Todays service was perfect. Our family all commented that we don’t know if we have ever been to a celebration of life that was more meaningful. Every speaker and every song was wonderful, telling their own story. The video was such a treasure, hearing Perry narrate his life’s purpose in his words. We know how painful today must have been for all of you, but you should rest well knowing how much honor you bestowed on his life today. We feel privileged to have been able to attend and hear his story.

Thankyou for the continued updates throughout Perry & all of your journey through this disease and the remainder of his life that he continued to show how very strong he is. Although we can't be there for his memorial we will be continuing to pray for all of you as you find your way through this next chapter & just know we love you all so much!
Amber, Dustin, Alaysia, & Abel

I’ve sat down to try to process and write this so many times. Each time I end up deleting it all because it’s not enough. Never enough. It doesn’t do justice to my thoughts, my feelings, or my memories.

But I can’t not say something.

For half of my life, Perry was “Mr. Beabout.” He was the dad of some of my friends growing up, and I spent countless hours at their house: playing, dressing up, watching movies, talking, doing dishes, pushing for another sleepover, biking, lounging, and otherwise thinking of him with all the comfort of a second dad. He was in the background in so many of my memories, but he was there, ready to watch a movie with us, order pizza and bring it back, fix a bike before we’d take off, or sometimes just laugh quietly in the background as he’d tune in randomly to the conversations we’d have around him. A lot of my memories of him are quiet: his chuckles as we’d tease each other. His occasional comments as we’d be discussing some big idea. The way he wouldn’t say anything but his eyes would crinkle with amusement watching us kids beg Jodi for more time together and if she would PLEASE ask *my mom* if we could spend the night because my mom would be more likely to say yes if she was the one who asked.

The details are hazy now, but I remember a few of us (Heather/Jodi/Leandra?) talking one evening and someone said the word “respite,” only they pronounced it “re-SPITE,” and Perry chuffed in amusement from the living room and scoffed, “You mean, ‘respite’?” (pronounced REspit). The argument that ensued about the proper pronunciation, the search in the dictionary to see what it said, and the subsequent shock of all females present to learn we somehow all said it incorrectly and Perry was right is forever hilariously seared into my brain. I’ve messed up the pronunciation of a lot of words in my day, but I’ve never forgotten the proper pronunciation of “respite” since that day!

I remember laughing at stories Perry shared about growing up, including sawing himself out of a tree. I remember watching my parents with Perry and Jodi and thinking one day when I was grown up, I wanted friends like them to be adult friends with. I remember thinking that Perry radiated tranquility—even as I knew not to trust him with directions or we might end up in the wrong country! I remember his dry comments that made the rest of us laugh.

For a number of years, our two families found a way to vacation together in one chata (cabin) or another throughout Slovakia. As our families felt so much like one family to us kids, we melded our names and created “The BeaHill Theatre,” a theater where we’d perform the last evening of each vacation. We did skits, sang songs, got emotional, laughed our heads off, and otherwise thoroughly enjoyed the planning and presentation of all things dramatic.

Somewhere along the line, one of my sisters spearheaded the making of a spoof about our dads. (I think several different ones of us chimed in with ideas along the way, but the bulk of the credit went to Heather.) The tune was “On top of spaghetti,” and it started out,

“On top of our fathers,
Way up on their heads
We search and we find not
A hair—not a thread!”

I won’t share the rest here, but my Dad and Perry sat through multiple verses of this song every vacation for years—and sometimes odd occasions thrown in, too! Both took it with great humor, laughing along with us as we took unholy glee in harassing our dads.

We were two families set adrift in Central Europe, grieving long distance friendships, making new friends, learning a new language, figuring out a different culture, and growing up in so many ways. From living together and staying up “late” to write stories, to bike rides to Mohyla in Ivanka, to movies and shopping at Polus, making chocolate chip cookies with chocolate that popped in your mouth, walking to the icecream shop, filming home videos, doing makeovers and talk shows and staying up late to talk and so many other memories, Perry was in the background of each, a constant, steady presence.

