns to another and says, “Today I saw who you are. You were not born to be a destroyer. You were born to be a dad.”

I love that line in the movie – because, like that Marvel character, I think one of Marvin’s superpowers was being a dad.

I remember my dad telling me, at a young age, that he didn’t buy into what he referred to as the “macho thing.” My dad wasn’t loud; he didn’t demand the attention of the room. He didn’t feel the need to be tough, cool, or to prove himself. At least for the 47 years that I have known him, I think my dad was truly comfortable with who he was. He didn’t try to be something he was not. He was a caregiver. And he was really, really good at it.

I had the kind of dad who wasn’t afraid of hugs and kisses. I don’t have to hold onto the memory of the one time he told me he loved me – because he shared those words generously and frequently. Work was never his priority – growing up, I always implicitly understood that his priority was his family – and he always made time for Dan and me.

I vividly remember waiting for him at the screen door on hot summer afternoons – back on Clearview Ave – waiting for him to get home from work, and begging him to take us to the pool. And in hindsight, I don’t remember him ever saying no. Oh, I’m sure some days he turned me down. But all I remember is the clink of change as he emptied out his pockets, and how he’d come downstairs 5 minutes later in a t-shirt and his swim trunks. The three of us would walk through the Evening Street playground, and then cut through the High School parking lot. My dad pushing Dan in the stroller; me tagging along, telling him about my day.

My dad always had time to listen to me. Which worked out great, because I’ve always had time to talk. When I was younger, he was patient with the little-kid banter. As I got older, he found other ways to connect. When I was in my Indiana Jones phase of life, my dad subscribed to Archaeology Review magazine – just so he could read up on recent digs, and be able to chat with me about my area of interest. He was such a great caregiver that he didn’t just provide what I wanted – he intuitively knew what I needed.

As I grew up, our relationship shifted and changed – but we always talked. He always listened. And he always supported.

Marvin was also an amazing caregiver to Dan. We all know that Michael’s death and Dan’s health challenges dramatically changed the Buban trajectory. But never did I hear my dad complain, ask “what if” or feel sorry for himself. Maybe those conversations happened with my mom, behind closed doors. But to us kids, my dad never let on that anything was wrong, or different, from other families. He seemed to think that we were exactly who we were supposed to be.

Dad loved Dan completely – and just as Dad loved me for who I am, he loved Dan for who he is. He never judged Dan by a fabricated set of standards, but appreciated Dan’s gifts and talents for who he is. Dan would never be as independent today if it weren’t for the thousands of hours of patient parenting my dad did with him; the years of the evening routine, teaching Dan the skills he needed to take care of himself. That was not a quick process, nor was it easy. It took tremendous patience and buckets of time.

My dad loved and respected Evan as much as Dan and me. Evan and the kids did not make it to Columbus in time to say goodbye in person. But Evan wrote a note, that I read to my dad in his final hours. He said, “Marvin - Thank you for welcoming me into your family, for embracing me from the very beginning and making me feel loved and appreciated for being me - just as I am. I am thankful for every laugh, every hug, and every culinary experience.”

No one really knows what happens in a marriage except for the couple themselves – but from my front-row seat, I think Marvin was also a fantastic husband. He cared for my mom the same way he did for Dan and me; he supported her, he loved her, and he enjoyed her successes – perhaps more than he enjoyed his own. And he was a huge reason my mom was such a great art teacher. When my mom went back to teaching in 1986, she was struggling. She told my dad that it was too much to work full time and do everything that needed doing at home.

My dad’s reaction was to ask, “would it help if I cooked dinner every night?” And mom was like – ya, ya that would help a lot. So, from that day my dad took over all the grocery shopping and cooking – and honestly, he kept that up until he went into the hospital a few weeks ago. And Marvin being the household cook just became part of our family’s story. 

But the best compliment I can pay my parents is to say, they weren’t just married – they were best friends. Until the very end – they were buddies, and true partners. I don’t know what always happened between them – and I am sure it wasn’t always easy. But they were best friends through 50 (and a half) years of marriage.

I promise I am working my way to an end. There are just so many sweet stories to tell, it is hard to make myself stop. But there is a theme here – a thread tying all these stories together: My dad was the kind of selfless personality that didn’t need to experience things to enjoy them; he didn’t need the spotlight to feel proud. He was genuinely just as happy for others, as he was for himself; maybe even more. He loved hearing about my cousin Erika’s growing business, about Chris Pott’s new job at OSU. Marvin was always 100% happy for others.

Years ago, a past minister here at Trinity told my mom, “You know what I appreciate about Marvin? He is one of the few people who asks me about me. My congregants always have stories to share, and favors to ask. But Marvin always wants to know how I am. And the way he asks, I know it is genuine.” Pastor Chuck was right. I think that sums up Marvin Buban perfectly.

We all know my dad had a stroke in 2012, and that experience changed him; he never fully regained his speech, and he moved a little slower. But I want us all to appreciate – not what was lost – but how hard he worked to recover, and what we all gained in those last “bonus” years. In the last 11 years my dad made 4 trips to Tokyo, watched my kids go sledding in Ottawa, ate pineapple in Costa Rica, went on 3 European vacations with my mom, took an all-family Disney Cruise, passed through the Panama Canal, and enjoyed 11 year’s-worth of holidays, birthdays, road trips, old movies, restaurants and football games.

He might have been a little different after 2012, but he was still the same Marvin. I am grateful that he fought his way back to give us that time – and to allow Beatrice and Jed the opportunity to know their grandpa. I know that was incredibly hard for him, which is one reason why I am so much at peace with him leaving us now. Instead of lamenting his death, I feel grateful that we had him for as long as we did.

And as odd as this sounds, I am grateful that I was part of my father’s death. Last week I learned that death is a process, not an event. Like birth – death can be a little messy. And I learned that everyone goes at their own pace. And as usual – dad intuitively knew what I needed. My life has been so hectic and over-scheduled the last few years - but being an intimate part of my dad’s death forced me to slow down. Sometime last week I stopped caring about work and meetings and emails. I sat for long periods of time and just held his hand and watched him breath, which brought a sense of peace that was oddly restorative.

I am so glad he let me stay close during his last days. He told me he was not scared. And neither was I.

Today is a sad day for us. Although we know his time had come, it is always hard to say goodbye. But what gives me comfort are the memories – and the fact that we will all walk out of this church with a piece of Marvin in our hearts. For me, I am going to try and channel the best of Marvin – I will try to talk less, and listen more. I will tell fewer stories, and listen to the stories of others. I will give fewer answers, and ask more questions.  

In my dad’s honor - I will also root for the Browns, watch Bridge Over the River Kwai at least once a year, and never ever pass up a pork and sauerkraut dinner.

Goodbye, dad. I will miss you forever, and yet I know that you will be with me every day.

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For those readers who want to make a contribution to Marvin Buban’s memory, we suggest Special Olympics Ohio (contact me for details), Ohio Health Hospice Foundation (choose Hospice from the drop-down menu) and Trinity Lutheran Church.