He got the Tulips
He built his life with calloused hands,
In sawdust, cedar, pine and oak,
A man who measured where he stood,
And meant each honest word he spoke.
He didn't bend to suit the room,
Or soften truths to make them sweet—
He told you straight, exactly how
The world was laid out at your feet.
A godly man of stubborn faith,
Unshaken as a mountain side,
Who loved his family fierce and deep
With quiet, unpretentious pride.
At evenings end, he'd settle in
To watch the western trail untether,
Where cowboys rode beneath the blue
And weathered every storm together.
And when the screen grew soft and sweet,
And romance bloomed–as love will do–
He'd crack a smile and state the fact:
"Oh, he got the tulips."
Now heaven's shop has open doors,
And red spring blooms along the fence,
Where honest trade and plain-spoken truth
Make perfect, everlasting sense.
Rest easy, Papa. You finished the build,
You kept the faith, and you left us with a lifetime of love and laughter to hold onto.
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