How different this funeral from the funeral of our father’s daughter 370 before, a funeral marked by tragedy and despair and anger, the wrongness of it all bound up in rightness of faith and family love.  Now, we basked in the power of our father’s life and legacy, trusting in our convictions about the goodness of this life and reality and betterness of the life to come.  We retold old stories, and told new stories, unknown to most, stories of love and service and faith.  And we wept.  In a powerful funerial moment, Mom called to the front of the chapel all of Dad’s former missionaries from Brazil.  These 30 men and women, all in their early 20s during their missionary service with Dad, now brought their 70-something gray hair and aching knees and backs to the front, and sang Israel, Israel God Is Calling, in parts, in Portuguese: Israel Jesus Te Chama.  My Portuguese-speaking sons and I joined the choir, and we felt the power of love and conviction and camaraderie echo within the chapel walls.