If anyone ever didn’t need an obituary, it might be Steve.

Not because his life could be summed up neatly—but because
if you knew him, you’ve already heard most of it… probably more than once.

 Steve grew up in Ajo, Arizona—a fact he never let anyone
forget. Not friends, not family, not the casual grocery store clerk, and
certainly not the person pouring his coffee (black, always black—the only
acceptable way). He never met a stranger, only people who hadn’t yet heard his
story. And if you spent enough time with him, you’d pick up his phrases—“tally
ho” as a goodbye, “adios” as a farewell, or calling something a “horse of a
different color.” Once you heard them, you didn’t forget them.

 He was eager to tell his story. The details? Flexible. The
timeline? Optional. But the highlights were always there: his time in the Air
Force, his pride in serving, his running days when he was fast—really fast. And
the surfing and rock climbing stories. Either way, you were going to hear it. And if you’d already
heard it a hundred times, well… a hundred and one wasn’t going to hurt.

 He loved to laugh—really laugh. He had a great sense of
humor and didn’t mind being the punchline, as long as everyone else was
laughing too. Like the time he reached the bottom of his black coffee only to
find a napkin stuffed inside. He loved the simple things: a good peanut butter
sandwich, no frills needed.

 He approached projects on his own timeline. There were
always things he was going to get to—no need for 50 reminders. He had it
handled. Eventually. And if the phone rang and it was Steve, you knew what you
were in for. This was not going to be a quick call. “It’s Steve,” people might
say—and they meant it with a smile. He was long-winded, but he was present. He
cared. And he made sure you knew it. A two-hour wait didn’t bother him
either—he could pass the time with a story or just being present with whoever
was nearby.

 He was also the kind of dad who showed up—for whatever you
needed, no matter how small or how late. A cricket chirping in the neighbor’s
yard keeping you up at night. A roach in your apartment after you’d already
moved out. A ride home at 2am when you and your friends had made some
questionable decisions. He didn’t ask a lot of questions. He just came. He was
Uber before Uber—always ready to drive, to show up, to be the person you called
when you needed someone dependable. You always knew you could go to him.

 To try and summarize a life like Steve’s almost feels
unnecessary, because if you knew him, you already know.

 You know he loved his family—Diane, Ryan, Andrea, Hannah—and
if we tried to list every cousin, every in-law, every person he’d claimed as
his own over the years, we’d be here a while. But maybe that's just the way he'd want it. He had a soft spot for German chocolate cake, a deep appreciation for a
good breakfast, and a particular love for Christine’s cooking. He loved his
friends, his church, and Jesus.

 And then there was Hannah—his granddaughter, his little
sweetheart. He was Papa to her. He doted on her in a way that was all his own,
and she was his pride and joy.

 Above all else, there was Christine — his wife of over 50 years. He loved his kids, his family, and his friends deeply—but oh, how he loved her. He was devoted to her.  He loved her in a way that was steady and quiet and completely unmistakable. She was his world, the constant in every chapter, and the person everything in his life seemed to orbit around.

 He would talk about being an accountant often, and at
length—sometimes at a length that could put you to sleep if you weren’t
careful. Over the years he also did woodworking and tried his hand
as an electrician. He did what he needed to do. But he always came back
to accounting. It just fit him—steady, reliable, consistent.

 He had one sister, Gail, and then there were the brothers:
Gordy and the late Gary—an outrageous band of misfits sometimes simply
described as “those Woods boys,” and you knew exactly what that meant.

 He was a man of simple routines. He had the same hairbrush
for 40 years. He wore black every day. He loved westerns—Rio Grande, Rio Bravo,
Quigley Down Under—and was perfectly content watching the same ones again and
again. The same went for his music: the oldies, Ricky Nelson, Elvis. He found
what he liked and stayed with it. And just as steady as everything else was his
love for God—he kept the Bible close, read it, studied it, and returned to it
daily.

 He was also famously frugal. There’s a story from a trip to
Las Vegas that tells you everything you need to know. He spent a full ten
minutes carefully smoothing out a dollar bill, fed it into a slot machine,
played one spin, and cashed out a quarter. Then he looked around at the lights
and the excess and said, “They don’t build places like this off guys like me.”
And that was that. But here’s the thing—that same man would turn around and
give you that dollar, and many more, without a second thought. He was generous
in the ways that mattered. He just wasn’t about to let Vegas have it.

 Steve didn’t just talk about his faith—he lived it. He
wasn’t a perfect man, and he knew that. But he believed deeply in the grace of
Jesus and in the importance of doing what is right, even when it cost him. He
chose integrity over convenience and character over gain, and he tried to honor
God every day.

 Steve lived a life that was steady, faithful, and full of
stories—stories that will keep being told, probably just as often as he told
them himself, phrases and all.

 He will be deeply missed. And for a man who was never in a
hurry, who could stretch time with conversation and presence, it feels
especially ironic that losing him feels far too soon.

 But we take solice in knowing  he never doubted where he was headed. And we take comfort in knowing he made it — home with Jesus, right on time. 

 Tally ho and adios for now. We’ll take it from here—and we’ll tell the
stories. Probably more than once.

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