After years of separation between continents and states, it was a sweet gift when Perry and Jodi moved to Cary and were only a few minutes away. As they’d been such a key part of my childhood, it was special to see my kids fall in love with “Mr. and Mrs. Beabout.” I loved that the next generation was getting to know and appreciate how amazing they were—even as it felt surreal to have my kids know a family that was so pivotal for me as a child! My girls played “Beabout rummy” every chance they could (still do!), and my boys couldn’t get enough of “Mr. Beabout” every time they saw him, teasing and playing and roughhousing with him and coming back for more, grins stretched across their faces and glee in their eyes. I loved being able to have them in my home, sharing food and playing games and reminiscing and making new memories.

I think I learned how to truly grieve thanks in part to the Beabout family. A lot of people try to rush you through your grief because it’s uncomfortable for them, or because we hope to see them in heaven, and somehow it becomes normal to try to push someone to focus on that rather than allowing them to fully feel the weight of grief. But grief and grieving are crucial. Devastating, but crucial. In these days since Perry died, I’ve thought again and again about my childhood and teen years and the big times I grieved with Leandra and Kelsey in particular. We had some rough seasons, from adjustments to new cultures to loneliness and saying goodbye to close friends to separation ourselves and more. When I look at my life, I see those hard seasons that I was privileged to experience side by side with them, and I see the gift now of how earnestly we allowed ourselves to grieve and mourn. I don’t think I have ever cried so hard or so much with a friend as I did with them at different points. As much as the laughter of our childhoods was shaping and important, the ability to be devastated with friends, the freedom to ugly cry with them, the honesty of grieving with every part of our minds and bodies and hearts? That was foundational and healing in a whole other way.

And now I find myself here. Not with you in person. Not able to cry with you. Not walking in person through a loss more devastating than we’ve experienced before. I’ve cried and cried and cried for my own grief over Perry’s passing, and then I’ve cried more knowing how much each of you is grieving his death. My heart aches and I wish more than anything right now that I could walk this path with you in person, supporting the daily processing and grieving and mourning that comes after this—both immediately after the funeral, but also the longterm grief. The day in, day out, little moments of loss that will stop you in your tracks and double you over with pain.

I grieve for my loss, but I grieve even more for yours. I’m thankful to know we’ll see Perry again, but the interim? The now? The going forward? Perry’s absence will be felt, and my heart aches with it.
It’s been 13 days since Perry passed, and it’s been surreal. The days have felt fairly normal in a lot of ways. The kids keep me busy. I haven’t seen Perry in over a year so my daily life isn’t affected—but there’s an overarching grief, a processing as I realize again and again that someone who was a staple in my life is no longer here. When I move past that grief for the moment, I find myself blindsided by my grief for the family, knowing how much harder this loss is for each of you. And then I pull myself together and do the next thing at home, but there’s this constant hum in the back of my mind: Perry’s gone, and life for them will never be the same, and oh God, oh God, how do we say goodbye to a beloved husband, father, son, and friend? And how do we be okay with life going on without them?

These last weeks, I’ve seen my parents’ grief at one of their best friends’ death. I’ve seen my kids cry for the loss of someone they came to love. I ache to not be present this weekend as everyone processes and celebrates Perry’s life; I know it will be bittersweet but special to come together and remember him with others.

I ache.

Perry, you are loved. You’re gone, but you’re still loved. There’s a lot more I could say and more memories to share, but I think this is enough for now. To use someone else’s words, “How lucky [we are] to have had something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”

You’re gone, but not forgotten. Never forgotten.

Thank you so much Leandra, for making it possible for so many to share in this very difficult journey the Beabout family has been on.

Thank you Leandra for all your posts. It is very surreal to read your dads obituary. Please know he will always be a part of our family and thought of with fondness. He will also be forever missed by Ed and I.