Eulogy shared by Sydney on 1/10/2026 in Salt Lake City, at Gary’s Long family memorial gathering.

My father’s name is Gary Alan Long—in his handwriting, his lower-case “a” was written in a distinctive, squiggly way that confused me for ages as a kid, but I took up the habit of writing it the same way as I grew older, enjoying the way it looked and felt more intentional. And intentional is the word. If anything was done by dad, it was done thought out to the finest detail.

He took this trait and used it primarily while he encompassed one of the largest roles he played in my life. My dad was my editor. He read through and edited everything I ever wrote—first sentences, middle school creative writing assignments, college application essays, my senior thesis, and every CV for every job I ever applied to.

Which makes it wildly ironic—and painfully unfair—that this is the first of many pieces of writing he will never see.

If my father were a concept in grammar, he wouldn’t be a punctuation mark. He would be the concept of irony.

He was full of contradictions that made him so iconic. He was a know-it-all who would never let you know it. He collected watches, yet didn’t have enough time on this earth. HE was the most outgoing introvert I’ve ever known. He spent hours cooking in the kitchen but only ever ate one meal a day. He taught for a living, yet prioritized learning from others.

There is no one definition of Gary and his life.

To his students, he was defined by his passion for creating good thinkers. He didn’t teach people what to think, but how to think—critically, carefully, and with curiosity in any situation.

To his colleagues - not the good ones - he was defined by his defiance. No one can slight a brilliant mind. Dad had an incredible way of displaying his point of view. He made it hard not to see that he was, more often than not, correct. For as much hell as his job gave him, I’m pretty sure he gave them hell back, but served with just the right balance of intellect and ef you energy. I’m so thankful that I was never taught to grin and bear it, but stand up and get it done right.

To his friends, he was defined by his humor—often described as schoolboy-esque— frequently dark, and always perfectly timed. Even in the last year of his life, without knowing it, he joked about cremation or being taken out by the Portuguese mafia. His final text to his friends—sent just hours before he passed—was him bullying them for their nerdy glasses. He had a pin in the top drawer of his dresser that read, “I’m silently correcting your grammar.” And while it was not always silent, he knew when to make it a joke—and when to let it go entirely, especially if someone needed kindness more than correction.

To the homeless on the street or the local immigrant behind the deli counter, he was defined by his generosity. He was the man who always carried spare cash to give to those who asked for it. He never judged who asked or what they would use it for. He knew that no one is immune to the unpredictability of a harsh world, and it was not his place to pass judgement only pass the bit of help he could offer. In just a year of living in Norwood, every local shopkeep and deli worker knew Dad’s face. He was the white man who bothered to learn a few words in Urdu, Hebrew, Greek, or whatever specific dialect so that he could make them feel seen and welcomed. He was the man who would grab a sample at the deli just to give to one of the other workers. These weren’t large gestures, but they speak so loudly to the generosity he offered.

To his family, my dad was defined by protection. He stayed up into the wee hours of the morning just to make sure we got home safe. Loving him was displayed by keeping him updated via text of ETAs, and love was felt from the safety of our home, the warm meals, and the constant support. Through the worst moments of our family, dad was the first one to say, “well hey, we’re all here for you in this family, we’re team Sydney, or Team Alan, or team mom, or team-whomever was facing adversity.” He always eased our minds by being that constant force of love.

That was my dad: caring deeply, right up until the end, and expressing it in the most Gary way possible.

My father was, in definition, the kind of person everyone should want to be—not perfect, not loud about his goodness, but deeply intentional, and consistently kind. The kind of man who edited your words not to change your voice, but to help you say what you truly meant.

If he were here to edit this today, I’m fairly certain he’d already be circling some unnecessary words and placing some question marks in the margin.

So I’ll end this the way he taught me writing should always end: clearly, honestly, and with intention.

Dad, I am glad I took up on your weird lowercase “a”. I hope I may take up all the other wonderful habits and intricacies that made you you.
I thank you for teaching me how to think, how to care, and how to choose my words. I only wish this weren’t the final draft.

