My father died in August. He was interred in October, at the columbarium at the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. It marked the end of a decade of dementia erasing his mind, his heart, and his dignity while my mother, and to a lesser extent myself, attempted to keep him as comfortable and well-cared for as possible.

The eulogy I wrote and the eulogy I managed to read on the day aren’t exactly the same. I cried too much, and some of the funnier things I wrote I omitted on the spot because punchlines don’t come through amidst rivers of ugly tears. What follows is cobbled from my notes and memories.

“It’s Thursday afternoon and another day in which to excel.”

More than a few of you will know that catchphrase, used by dad and his old roommate here at the academy, the late George Fritzinger. They loved this place.

Thank you all for coming. Some of you have crossed at least an ocean to be here. I speak for the whole family when I say thank you.

In the wake of dad’s death we’ve received an astonishing number of messages. Rather wonderfully, they spoke little of condolence and so much about what John Bray meant to you, your partners, and your families.

I don’t need to stand here and tell you what a remarkable man my father was, or recite his resumé. You all know, in countless ways, his capacity to inspire, to bring joy, to love, and support, and just brighten whatever room he walked into.

The last decade has been difficult. I feel I cannot do justice to the man dad was without underlining, briefly, just how destructive the disease that took him was. His passing on the 18th of August was the final step in a long and heartbreaking decline. The initial changes to his behaviour, before his diagnosis, brought some episodes so dreadful that I could not recognise the actions as those of my father. The following rapid descent into dementia, the mental, emotional, then physical erosion was devastating.

The only way I was able to cope, to be able to help as much as possible with his care and supporting my mother with her care, was not to dwell on what was being lost. To lock away the man he’d been somewhere deep in my heart and mind. To face full on just how much he was losing, how much we were losing, would have removed any ability to cope with what was happening. I discovered recently that I wasn’t the only member of the family doing this. My mother’s courage, in the face of this strain that would have broken many, has been remarkable, and her loyalty and commitment in the face of such nightmarish circumstances stretched the bonds and duty of marriage to its very limits. She’s been amazing, and I hope she can now heal.

They say that funerals are more for the living than the dead. They say funerals should be a celebration of life as much as the mourning of a loss.

With my father I feel it should be a reminder of the man he was before the fall, and an embracing of that life. The memories of kindness, of his mind and heart whole, rather than what they became. Today I’d like us to make dad whole again in our hearts, in our minds. For our thoughts and memories to be of the man he really was.

Dad was a teacher at heart. Yes, the term is consultant, but in reality he taught. He taught people how to run companies, how to work in companies. How to make companies better. He taught those things by teaching people how to listen and understand other people. He was gifted at it. It brought him joy. He eschewed hobbies in favour of working out how to do it better.

He was a natural leader, content not to have the spotlight but instead go about his business in such a way that people followed out of loyalty, curiosity, and love. He demanded and expected the best of people because he couldn’t imagine not giving his best.

As a father he would say life isn’t fair, and then would treat everyone fairly because that’s how you get by in an unfair world. He taught so much to all of us, inspired all of us, just by being himself. He made it look so easy to be John Bray, even though I know it wasn’t. The only way he was selfish was with burdens, and his own pain. He dreaded sharing those things and went out of his way to take everything he could on himself.

Dad cried a lot. He told us he loved us a lot. Because he loved us, a lot.

I watched him be fair.

I watched him be welcoming.

I watched him be confident but admit his mistakes.

I watched him never punch down.

I watched him be so utterly in love with my mom, and her with him.

I watched his friendships, the bonds he built with the people here, elsewhere, and no longer with us, from Annapolis, to Scotland, back to Boston, to London, and around the world.

Dad didn’t teach me to have friends, but I wanted to have friends like he had friends. I see how close Kari, Jay, and Suzanna are to their friends now, how close I am to mine, and know we all learned so much from him.

His capacity for warmth and kindness went far beyond those of us fortunate enough to be his family and friends. I remember once, shortly after dad moved into East Ridge, coming home from work as a delivery driver on a scooter, bringing our neighbours their curry. When he saw me turning up our walkway, he waved and said,

“Excuse me, does the older gentleman still live there?”

I said no, sadly, but he was being very well looked after.

He looked sad for a moment and said,

“I’m so sorry, I used to deliver to him and he was so incredibly kind. I loved delivering here.”

It’s not often I fear bursting into tears in front of the delivery driver. That’s how dad great was, though. He was so great even the delivery guy loved him.

Thank you all again for coming. Thank you for helping to make dad whole again.