December 17, 1950 -February 25, 2026
On February 25, 2026, at 4:10 pm, my Uncle Bob gently passed into the company of the angels. My Aunt Becky was snuggling with him on the bed when his breath escaped him. We were visited by his Chaplain, Jennifer, and she was singing one of his favorite hymns. Surrounded by the things and sounds he loved dearly, he went home and suffered no more. He passed well, and that means a great deal.
He was a beautiful man—very quiet and very reserved most of the time. He married into a loud, obnoxious, and oftentimes functionally dysfunctional family. Uncle Bob could sit amongst the chaos for hours and not say five words. Then, out of nowhere, he’d throw a perfectly timed quip with precision deadpan and would have us falling out of our chairs laughing. When he did speak, his words were thoughtful, genuine, and poignant.
My Uncle Bob displayed a level of love, compassion, and generosity that spoke louder than his words ever could. The roots of ADHD run deep in our family, and all of us cousins were no small feat to handle. We were the free-reign children of the ’80s and ’90s, ticking time bombs of explosive energy; Uncle Bob should be the patron saint of yammering, dirt-caked children. We loved this silent oddity who was unlike anyone we had ever known, and he welcomed our curiosity and loved us as if we were his own children. Like I said, he was a beautiful man.
If it had not been for my Uncle Bob and Aunt Becky, I would have spent a portion of my childhood living on a campground in a camper trailer. Camping is in my family’s DNA, and my brother and I were thrilled about the idea of doing it all the time—childhood ignorance is a blessing. As an adult, I realized that because of my aunt and uncle, I do not know what it is like to be homeless. They made sure we had a place to call home as we grew up. He loved us all deeply, and we knew it.
In the early morning as I write, my heart is shattered into a million pieces. My soul grieves. I think I’ve lost about five pounds in water weight today. The Halls grieve through flooding tears and uproarious laughter, and there were plenty of both today. As sleep eludes me, I am left with sorrow and tears, but that’s okay. It is evidence of deeply loving someone and of being deeply loved in return.
This is part of the process, and in time, this sadness will turn into fond memories of time shared with a wonderful man. The best way to honor a life well-lived is to live the time you have left well. At the end of the day, no matter how many hours you put in, you will always wish for more time. This is what makes the gift of time so precious, and I am grateful for the time I had with him.
But I am sad, because I wish I had more time.
Casey Family Options Funerals & Cremations
3016 75th Street, Kenosha, WI
