On December 21, 2013, I undertook the most difficult and important task of my entire life, eulogizing my father, Greg Weinand, who had passed away suddenly the week before. What follows, is roughly what I said that day at his funeral.

Over the last week, I’ve been struggling to come up with what to say about my dad today. How do you sum up a man who touched so many–a man who was so many different things to so many different people. A devoted husband. A loving dad. A doting grandpa. A dependable brother. A trusted mentor. A passionate minister.

Of course there’s one person who I would normally go to for help with this sort of thing. My dad. He was the person I talked to whenever I needed help. He didn’t always have the answers, but he was always willing to listen and talk through the problem. Moreover, my dad had a real gift for telling stories.

When we were kids, he used to read to us from the Just So Stories, a children’s version of the Iliad and the Odyssey, or the Wind In the Willows. But, some of the best stories were the ones he made up. In particular, were the stories of Iggy, Ishy, Itsy, and Bitsy who would go on adventures together in search of oogleberry pie.

As we got older, he would tell us stories about growing up with nine brothers and sisters, or about the zany experiences as a seminarian and youth minister. I was always amazed at how many of his stories seemed to involve helping out someone on the side of the road or making a wrong turn and ending up in the rough part of town.

He loved talking about our family: my mom, the love of his life, my siblings, and most recently his three granddaughters and the grandchild he was looking forward to meeting this spring. This was particularly evident whenever we would go to a church event, and my dad would introduce us to folks who always seemed to already know all about us.

My dad wasn’t just a great storyteller. He was also a great listener, who made a point to be present to hear other people’s stories.

I went on a retreat with him once as a kid helping out behind the scenes. It was being held at a college campus, and in one of the areas being used, a student worker was manning a reception desk that most folks hadn’t given much notice to outside of a few perfunctory conversations. But at the end of the first night as he and I were cleaning up and she was preparing to lock up, my dad struck up a conversation.

After two nights, he had her whole life story: where she was from, what her major was, about her dad. Even though it was late and my dad still had more to do before he could get to bed and we had to be up early, he still took the time to get to know a person he knew he’d never see again.

While that moment has stuck with me throughout the years, instances like that happened all the time. As a kid, when I would go to work with my dad, it’d take a good half hour at least to actually get from his office to the car to go home. He’d stop and talk to everyone. And I mean everyone. Janitors, receptionists, security guards. Nobody wasn’t important enough for my dad. He knew everyone’s name. He knew about their families. Whenever we’d go out running errands we were always running into people he knew and even the folks he didn’t know he’d still find ways to have long conversations.

My kid self believed that my dad literally knew everyone. I came to realize that while my dad didn’t actually know everyone, in his life there were no strangers, there were simply people he hadn’t gotten to know yet.

One of the best venues my dad knew of for the sharing of stories was a meal. His mom had been a chef and he loved to cook, partly for it’s own sake, but also because it was an opportunity to bring people together. Our family dinners were always loud and boisterous, filled with stories and discussion. My dad was adamant that there was always room for one more at our table. And our holiday gatherings often included friends who didn’t have other places to go.

He applied the same principle to his ministry, using meals as a way to create fellowship and community. Soup for students during finals week. A meal that his peer ministers would jointly prepare for each other. Even simple popcorn and lemonade after mass. He firmly believed that you can’t reach a person’s soul while they have an empty belly.

I don’t have enough time to tell you all the stories about my dad, but even if I did, it wouldn’t be the whole story. As his youngest child, I knew my dad for less than half of his life and even then I wasn’t with him all the time. I can never fully know my dad without knowing all of you and your shared stories with him.

The final gift he gave us is today. A chance for all of us to gather and share all of the many parts of his story. In that spirit, we’ll have an opportunity to share a meal and stories after mass, but we’ve also provided cards out in the hall. And I’d ask on behalf of myself and my family if you would write down a story about my dad as we remember his whole life.

Dad, you were the best man I ever knew. The person I always wished I could be when I grew up. I don’t know what I’ll do without you, but we will never forget you. We will never stop telling your stories.