Journal entry by Chris Bothel —
A number of people had asked that the remarks from Marc's service be posted somewhere so I am posting both Scott's words for my Dad as well as Jane's and my own. They are below.
Thank you again, for all that you've given us during this difficult time. Sunday was a celebration that Dad would have been proud of :)
Scott Bothel Eulogy for Sunday Feb 9th, 2020--------------------
My father walked on water. Everyone who knew him eventually heard about water skiing, sailboats, rowing, or lakes in general. All of the old photos I found of my father almost always included water activities.
When I was 4 or 5 years old, my dad started trying to teach me to swim. I was always interested in the sailboats, ski boats, and diving that my father loved so much. I wanted to jump right in and do those things too, but I was still a bit afraid of the water. Whether it was not being able to see the bottom, or not being able to keep my head above the waves, it took me until I was about 10 years old to learn how to swim.
My dad, however, consistently encouraged me to work at it, to join him in the water, to push a bit more than I was comfortable with. He did this because he knew the joy that was on the other side of fear.
My father was also a master at his workbench. He didn’t build houses or re-build cars, but he fixed anything broken, solved any problem, and left everything he touched better than he found it.
When the pinewood derby came around, he didn’t focus on encouraging us to win, but encouraging us to develop skills and demonstrate craftsmanship in our entries. But he also had a deep understanding of the physics behind those cars. He had me holding rubbing compound to polish axles in a power drill for an entire week. When I asked if I was done, he encouraged me, just a bit longer. I won a trophy three years in a row including first place speed twice.
You see, my father invited me into his joy, to share what he had discovered. The only thing my father ever tried to get me to like that I resisted was calculus. From engineering projects to the great outdoors, he invited me to join him by his side to learn, understand, and enjoy.
He did this same thing as he learned about God. A life-long Christian, he never pretended he had it all figured out, but would share realizations about God’s truth like a child, inviting me and others into his discovery of joy in Christ as well. Sunday mornings often included dropping my mom off early for church and grabbing a donut. We would casually chat about life and God. I didn’t realize that he was actually teaching me in those moments…because the donuts tasted so good.
For as many faults of any of us have, my father consistently invited me into his joy, and set an example of what the heavenly father calls us to. God is inviting us into his joy, to push beyond the fear, to persist in discovering what blessings he has prepared for us.
Once again, though, I find my father has gone ahead of me, pushing beyond fear into the pure joy of the creator. I can only imagine the smile on his face, standing before the throne of God, and cutting a spray so tall on that sea of glass that Jesus himself is smiling with him.
Chris Bothel Eulogy February 9th, 2020-----------------------------------------
Before I start I wanted to thank you all for coming. Thank you for the cards, flowers, meals, texts, notes and support. It has meant so much to all of us. Many of you have come from a good distance to be here whether by car or plane - so thank you again for taking this time to be here. Finally I want to publicly thank the doctors, nurses, care givers and staff at University of Washington medical center. They made a very hard process as kind and warm as it could have been all while giving exceptional care.
I thought I would begin by telling you a few details about my father. Many of you know him as a husband to my mother, a father of two, or as a friend for many years. That being said, there are some qualities about the man we are celebrating today, that I feel are important for your context, for a proper celebration.
First, let me begin by explaining my father’s position about retail commerce in America. He firmly believed that it made no sense to simply buy something you need when you could, at an equal or slightly greater cost and much more of your personal time, make an equivalent object that would serve the same purpose.
When I was young, I was given a remote control car for Christmas. As with most toys like that it required an enormous number of batteries. As making rechargeable AA batteries was outside of his skill set, he did purchase those. However, when it came to the battery charger, my father thought it best, that he simply make the charger himself - as one does. So rather than spend the 12 dollars for a charger at the radio shack counter and be done with it, he purchased, copper pipe, wire, a power supply, resistors, nails and a board. And after a few DAYS of trial and error, he built a AA battery charger. By my calculations if you added up the time for his labor, the materials, and the cost of my nagging about “is it done yet”, the total cost came in just under $200. And it worked. It took up a considerable portion of his workbench, but in the end, I think he proved his point.
This mentality has trickled down to our family. Marc Bothel is both a noun and a verb in our household. It even has its own international measurement system. “You just marc bothel’d that project. Marc Bothel would be proud of your trailer. This project is going to take about 3 marc bothels.” Its endearing and useful. I think he would be proud.
As a child I recall my fathers stance on retail pricing. It was what he considered a “jumping off point for negotiations with a store manager.” He was in need of new ski bindings one season and with me at his side, opened a dialogue with a teenage worker at the store. He protested that the retail cost for these bindings was simply not right seeing as that they were really just metal and some springs. I believed I tried to crawl under a table at some point during this conversation. But lo and behold, after further conversation with a baffled store manager, he eventually walked out of Olympic Sports with brand new 2 year old bindings that they found in
the back - for 50% off. Another life lesson in commerce.