Adapted from the eulogy shared by Alan on 1/10/2025 in Salt Lake City, at Gary’s Long family memorial gathering.

I’ve spent the last couple months thinking about the overall shape of my dad’s life; what drove him, what defined him. And, as the greatest role model of my life, I can’t help but compare and contrast his life with my own. I’m impressed by the trajectory of his life, because he was always growing and learning, always seeking to understand a topic at its core. And that drive for understanding led him to interesting places physically and intellectually.

He was born to parents who had found certain truths, and while my dad was still a baby, he and his family moved halfway around the world to deliver those truths. My dad grew up holding those truths close, and even entered seminary school, to lend his own voice to those truths and potentially carry forward his parents’ work. At some point, however, his curiosity started pulling him in a different direction. He started digging into the source material of those truths, sometimes literally ‘digging’, for answers.

His curiosity led him to focus on the people behind the bible–how they lived, how they defined themselves, how they communicated and documented their lives. He found purpose and meaning in exploring religion through more tangible human metrics his intellect could grapple with. And when I was four and Syd was no more than two months old, he dragged us halfway around the world to the holy lands, less to deliver truths to a land that was already inundated with in them, but to keep learning and share that insight, and to challenge people on what they know and how they came to know it.

I had great respect for what he did. One of the highlights of my life was when I was a junior in college and our family returned to the holy lands. I was taking a college course through my dad’s university, with my dad as one of the co-leaders of the course. I got to tour all over the land with him and hear him lecture. For example, he spoke on the history of the old city walls that I used to live less than a mile from–how the foundation was laid by a tribe of Canaanites in the bronze age, then taken over and fortified by King David and Solomon, how King Hezekiah went on to expand the western foundation (a lecture that came with a half kilometer trek through a very dark, very narrow, and still very functional aqueduct that Hezekiah had made–not an easy journey for two guys over 6’). The walls were later torn down by the Romans, and rebuilt by the Ottoman Sultan Suleiman. There was so much history to sink your teeth into, and Dad was able to piece together and follow the trajectories of all these different groups, how and why they were there and, sometimes, how they could be spun into the stories his parents used to preach. I got to see my dad in his element and understand him a bit better. For many years after, I continued to learn why he was so compelled to follow those stories to their source, and to see him as he continuously dedicated himself to understanding people and the basis for their truths.

He was inspiring. Like him, I was also something of a glutton for academic punishment. But while he chose to study histories and people and later on in life the cognitive sciences, I studied biology and mechanisms of life. Even though the subject matter was way outside his wheelhouse, he was always thrilled to hear me ramble on about something I was studying–how this cytokine could rally immune cells against melanoma, or this bispecific antibody I had stitched together was treating pancreatic carcinoma xenografts. I think of all the painfully dry scientific manuscripts I made that poor man proofread for me. And I think about how good it was to sometimes just commiserate about the winding and sometimes ambiguous academic routes we had taken. He was one of my most important mentors, even if he didn’t sit on my thesis committee. He was a great friend, and I’m thrilled he ultimately got to see me in my element and understand me a bit more, in ways no other person ever could or will. He raised me, he knew what drove me, and he went through so much of it with me.

We were different in many ways–different in some of our interests, like the Tour de France. He could go on and on about all the subtle strategies and tactics at play, when originally all I saw was people on bikes. But, when met with mutual respect and interest, those many differences deeply enriched my life in ways big and small; I hope they did something to enrich his life too. That was one of many valuable lessons he left me: to embrace the ‘other’. It’s difficult to learn something new if you keep reading the same book, even if that book is composed of 66 other books. My dad was willing and able to take the time to read a chapter out of someone else’s, even if it was written in dull science-speak or in ancient Akkadian. But we were similar too in so many important ways. We chose different specialties in life but I still try to face the world with curiosity like he did, try to find answers or maybe just new lines of thinking, and share them with others, hopefully to their benefit.

