Originally written in April of 2022, and delivered on April 19, 2022 at Holy Trinity Lutheran Church in Muncie, Indiana.

As kids, my brother Johnny and I could spend hours exploring our Dad’s relic-filled office, which was technically a garage, lined with books, and tobacco pipes. You couldn’t walk in that room without it feeling like a shrine to a bad mamba jamba. What fascinated me most were the photographs on the walls, mostly of Dad and airplanes, but what always stood out to me was the picture of a race car with a $1 bill in the frame… prize money.

Johnny and I would brag to our friends about our Dad… the pilot, the race car driver, the motorcycle enthusiast, and of course the newspaperman. But I know that I never really stopped. As recently as 2019, in a video recording of a professional race car driver taking me for a spin around the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, I made sure to mention to the driver that my Dad had raced cars as well, as if the thrill of a fast turn was my birthright.

Dad didn’t just display fearlessness, however, he savored it in others. Some of his favorite work was telling the stories of World War 2 Veterans. This subject was close to his heart as his own Father had earned a Purple Heart fighting bravely in the Pacific. He often recalled with pride a time that I, around 7 or 8,  jumped into a bush outside of our house in Yorktown to save our cat, Dusty, from a loose and threatening dog. 

But it wasn’t just death-defying acts or bravery on the battlefield that interested him, it was also the bravery that it takes to open a small business, or share your talents with the world. He loved telling stories about people who heroically put their heart and passion on display.

Beyond thrill seeking, his open-heartedness and vulnerability was the bravest thing about my Dad. He walked through this sometimes cruel, sometimes broken world without wearing any armor. He shared life’s ups and downs with readers, generating a sense that it’s all going to be OK as long as you can laugh at yourself a little. His heart was open and exposed to all whom he encountered. He poured out his love onto others. And he was endlessly generous. The motorcycle he loved so dearly? He sold it one summer so that our family could afford the expensive first year membership fees to the local swim club. 

And though Dad was confined to a bed in his last days, he marched triumphantly towards death with the same fearlessness that Johnny and I had known as kids. Without a single complaint, and with the child-like wonder that we all read in his final column, Dad spent his last days giving and receiving love from his amazing wife, his angelic sister, his two children, and lots of dear friends.

Dad loved poetry and in times of being broken-hearted, I find comfort in the words of the Sufi poet Rumi. Rumi said this: “The wound is the place where light enters you.” And he also said this: “You have to keep breaking your heart until it opens.” 

So for those of us who loved and admired John Carlson, we can honor his incredible life and legacy by using this heartbreak to soften our hearts, to bravely show the world who we are, and to love and be loved as much as we possibly can. But I think Dad would also appreciate it if we would all leave really, really big tips.