He was an expert in first aid as well - many of you may not be aware of this. My father actually had to pick me up off of this very stage when in fifth grade, dressed in full army fatigues for a children’s church musical production, I passed out. Whether it be the pressure of my new stardom as a performer, or the hot lights and having drank no water, I passed out on the risers. I remember seeing him coming down the aisle as I began to sway and I thought “where is my dad going?......he should sit down and watch th....uh oh.....” lights out. After he carried me off, and I came to, his medical opinion was that “I should drink some water.” I do not recall being recast in another show.
When I was 14 I had a medical condition that doctors refer to as “not too bright”. As in, hey - this kid’s not too bright. While standing on the beach talking with some friends at our home my father watched me jump out of a boat going 30 miles an hour, hit the water awkwardly, get clinical whiplash, and limp myself into shore using the one arm I could still move. As I hobbled up the beach it was clear that my mom had not seen my heroics and my dad said to me - with tremendous concern and love - “you ok?” “No, I cant move my head. It feels like I broke my neck.” And at that time his medical advice was the following: “Well, don’t tell your mother.” It remains unclear if he ever studied medicine, but his advice, was sound. I healed. And would go on to repeat similar shenanigans throughout high school. But I never worried my mother. At least about jumping out of boats.
I found my father in the laundry room of our house one day with all of his wool sweaters, a ruler, and a note pad. "Whats going on in here?" "Well, the sleeves of my sweaters are too long so I'm shrinking them in the dryer." The short and spectacular version of this story is that my father, part genius, part scientist, and part guy with too much apparent time on his hands, was drying his wet sweater in increments, measuring just how much the sweater had shrunk, extrapolating that data and creating a wash/dry/shrink equation that he then applied to all of the sweaters. 2 things: 1. Who does this? 2. It worked. He had developed the first and only known sweater shrinking algorithm. He was spectacular in moments like these.
But My favorite thing about my father was how he loved my mother. It was clear to me from a very young age that if it came to a household vote about who comes first in his life, my mom or his children, the vote was going to be unanimous and there wasn’t going to be a recount. And while that may sound confusing for a child, it was always the thing I respected about him the most. His faith and his wife came first. Even through my angsty teen years, I always held on to that one thing about him. And I still hold it today. It was his best quality.
My dad wanted this day to be a celebration of his life. A time for us to remember and share with each other, the relationships and experiences that were a part of his life. I’ve been wrestling with this idea of a celebration as it collides with grief. How do we embrace one without the other? How do I remain present and engaged in the pain of losing someone I love and at the same moment turn around and celebrate the many great things about them? How do I separate the two?
My problem, more than any other in coming to some conclusion about this idea of celebration, was my limited definition of a celebration. My idea of a celebration had more to do with feeling a relief from my pain than it did about understanding why our grief matters.
The pain of losing someone we love doesn’t come from the fact that they’ve died. The pain comes from the fact that they lived and we were lucky enough to be a part of it. And we know the difference when that relationship is forever changed.
So the conclusion I’ve come to, is that I can’t separate joy and grief. Joy and grief need each other because its only because of one that I fully understand the other. So while I may try to hide from my own pain about losing my father, it means hiding from the happiness I have about him. And that seems like a tremendous waste. So then, what to do about this idea of celebration - the best I can come up with is that you laugh and you cry. You feel the waves come and go, and you start again. And you invite all of those feelings in without judgement, without fear, and be grateful for the sadness, because it means you were the beneficiary of great happiness. No one can take that from us and that, is reason to celebrate.
When we were in the hospital with my dad, he was in a coma for the better part of two weeks. And I was struck by the fact that I didn’t feel any less loved by him because he couldn’t physically engage with us. The love he gave our family didn’t start and stop at our time together face to face. It exists on its own, aside from our proximity to each other. My wife and kids know I love them whether Im in the same room with them or not. My physical presence is not a requirement of my love for them and them knowing that. My dad built a legacy that all of us get to hold on to. I know he loved us, I know he was proud of us, and I know he would have done whatever he could for us. His body being out of the room doesn’t change that.
Later in this service, in the slide show of his life you may notice that as it goes on his smile gets bigger. It was like he had cracked the code on life and managed to put it all together. His faith, his family, his time, his health...and I believe that the last year of his life, he would call his favorite. My initial reaction to learning of his heart attack was “This is so unfair. He had figured it out. He was truly happy in a way that I had not always seen in him before. Why does that have to end now? Like this?” But as Gary Gulbranson relayed to me in the hospital a few weeks back, a friend once told him, “God is good - and life isn’t fair.”