My dad was an anchor for me. And I’m not sure what to feel now that that anchor is gone. I want him back, I want him around. I want to keep seeing the trajectory of his life. My children will never fully know what they missed and that breaks my heart. Maybe the best I can do for them and for myself, is to carry forward all that he gave me, and be the person he both raised me to be in the early years and supported me to be later on, with all the similarities and differences that come with that. It doesn’t feel like enough, but maybe with time, it will.

I ask that those who knew my dad try to do the same. It was his joy to share his life with so many incredible and thoughtful people. Please carry forward what my dad gave you—a history lesson, a recipe, a good laugh. Maybe he left you with questions, a curiosity, a new point of view. Whatever it was, take it forward with you. My dad studied trajectories of ideas and languages and art as they developed long after their originators were gone. My dad is gone, but there’s still a trajectory to him and his impact in this world that still has a long way to go before we see the end of it. And we are how it carries on.

Eulogy shared by Kathryn on 1/10/2026 in Salt Lake City, at Gary’s Long family memorial gathering.

I crave words. I need words. It seems like my vocabulary has vanished and I cannot find the words I need.

Words to hold on to my Gary.

I want words to capture him, visualize him, convey him, remember him. I can’t find the words.

There are simple words like:

Curious

Brilliant

Passionate

Thoughtful

Humorous

Witty

Committed

Strategic

Caring

Genuine and humble

Anxious but brave

Introverted and Private but Gregarious

Secure and Insecure

Funny, quirky, childishly playful

Loving, Loving, Loving.

A myriad of words to describe my Gary but insufficient to capture him. I want profound words. I long for words to describe the “vast-ness” of my Gary. The massive, enormous, colossal space he inhabited in my life, my world, my heart.

The road from Jerusalem to Jericho passes through the Wadi Qelt. It is not a place to simply see, it is experienced. Some of you experienced it with us. For me, Wadi Qelt evokes an overwhelming sense of expanse. Ongoing, nearly barren swells of mountains with deep valleys that seem bottomless, expansive, breath-taking, as far as the eye can see.

This is the vastness that Gary occupied in my life. It is the vast emptiness that his leaving has left in me. I want the right words to help fill the vast space he left.

Perhaps the words that have come to mind most frequently when I think of him are Caring and Curious.

CARING: Gary was my love, my CARING partner. We worked hard to keep connection, to understand each other, to journey together. Yet, I found I was still getting to know him. He was always evolving. He generously and patiently shared his discoveries and newfound ideas. He was open to hearing my revelations (sometime with his eyes still glued to his phone (ha)). Finding our path together came from sharing words. As most of you can imagine, I was able to find lots of words to fill our weekly brunch time at Medici during our Chicago years, an endless number of words. Gary’s words were more curated, weighty, purposeful.

Words did not always come easily to Gary. He often struggled to find words to describe his own feelings. Those caring feelings were frequently communicated in well-considered and meaningful actions.

• Making my cup of coffee in the morning.

• Checking in on me (when working, traveling, or just out running errands). He’d text “just seeing how you are doing. Take your time. Get a snack."

• Calling me into the kitchen to taste something he’d created.

• Setting up a taste testing of a new Gin he had found along with our house Gin to see which one I liked best.

• Spending time at the beach with me (when he couldn’t stand sand between his toes).

I didn’t always understand and wasn’t always aware of Gary’s love language or the way he caringly loved others. I got a bit better at this in recent years and look back with more tenderness.

• A colleague mentioned that “Gary’s virtue was his vice.” He often cared too passionately.

• One of his closest colleagues said that Gary was a firewall. He offered protection to the rest of his department, allowing them to carry on their valuable work by taking the bulk of the administration’s ire.

• Learning others’ languages-Gary purposely equipped himself to greet a neighborhood acquaintance in their own dialect (the gas station attendant, the ladies at the grocery store deli department, the sushi maker. On asking Gary about his efforts, he replied, “I’m a white male. It is the least I can do to acknowledge others and show respect for their journey.”

• Carrying Cash to discretely give to anyone in need- no judgement, and no fan-fare to the gesture.

