“Make someone feel good today.”

He always said, “I don’t want any tears when I die. I want you all to have a party, invite everyone, have good food, congregate together, and rejoice with each other that I’m in heaven with my Lord.”

In the same token, he wouldn’t want an obituary in the usual sense. Most obituaries present readers with a list of accomplishments, titles, and other notable achievements. Dad wasn’t about that. He was about memories, remembering the old ones, creating new ones, and being very intentional with all those around him. Everyone drawn into his orbit came out a better, happier version of themselves.

Philip Pennington and Chris Robey, two of my lifelong best friends, recently wrote posts about him. What’s interesting is that at the same time they were writing their posts, I was writing this, and if you read them all, it’s like we’re all telling the same story. The story below is not about Phil, Chris, or myself. We were all simply blessed to be in Carl Hogue’s orbit.

So, for those of you who knew him, I hope this story finds you in his presence one more time. If you didn’t know him, then this story will give you a glimpse into the man he was, and the man I’ll always be inspired to be.

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You step out of the car, instantly wondering why you ever agreed to this. Your friend’s idea, not yours. He’s the only person you know here, and you already know how this will go. He’ll drift off, laughing with his other friends, and you’ll end up on some couch pretending you don’t want to talk to anyone, and maybe it’s not pretending at all at this point.

Inside, the house hums with noise. A hundred voices blend into one great wave of sound, laughter spilling down every hall, out every doorway. Everyone seems to know everyone, and you can feel your chest tighten. You haven’t been here five minutes, and already you want to leave.

The kitchen is chaos. Kids your age are stirring pots, setting plates, pouring drinks, washing dishes like they belong here, like they live here. You catch yourself thinking, how big is this family? Does the whole neighborhood live here?

Your friend is gone before you can finish the thought. Just like you knew he would be. Alone, you look through the glass doors toward the pool. It’s a blur of motion and sound, kids shrieking, splashing, flying off the diving board. One launches off a trampoline, twisting through the air before hitting the water with a perfect belly flop. Everyone cheers, and the kid comes out of the water, cheering too. You stare, caught between awe and disbelief. What is this place?

The back door bursts open. A man steps in, tall, with a dark beard and eyes that crinkle when he smiles. He spots you. For a second, you think about looking away, disappearing into the noise, but something in his expression stops you.

“Hey, honey, could you come help me with this?” he says, his voice calm and kind.

You glance around, searching for whoever he really means. But his gaze stays on you. You point to yourself. “Me?”

He nods. “Come on.” He says ‘on’ more like ‘own’ stretching it out with his accent, southern and familiar, and before you know it, your feet are moving, carrying you outside into the wildness of the pool party.

He brings you to a blazing grill, presses a giant grill spatula and a pair of tongs into your hands. “You ever done hamburger patties before?”

“Uuum… no,” you say.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything.” He claps you on the back. Something in the touch says, 'you’ve got this,' even if he doesn’t say it out loud.

After a quick lesson in grilling, he leaves you to it, tells you to stack the burgers in the tinfoil tray, and to bring them in when you’re done. You stare at the grill, wondering how you went from knowing no one to cooking for an entire crowd in under a minute.

He starts to walk off, then spins around. “Oh, and what’s your name?”

You tell him.

“Glad to meet you, honey,” he says, but the glad to meet you sounds more like, “Gladameechu,” and then he walks away. You blink. ‘Does he call everyone honey?’

You start flipping burgers, finding a rhythm. The heat brushes your face, the air thick with smoke and laughter. Somewhere in the chaos, you start to settle. Maybe this isn’t so hard. The sounds of kids shouting, splashing, the smell of burgers, it’s all so alive. It feels like you’ve stepped into something pure, like you’re watching something take shape you’ve never seen before, and you want to know more.

Through the glass front of the kitchen, you see him again. He’s rounding up more kids to help with dinner, and they gather to him as if pulled by some quiet force. There’s something magnetic about him, like he has his own gravity, and with every gesture, every laugh, people are pulled one by one into his orbit.

After a while, he comes back to check on you.

“These look good?” you ask.

He takes the tongs. “Oh boy! If they taste half as good as they smell…” He breaks a piece off, pops it in his mouth, and grins. “Well, if it was any better, I just couldn’t stand it.” He pats you on the back and laughs. “Done good, son. Let’s take ’em inside.”

You follow him, smiling before you realize it. Something in you unclenches. You’re still surrounded by noise and motion, but you don’t feel like an outsider anymore. Somehow, you’ve gone from random guest, knowing no one, to head chef, and you’ve never even flipped a burger in your life.

As you step into the kitchen, a huge man comes barreling down the hallway. “Crazy Carl! How ya doin’, honey!” he calls.

“Well, honey, if I was any better I couldn’t stand it,” Carl fires back. He seems to have this phrase on repeat.

They meet with a bear hug that could crush steel, laughing like old friends.

