Lynn Thomas Johnson
June 20-1954-November 9, 2025
Lynn. L.T. Good Neighbor Lynn. Red. Dad. Uncle. Brother. Son. Friend. Grandpa. Papa. Panca. Papa-roo.
These are just a few of the names my dad was known by.
Losing him is incredibly hard. I see now how much I took his presence and the role he played in my life for granted. There are regrets, yes—but even more than that, there is deep gratitude. Gratitude for the time I had with him, and for everything he taught me and my girls.
As a child, my dad was my hero. He read us stories every single night, took us boating and camping (he loved his boat!), built anything and fixed everything. Everyone knew that if Lynn didn't have the tool for something, he'd make one. He had every part, wire, screw, nail, and tool anyone ever needed. He seemed to know how to do it all. He was the master of homemade pretzel making, Dutch oven cooking, slalom skiing, fire building, ax throwing, blow darts, giant bubbles, teasing, and a perfectly well maintained yard.
As a teenager, I didn’t give him the respect he deserved. I saw him through a distorted lens—too quiet, too passive, too absorbed in his work. He seemed awkward, a little socially unaware, and I didn’t understand him. He would never argue back with us or with my mom, and he avoided conflict at all costs.
As a young adult, I wanted more from him. I wanted him to plan the trips, be the “fun dad,” splurge a little - or a lot for that matter, step outside his comfort zone. I wanted him to fit the version I had created in my mind of what a dad should be.
But when he became a grandpa, I finally began to see him clearly. He dropped everything to play with my daughters, to build their imaginations, to create joy and memories. If they imagined it, he built it. He recited nursery rhymes, read books, constructed forts, took long walks, and poured his love into every moment. From powdered donuts, walks around the neighborhood, tape in the workshop, a rock band on the back of his truck, makeshift slides into the swimming pool, giant bubbles, building their dream bunkbed - my girls were his entire world.
Now, as I get older, I see my dad for who he truly was.
A man of quiet service. Someone whose love ran deeper than words. His joy didn’t come from travel, possessions, or recognition—it came from simply being with those he loved. He is my role model when it comes to serving others: always willing to help, never seeking praise. I can’t think of a time he ever told me no when I asked for help, even on days when he didn’t feel well. He lived to serve. He never complained. He lived with gratitude, patience, and unconditional love.
He was strong in ways I’m still learning to understand—kind, forgiving, soft-spoken, and humble. He didn’t need the spotlight. He didn’t chase big dreams the way I do, because he already had what mattered most. His joy was in the simple things. In us. His family. We are his greatest accomplishment.
My dad always had my back, even if he didn’t always say it aloud. He believed in me. He was proud of me. He offered advice when asked but never imposed his opinions. He supported quietly, lovingly, steadily.
He was, and will always be, my hero.
We knew his time was growing short, yet he had so much fight left in him. He was deemed terminal in early spring this year. By June, he was struggling. Adam and I decided it was important for him and his family to come down sooner rather than later. We gathered as a family—crying, laughing, and literally saying goodbye. My dad’s cousin, Carrie, had researched Fenbendazole—a cow dewormer— and found that it could help with cancer. My dad figured he had nothing to lose, so he started taking it. To our shock, his cancer counts began to drop. It gave him new energy and renewed hope. He lived for his Tuesday and Friday blood draws, eager to see how low he could push those numbers. He lived far beyond what we expected, and we began to wonder if he had somehow found a cure.
Then he got Covid. It wiped him out. It wiped out the fight he had left. He became weak and sick, and his cancer counts began to climb again. He grew discouraged, and it was time to be done. He and my mom contacted hospice and informed the clinic he would no longer continue supportive treatments. Adam made arrangements to come down and arrived late Thursday night.
My dad worsened quickly. He stopped eating. He was uncomfortable. Hospice estimated we had maybe three weeks, but my dad knew it would be less. Rod and I visited him Saturday night before a concert. He wasn’t doing well—confused, hollow. He cried when we told him we were going to Pentatonix. None of us knew how much he loved them. We hugged him and left.
Early Sunday morning my mom messaged me on Facebook that his breathing seemed off. She worried today might be the day. I didn’t want to believe it. Camryn, Adelynn, and I went to be with him. He was miserable. He had passed out earlier in the week, couldn’t get his nausea under control, and kept trying to throw up, but nothing—no saliva even—would come. He was pale, exhausted, and so weak. He was done. We asked if he was seeing any loved ones or having spiritual visitors. He said no. I thought we had more time. We face-timed Carsyn at work. Both she and my dad cried and had a good chat. We face-timed Tyleigh in Idaho. My dad cried when he saw her, but was also getting confused. He was exhausted.
Adam and I spent the day trying to keep him comfortable. We gave him the hospice meds—morphine, anti-nausea medication, even CBD. Everything seemed to agitate him more. When Camryn left with Brantson and Adelynn, I stayed. Around 5 p.m. he finally rested. I didn’t think it would be that day, so I went home to be with my family. I told my mom and Adam to call if anything changed. I hugged my dad and told him I loved him. He wasn’t fully coherent. He asked if I needed to take anything to get home—“like drugs.” The meds were clearly kicking in.
At 7:21 p.m., my mom called. His breathing was strange. She didn’t know what to do, and I wasn't sure if she was thinking clearly, or if there was a genuine concern. Adam said nothing was much different yet, so I told him to call if anything changed. Then, at 7:47, Adam messaged that hospice had been called. At 7:49, he wrote: “His breathing just went from fast to labored.” I didn't see the message right away so he called me at 7:55 and said, "I think he's going."
Rod and I ran to the car. At 8:01, I told Adam I was 35 minutes away. At 8:13, he called:
“Jess, I’m so sorry. He’s gone.”
It happened so fast. I wasn’t there for his last moments—something I’ll carry forever. But I am endlessly grateful Adam was there with my mom and dad. My dad’s final moments were not easy or peaceful. He battled until the very last breath. Adam said he cried out, “Help me! It hurts to not be here.” He didn’t want to leave us.
Rod and I arrived 35 minutes later. My dad was still warm. I climbed into the bed beside him, hugged him, cried, and talked to him. He looked like he was simply sleeping. Like he might start snoring any minute. But there was no color in him whatsoever. All the life had drained from his tired body.
Rod made all the necessary calls none of us could handle. It took a long time for them to find a driver to pick up my dad’s body, so we stayed with him—talking, crying, remembering. Before they took him, Rod suggested we each say goodbye. I hugged him tightly, sobbed until I couldn’t breathe, told him I loved him, told him I was proud of him.
Just after 11, the morgue arrived. They treated him with such respect. Adam and I couldn’t watch him be taken, but Rod did. He helped move him gently, covered him, and helped carry him upstairs and into the car. When I thanked him, he told me it was an honor—his last show of respect. Even writing that brings tears. I am so grateful for the incredible men in my life—my brother, my dad, and especially my husband.
Life and death are strange. Seventy-one years gone in the blink of an eye.
Thank you, Dad, for all you were—and all you will continue to be—in our lives.
Thank you for the memories, the lessons, for believing in us, and for loving us unconditionally.
You will be missed more than words can express.
“Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Well done.”
Rest easy, Dad.
Until we meet again.
"Be kind to everyone without exception, especially yourself." - Lynn Thomas Johnson
