I would like to begin by thanking everyone, on behalf of our entire family, for the support you have given us in remembering my dad and helping to celebrate the life of

I thought I would share some of the thoughts, wisdom, and memories about the man who shaped my life in more ways than I can count. 

Much of what you are about to read is from the reading I did at his funeral. I felt it was only fitting to share it here as well, because so many of my readers are close to my heart.

There is so much I could have said about him as a provider, the expectations of men in our culture then and undoubtedly still today as providers when times and culture have changed, etc. However, my dad lived up to what culture taught him to be: an excellent provider and protector.

My dad was a man of few words, but those who knew him well also knew his humor, wit, and ability to deliver the perfect one-liner. To start, I want to share a Valentine’s Day card he once gave my mom—because it perfectly captures his personality. My mom found it just a few days ago while reading through every card he had ever given her, looking for comfort in his handwriting.  

Dad didn’t talk a lot, but when something needed to be said, he said it.
And when something needed to be defended—especially when it came to his family—he did that too.

While he wasn’t always expressive, he was thoughtful.
And he expressed himself best through writing.

I’m grateful to have kept several of his letters, and today I want to share a few of his words so you can hear his heart the way I did.

A Letter to a 16-Year-Old Daughter

The first letter he ever wrote me was the day before my 16th birthday—just days after I was miraculously placed at Western Carolina University. This abrupt and unplanned move to a different school far away from my hometown is revealed in my book,  Loved Just As I Am, in chapters 4 and 5. I was young, scared, and overwhelmed, and that letter reminded me who I was and who God is.

I took his words to heart.
A week or so later, he called to check on me, and I was miserable—ready to give up, prepared to come home.
If it weren’t for my dad, his insistence, and his prayers, I would have quit.
He pushed me to stay, and I am forever grateful that he did.

My dad was humble.
He never gave himself the credit he deserved for the quiet ways in which he shaped our faith, character, and resilience.

A Letter After Loss

Another letter I treasure was written in 2009, after his mother passed away—the same year he retired from the phone company. Losing someone you love often prompts you to reflect deeply on what truly matters. At the end of that letter, he wrote words not just for me and Brian, but for every person in our family.

“Put God first in your home.
There is nothing wrong with sports, working, or dancing.
But keep your priorities in order.
If you are too busy for God, you are too busy.
Love, Dad.”

That was his message.
That was his legacy.
That is who he was. 

Since Dad’s passing on August 18, I’ve taken in everything the family has shared. One of the most meaningful reflections came from my neice, Makensie, who wrote beautifully about her relationship with her grandfather.

She wrote:

“My grandpa David worked a lot when I was young, and by the time I was older, Parkinson’s had already taken its toll. After I left for college, I often wondered if we ever would have had the long talks I hoped for. But my grandpa gave me something else—his presence. He listened. He showed up. And sometimes presence is the most powerful gift a grandparent can give.”

She recalled a rare day they spent alone together in 2009—just the two of them. Two business buildings, two front desks, and both receptionists knew all about her—her pageants, her dancing, her photos. At eight years old she realized:

“My grandpa talks about me. My grandpa brags about me.”

Presence.
Pride.
Love spoken not in long conversations, but in the way he showed up for every dance competition, every Friday night at South Point, every pageant. Even as his Parkinson’s progressed, he came—heat, humidity, exhaustion, and all.

He walked to the beach to see her get engaged.
He sat proudly at her wedding.
He came to the hospital twice to meet his son’s first great-grandchild.

During my final night with Dad, I felt God’s presence in the room in a way I will never forget.
I plan to share these moments as part of the slideshow, because they demonstrate God’s faithfulness—through every hour, every decline, and every breath.

At one point, I woke up to a preacher on the television. It was Charles Stanley—speaking on the fruit of the Spirit, one of my favorite topics. I smiled, thinking about Dad’s brother Charles waiting in Virginia for the birth of another Shepherd grandson. God was weaving together things only He could.

The suffering of the last years was heavy, but God never once left us.
He was there—in the darkness, in the waiting, in the final blessing of peace.

Makensie wrote something profound:

“Funerals and celebrations of life are not just about saying goodbye. They are about honoring the love we shared, supporting one another, and finding space for healing.”

And that is what today is.
A space for remembering.
A space for honoring.
A space for healing.