The kitchen is pure chaos again. An older kid is at the blender, making something red that looks like hot sauce. The noise is a steady roar beneath the laughter. Crazy Carl moves through it all like a conductor, humming a tune that sounds like an old church hymn. You can’t quite place it, but it stirs something familiar, like a memory buried deep in your childhood.

He tosses out little sayings as he goes. “Too hot in the hot tub,” “Might as well, can’t dance.” You can tell they’re uniquely his, that each one has a story behind it, and you find yourself wanting to hear those stories. You imagine he’s filled to the brim with tales of adventures and memories, and it makes you feel like you want to create and collect some of your own.

You notice a woman, maybe in her forties. She’s pretty. Crazy Carl seems to know this all too well and keeps glancing her way. When he brushes past her, she smiles, a soft, private smile that carries a lifetime of love and memories. They share a quick kiss amid the noise, and you feel like you’ve witnessed something sacred, something you weren’t supposed to see but are grateful you did.

Carl catches your eye. “Hey, son, could you go tell everyone outside your burgers are done?”

You hesitate, staring at him. 'Me? Why me?' you think. But he nods, that same easy nod he gave you before, and somehow it means more than words. Maybe it’s the quiet confidence in his eyes, or the trust he already placed in you when he handed you the spatula, entrusting you with the grill. Something in you shifts. You’re not the kind of person who steps up in moments like this, but you hear his voice in your head, 'your burgers,' and that seems to be enough to spur you into movement.

You step outside, awkward and unsure, heat rising in your face. Normally, you’d do anything to avoid calling attention to yourself, especially in a crowd this big. But you take a breath anyway. “Hey everyone, dinner’s ready!” you shout. No one hears you. You walk closer to the pool, wave your arm, and say louder this time. “Dinner’s ready, everyone!”

And suddenly, they all turn. A hundred faces, wet hair dripping, eyes on you. For a heartbeat, you want to disappear, but then they start shouting, laughing, running for towels, bumping shoulders, and slipping across the deck. You watch them pour inside toward the kitchen, and it hits you. They’re going to eat the burgers I made. Your heart stutters.

The house fills. Every room is alive with noise, kids crowded shoulder to shoulder, plates clattering, voices echoing off the walls. Crazy Carl lifts his hands to get their attention, his voice booming above the laughter. He thanks everyone for coming, says a few kind words, then finds your eyes in the crowd.

He calls your name. Points at you. “Big round of applause for our chef!”

The room erupts. Your name rolls through the air, and before you can catch your breath, he says you’re going to say the prayer.

Your stomach drops. Hands slick with sweat, your knees weak. You haven’t prayed out loud since you were a kid. Now a hundred people are waiting, watching. You want to shake your head, but then he gives you that same nod again. The one that says, you can do this.

He tells everyone to join hands. And they do. Every single person in that house links together, one long unbroken chain. You’re in the middle of it somehow, surrounded by warmth, by something bigger than yourself. It feels like this is all for you. You know that can’t be true, but the thought lingers for longer than this fleeting moment, months, years maybe.

You speak. The words come out rough, uncertain, but they come. The rhythm of a prayer is still in you from so long ago. The phrases, the sayings, and when you reach the end and whisper “Amen,” the noise rises again. But it’s different now. There’s a presence in it, a feeling, something patterned but not, something that seems like belonging perhaps.

You don’t know if it’s the laughter, or the smell of food, or the way the man and his wife move through the room like they’ve built a world that can hold everyone in it. But you feel it. It’s home. Not a place, exactly. A feeling you’d forgotten existed.

And as you watch Carl, you see it clearly: the pull he has, the gravity that keeps everyone in his orbit. You still don’t understand how you got here, from dreading the night, to flipping burgers, to praying out loud in front of a hundred strangers, to having kids applaud your name, to doing things that would typically scare you to death, but somehow in one night it’s like you’ve changed somehow, like this man pulled out a version of yourself that you never knew existed.

You realize you’ve witnessed something rare tonight. Something simple, but powerful. It’s family, not just the kind bound by blood, but by love, by warmth, by laughter, by choosing to belong.

As you get in the van to leave, you already want to go back. You can’t describe it, but there’s a feeling you have deep inside, and whatever this feeling is, it’s new. Pure. You don’t even have words for it. But you know one thing for certain, now that you’ve felt it, you don’t ever want to let it go.

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For those who knew Crazy Carl Hogue, I hope this brings back a flood of nostalgia. He had a way of drawing people in, a kind of gravity that made everyone around him lighter, better, and part of something that felt like family.

All his life, he said he didn’t want a funeral. He wanted a party. A celebration where everyone came together to share food, laughter, and stories. He wanted joy, not sorrow, and for everyone to rejoice that he was home in Heaven. So, go ahead and rejoice because on October twelfth, he went to see Jesus. We will share the details soon for what we’re calling the Crazy Carl Homecoming Party.

My Dad was a living storybook, filled with tales of the past and new memories made with every person he met. The moments we shared with him, the laughter and love he sparked in all of us, that is his legacy.