I make no apologies. What about you? Welcome back to Unashamed. Jason and I—finally—are back in the house. It’s been… well, quite a stretch. We took a moment, stepped away. Reed and I have been holding down the fort. We brought Reed in—he stepped up. Let me just start here, Zach, because I caught the last podcast this morning. Just a quick fifteen-minute window, but man, I was moved.
You had Mac and Mary, and Paul on. And listen, you’ve got the chops, man. If something were to happen to me? You’d be ready. Hosting skills—on point. Jason, I know you probably won’t watch it, but you should. It was good. Worth your time. Thing is, I already knew the story, but somehow, the nuances hit differently when you’re in the thick of it. It’s a lot.
I sent a message to our siblings today. Everyone spoke at the funeral. I said, “We did it. We got through it.” But what I didn’t expect? That expanded view of Dad. Like, larger than life, even now. Maybe especially now. We were so buried in the details—literally and figuratively—that stepping out of the moment revealed just how towering his presence really was.
I’m grateful to be back here, sharing with Unashamed Nation. Y’all have been… incredible. Your messages, your tributes—I’ve only glimpsed pieces, been too caught in the weeds. But next week, I plan to sit, to watch, to listen. To take it all in.
The funeral? One day out. We’re planning to release it—it was filmed. Originally, we thought: something small, something private. Just family. But the truth is, what we experienced… we want the world to see. It was too powerful to keep behind closed doors.
I asked Reed this morning what he thought. He said—well, I’ll let him tell it. But for me? It was transcendent. The best I’ve ever seen. Not because it was perfect. But because it was real. Worship happened. The gospel rang out. A life was honored—a life that honored Jesus above all else.
Phil had said it for years: “When I die, don’t cry. Sing. Dance. Rejoice. I made it.” And he meant it. Emphatically. So we gathered. We made a plan. Funny thing, though—we didn’t stick to it. What we planned wasn’t what we lived. Because the outpouring was… overwhelming.
People came out of the woodwork. Hundreds of texts. People we didn’t even know. Or didn’t remember knowing. My phone rang like a pinball machine. “How’d you get my number?” became the week’s refrain.
And so, we pivoted. We held the service at the church where Mom and Dad worshiped. The very room where Dad gave his life to Christ. Fitting, isn’t it? Almost poetic.
The night before, as I walked that space, prepping with others, voices rising in song—it struck me. This was it. This was the place. Gospel symbols above the stage, gifted by my father-in-law, Larry. Volunteers everywhere. Family everywhere. The body of Christ—alive, grieving, rejoicing.
We had a family meeting—remember that? Willie asked, “What do y’all want to do?” Mom didn’t hesitate. “I want all four boys to speak.” And I froze. I mean, we hadn’t talked about it at all. And then she clarified. “You boys.” I laughed. Needed clarification. Reed laughed harder.
I joked—half serious—this might be the longest funeral in history. We’re not exactly known for brevity. But we did it. Jeff and Phyllis went together. Jeff—terrified of public speaking. But they were amazing. He needed a buddy, and Phyllis was that. It flowed.
I had a joke about Jeff being the sister we never had, but then we found Phyllis, and—well—joke ruined. But now it’s even better. Two sisters. A shared story. A deeper laugh.
Willie? Went the longest. Classic. Sai heckled him through the whole thing—wish we’d miked him up. He said he didn’t want to speak, but of course, he did. That’s Sai. The sidekick. Still echoing.
We packed the place. Family. Friends. 300, maybe 400 people. All ours. And it was loud. Personalities bouncing off walls. It felt like a reunion. Spring nearly gone, and someone had given my sister $200 to clean up the backyard. Fast Growing Trees.com. Perfect name, right? Life continues. Growth happens.
At the funeral, something else happened: our kids led worship. Young, 20-somethings. They didn’t just sing. They stepped up. Into their roles. Into legacy. And when they sang? I didn’t think of what came next. I didn’t prep. I just worshipped.
It reminded me: Phil was never a pastor. Not paid, anyway. But he preached with his life. In the duck blind. In the living room. In Walmart. At the car dealership. It didn’t matter. “What’s your story?” he’d ask. And you knew—here comes the gospel. Maybe PG-13. Always unfiltered. Always bold.
Phil never compartmentalized his life. There wasn’t “church Phil” and “business Phil.” It was all gospel, all the time. Duck calls? Ministry. Hunting? Opportunity. The man found theology in a pintail whistle and joy in a uvula. That was Phil.
And when he finally faded—slowly, painfully—he still had those moments. Moments of clarity. Moments of love. When he grabbed my daughter’s hand mid-song, it broke something open. When he whispered to Sadie, “Full strength ahead,” we knew—he was still here. Still teaching. Still leading.
I told him it was okay to go. He said, “Let’s go.” He was ready. Always had been. “Take me,” he said. “Let’s go.” And the next day—he did.
The resurrection? That’s the promise. The graveyard? Just the waiting room. And one day? That pine tree? The three crosses? They’ll witness a rising. And man, I hope I get to see it. Maybe I’ll rig a deer cam—just for the footage.
But for now, we carry the legacy. We preach unashamed. We love deeply. We stay ready.
Thanks for being with us, Unashamed Nation. The work continues. The gospel goes on. And so do we.