I could have been raised by a man who hated his life, didn’t care about his children, was disloyal and dishonest. But I wasn’t. My father was acutely aware of his blessings, thanked God for them everyday, and lived with gratitude for his faith and his family and his friends.
The experience of our family is proof that life isn’t fair. We’ve been given far more than our fair share of blessings and moments of joy. Other people should be so lucky.
So that is why our grief exists. And that’s why it’s ok that our celebration of his life is mixed with sadness - because our joy with him was great. And because it is ours to keep and can never be taken away, we can celebrate that joy as long as we wish.
Jane Bothel Eulogy - February 9th 2020 ----------------
Marc James Bothel was born to Maida and Jim Bothel on May 16, 1945 in Terre Haute, Indiana. When World War II ended, the family moved back home to the Pacific Northwest and lived in Tacoma and West Seattle during Marc’s early years.
Marc’s love of water developed early as he spent one month each summer with our grandparents on Vashon Island. With three older cousins, Marc enjoyed Grandma’s sourdough and banana pancakes, morning Bible studies, plenty of time to play on the beach, and nights on the sleeping porch. The gang was frequently joined by Marc’s imaginary friend, Wes Pickle (or Mr. Pickle as the occasion required). Mr. Pickle accompanied Marc on many adventures until our brother Peter was born when Marc was 7 ½. With a real little brother in tow, Mr. Pickle faded away.
When Marc was 12, our father’s job took the family to southern California, where Marc lived until he was 17. I was born when Marc was 15 years old, probably causing a bit of upheaval to the family routine with two older boys. They chose to make the best of it.
We were all blessed to grow up in a home where our faith was lived out with passion and authenticity. Our parents were kind, loving, wise and compassionate. This environment led Marc to an early understanding of the gospel and a commitment to follow Christ.
Just before Marc’s senior year of high school, our parents made the most momentous decision of his life. Our father accepted a job transfer to Chicago and the family moved to Glen Ellen, Illinois. Our family began visiting local churches. Marc was fairly reserved at the time, so our parents were somewhat surprised when Marc announced that he liked the kids better at Glen Ellen Bible Church. They quickly figured out that it was most likely just one particular kid that he liked better.
Marc met Beverly Jean Gathman and they quickly captured each other’s attention. Church youth group gatherings, Bev’s sudden interest in the high school football team, and walks home from school evolved into a young romance within a short time. They became best friends and fell in love during their college years. Marc and Bev were married in Glen Ellen in August 1968.
Marc graduated with honors from Rose Polytechnic Institute with a degree in Chemical Engineering. After graduation, Marc and Bev returned to Glen Ellen to be near Bev’s mother.
While living in Rochester, NY, Marc and Bev welcomed their first son – Christopher. Three years later, Scott was born. After a couple of stops in the Midwest, the family landed at their home in Bellevue on Lake Sammamish. The boys were fortunate to grow up near the lake and Camp Sambica, with Marc always ready to drive the boat.
As the years progressed, the boys became men, married wonderful women, and the grandsons began to arrive… and they arrived and arrived and arrived. You’ll see more of the family later in the service, but I’ll go through the lineup: Chris and Katharine have Wes and Bauer; Scott and Christina have Ranen, Elias, and Leland.
In June of last year, Marc and Bev left their house at the lake and moved to Anacortes. They were surprised to find that they loved living there even more than they had expected and enjoyed some of their happiest times living in that beautiful place.
Marc’s career evolved over the years as his expertise and interests came into greater focus. He was involved in various forms of solutions marketing in the application of industrial process automation products. I can repeat that, if you’d like. What impressed me the most is that his ability to identify and solve problems brought him great joy and he was honestly fascinated by his work.
Marc’s problem-solving skills extended beyond his career. He was able to fix anything that needed fixing. I don’t have time to share the many projects that he completed over the years; however, just after Marc passed away, Scott showed me one of Marc’s last projects. It requires a bit of explanation - I have a visual aid. In their parking garage, Marc’s spot was difficult to access. So, he meticulously applied yellow reflective tape to the floor of the garage and to his bumper just beneath the backup camera lens to facilitate backing in to the space. If nothing else, the guy was thorough.
Actually, Marc was faithful, loving, intelligent, available and reliable. He was deeply in love with Bev and clearly admired, trusted and believed in her as they walked through life together. He was so proud of his family. He saw the unique qualities in each one of us and loved us all.
So, my dear Marc, you will be remembered with respect and gratitude and so much love.
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