• Gary loved hanging out with his great friends, acting like a middle schooler, but being there for them if needed.

Curious. Gary’s curiosity was grounded in Humility. “Help me understand...” was his sincere approach. He prioritized and worked at being a - lifelong learner, and valued understanding others’ perspectives. His love of learning was not during his years of formal education (which he always looked back on fondly) but in every aspect of his life.

• His colleagues noted he carefully crafted every class lecture/experience to promote the ultimate learning experience. Including the song choice to play at the beginning each class.

• We’d go on walks in nature at least a couple times a month. I’d be soaking in all the beauty and look over to see Gary with his nose in his phone. Early on I would plead with him to put the phone away and take in the sights. But I learned he was taking it all in in his own way- checking his appt to know the type of rock, bird, or plant we came upon.

• Gary loved hanging out with colleagues, buddies, a few select students and would absorb all they were willing to share with him.

• Gary meticulously researched new cooking techniques and methodically investigated every item option before he purchased ANYTHING.

Gary’s curiosity and care thrived on embracing diversity. The word “diversity” seems politically charged recently. Yet it is that plethora of ideas, experiences, and perspectives Gary found invigorating. While we are one family here today, that lovely diversity is represented in this room. We each bring our own unique perspective, and it impacts how we remember Gary, how we process our grief, and how we connect with each other. Within the significant variety we represent, it is our active choice to embrace each other with Christ-like love. That love provides safety and a welcomeness to bring our authentic selves to this gathering and be accepted. Gary’s curiosity humbly welcomed to the table the mad mess of diversity that is present in communities, classrooms, in this room.

I don’t have the words. But in this room, I see Gary in our precious family members. He was and is a part of us.

I love you, Gary.

I miss you like crazy.

Keep Curious, and Gary On!

What a shock to learn of Gary's passing. He and family had visited us recently and he was his usual vibrant self, and in e-mails expressed how much he was enjoying the new location in retirement. Gary and I once did a joint article based on one of his ideas, and that sort of cooperation leaves a permanent mark behind—in this case a highly positive one. It's banal, but has to be said: Gary went too soon. Though my and Nancy's grief can be nothing compared with the family's, we wish them every blessing as they move on.

Dennis and Nancy Pardee

It has been a challenge to put words to what Gary Long meant to me, and I think it’s a complete understatement to say that Gary had a profound impact on my life, from my time as his student and beyond. Our shared background of growing up in the same denomination was an initial connection point and topic of many discussions. As his Teaching Assistant in college, Gary taught me not just about academic excellence, but about life – he guided me through a faith crisis and, with his gallows humor and generous sharing from his own experiences, taught me to lighten up and not take things so seriously all the time. He was the best mentor I could have ever asked for. We both enjoyed the deep, intellectual conversations we shared, and it’s something I really, really valued. Gary was the first person who made me feel truly, genuinely seen.

The day I graduated I went to a party at his house and had my first sip of alcohol. Gary’s teaching didn’t stop at college. I’ll never be the connoisseur Gary was, but I did learn some things about intoxicating beverages. And, as I embarked on my journey into the adult world, he also shared recipes and cooking tips, because he absolutely loved cooking and I most certainly did not. He was a reference for me and helped me land my first real job post-college. There are many parts of my life now, all these years later, that are a result of the influence Gary had and the support he so generously gave, even when he did so in the lovingly irreverent way he did. He would joke about going to hell, but was intentional about living a life of care, curiosity, and genuine concern for others. I am incredibly and indebtedly grateful. Gary was a person on this planet unlike any other.

Gary, you really caught us by surprise and we couldn’t blame you for that.

You were such a good Chef, always brought good food to our gathering table. From steaks to Benedict, pizza, and even BiangBiang noodle, you explored different styles to excite our taste buds.

Your exploring spirit went beyond food. Last mid-autumn festival, you attempted speaking out ZhongQiu KuaiLe very well. When XueMei told you the founder of Manny’s and St Jude Medical was the same person, you quickly looked it up. Although you busted her favorite story, we had a good time at Manny’s.

You will be missed!