The following is the remembrance I shared at the memorial service of my father-in-law, Jeff Shisler.  We are grateful for his legacy.

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One of the unique things about my relationship with Dad Shisler is that he knew me long before Pam and I were even together. Going to church here at Faith, our mothers were friends, Dad and my dad served on the deacon board, and he watched me grow up through every awkward stage—from elementary school to middle school to high school. He had a front-row seat to all of it. And amazingly enough: after witnessing every bit of that awkward development, he still welcomed me as a suitor for his eldest daughter. That’s either grace… or very poor judgment.

Before Dad was my father-in-law, he was a mentor—to me and to many others. When news of his passing went out on Facebook, more than 160 comments poured in. Yes, there were condolences, but many were expressions of gratitude—people thanking him for his influence, his impact, his example. Dad’s reach went far and wide.

I experienced this firsthand. As a teenager, I was one of the few elite students inducted into the church “sound room.” Dad and Calvin Hartley didn’t just teach us how to run a board or roll mic cables. They taught us service. Faithfulness. Showing up. And they trained generations of students in that room. In our day and age, it’s hard to overemphasize the deep impact that a man of character and integrity has on young men.

Growing up, I always thought of the Shislers were cultured, at least in comparison to me. Not only did they have very cute daughters, but there was a certain air of sophistication about them.  Dad carried himself like an  executive: confident, steady, in control. He always seemed to be heading off to some important meeting or traveling for some significant corporate event. But beneath that executive polish was a kind and generous man—eager to help, with a great sense of humor and a gift for storytelling. His stories were so good you didn’t mind hearing them a second—or fifth time.

Dad loved Mom so well. He provided for and protected the family working long days with long commutes but still managing to be home for dinner. And when he was traveling, he always called to say goodnight. Giving was his love language—even if the gifts were sometimes more “Jeff” than “Marilyn.” More than once, I heard Mom futilely say, “Jeffrey, I don’t want any more jewelry.” And then there were the legendary moments when he bought her a top-of-the-line CD carousel or a digital camera for her birthday—because he wanted the latest gadget and thought surely she must too. When she told him to return it, he looked genuinely crushed.

Dad truly believed he would go home to heaven first. After surviving three kinds of cancer years earlier, he wanted to make sure Mom would be cared for. Their move to Rockhill Community was part of that plan. None of us expected that she would go to be with the Lord before him. I think he never fully recovered from that loss. Yet the Lord held him close: for “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted.”

Dad was a steady and supportive father. He and Mom were committed to giving their girls opportunities they never had—especially a college education. The one thing they insisted on was that Pam finish her degree before marriage. We grudgingly consented. When Pam and I were newly married, I was a young, bi-vocational pastor with more calling than income. Those were lean years. But Dad never judged us, never made me feel less-than. He supported our calling wholeheartedly. And he backed Gene & Robin with the same unreserved support as Gene followed his ministry call and sought to balance home life, ministry, work, and study.

Dad was the grandfather I aspire to be. He managed a beautiful balance—spoiling but not overindulging. With Grandpop, my kids remember being allowed to order soft drinks at restaurants instead of water and being told they could “get whatever they wanted.” The kids then followed Pam’s subtle head nods through the ordering process to make sure everything was within reason. My kids loved their visits. Rides in the Cadillac or Corvette. Special outings. Dozens and dozens of trips from Harleysville to Manassas—timed around concerts, recitals, and school events.

And every Saturday morning, the phone would ring and Grandpop would talk to each child one at a time—listening, asking thoughtful questions, making them feel seen. And most every time we visited them, at the end of a visit… dad slipped each grandkid a twenty-dollar bills for “donuts,” followed by, “Don’t tell your mother.”

Dad was a man of abundance. I rarely paid for a meal in his presence. For thirty-four straight years, he sent a bouquet of flowers to our house every Valentine’s Day for Pam (and later a carnation for each of the girls)—a tradition going back to Pam’s childhood. I happily yielded Valentine’s Day to Dad; I figure over the years he’s saved me over $1,700.

But his generosity reached far beyond family. Almost every FCA student going on a mission trip sent a support letter to the Shislers—and almost every time, they received a gift. He was a faithful supporter of Faith Baptist, of FCA, and of missionaries and ministries all over the world. Over the years, Pam and I traveled to Brazil, Jamaica, England, Uganda, and Nepal on mission trips. And Dad and Mom were always there—providing childcare, financial help, prayer, usually all three.

But the most important trait Dad had is this: he was a child of God. Forgiven. Adopted. Redeemed. Chosen. Beloved. Transformed and transforming. Throughout his life—and especially in retirement—he cultivated his relationship with God. His Bible is well worn, well marked, and well loved. And he wanted others to know about the Savior who had so radically changed his life and blessed him so abundantly.

Dad leaves behind a legacy of generosity, laughter, warmth, but most of all, faith. He loved well and was well loved. We grieve, but not as those who have no hope. And we rejoice because his earthly sojourn is complete, and he is now home.

We thank God for his life—and we confidently entrust him now into the hands of the Savior he trusted all his days.