Funeral Morris Merrill

Obituary: 

Morris O. Merrill, age 84, of Waterville, passed away on Saturday, April 19, 2025, at Ascension Via Christi Hospital in Manhattan. 

Morris was born November 3, 1940, to Paul E. and Grace (Powell) Merrill. He graduated from Waterville High School in 1959.  

He married Marilyn “Jean” James on August 19, 1962, at Oak Hill, Kansas. After high school he joined the Kansas Army National Guard in 1959.  

He served active duty for a period of National Emergency from Sept 1961 through August of 1962 in Fort Riley. He was discharged from the Army National Guard in July of 1965. 

Morris was a man of many trades. He was a Farmer, Harvester and Trucker for many years.. In his retirement years he became an avid gardener.  

He always dreamed big and planted a garden to supply the whole neighborhood. In his spare time he and his nephew Robert would take the pontoon and his dog Odie to the lake to fish. His constant companion was his dog. 

He was a member of the Waterville United Methodist Church. Whenever possible he would furnish fish for a fish fry at the church. 

Survivors include his wife Jean, daughters Tami and husband (Bernie). Kristy and husband (Carl), a brother Martin and wife (Linda), and a sister Anna Mae 

Six grandchildren Ben, Amy, Jenny, John, Jessica, and Tory 

Ten great grandchildren, and extended family and friends. He was preceded in death by his parents, a daughter Lori Coleman and a brother Richard Merrill. 

Romans 8:35–39 ESV

35 Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword? 36 As it is written, “For your sake we are being killed all the day long; we are regarded as sheep to be slaughtered.” 37 No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. 38 For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, 39 nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

John 14:1–3 ESV

1 “Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me. 2 In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? 3 And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also.

Song: Amy will be singing “The Rose” 

Eulogy: Daughter Kristy

We gather here today to celebrate the life of a remarkable man—Morris. A man who was loving, gentle, kind, and full of life.  

A man who never met a stranger, who lived with purpose, and who left a lasting impression on everyone he met. 

Morris had a heart that was always open. He was determined and persuasive but never overbearing—he simply had a way of making you see things his way, often with a smile and a story.  

And oh, the stories! He was a storyteller through and through. Whether it was about fishing, farming, or family, Morris could spin a tale that made you laugh, think, or just feel a little more connected. 

He was spontaneous—if he thought it, he said it. And if he thought it, he often did it too.  Like the time he decided, spur of the moment, to have a fish fry after a long day of fishing.  

Jean had just finished an 11-hour shift, and Morris, in his excitement, forgot about the tables, the sides, the desserts. 

All he could think about was sharing the joy of a good meal with good people. Because for Morris, food was never just food—it was fellowship. It was love. 

Jean shared how even when he was up in the Dakotas with the harvest team, he’d catch fish from the Red River and introduce the crew to their first fish fry. 

Last year talking to me about a fish fry, he said “All you needed was some fish and a little sense—and you had yourself a feast.” 

Morris was always giving. Whether it was fish from his catch or vegetables from his garden, he shared what he had. 

But more than that, he shared his time, his stories, and his heart. He loved to talk—no matter the hour. 

Jean recalled how he’d call at 7am his time, forgetting it was 5am in Arizona. But that was Morris—if he was thinking of you, he called. And you always knew you were loved. 

He was a man of deep pride in his family. He supported his children in everything they did. 

Kristy remembers bringing home first-place ribbons from school field days, and how proud he was. 

Even when she brought home a second-place ribbon and felt disappointed, Morris celebrated her just the same. 

Because his love wasn’t about winning—it was about showing up, trying hard, and being together. 

Harvest time was a family affair. He taught his daughters how to help too. One ran the combine, one drove the truck and one cooked for the crew. 

And even when he started hiring help, those memories of working side by side with his girls were some of his most cherished. 

He adored his grandchildren, too. He spent time outdoors with them, teaching them, laughing with them, and making memories. 

Johnny, especially, shared many fishing and hunting adventures with Morris—stories that were still being told in the hospital room, even in his final days. 

Morris was passionate about everything he loved—his family, his friends, his farm, his dog Odi, and yes, his food. 

If you ever saw him on his Polaris, chances are Odi was right there on his lap. 

And if you ever tried to get his attention while he was on his tractor, you might have had to wave your arms and holler—Jean sure did. 

And Morris, seeing her from afar, would just smile and say, “Wonder what in the world she’s needing?” before going right back to work. 

He loved to cook, even in a small kitchen. Sometimes they might have to decide who was boss in the kitchen but they made it work. Morris loved all food but he especially loved fried chicken. 

In fact, the day before he left this earth, he enjoyed a meal of fried chicken and mashed potatoes—one last taste of something he loved so dearly. 

But more than anything, Morris loved people. 

He loved sitting around a table, sharing a meal, telling stories, and just being together. That’s what today is about.  

We’re here to honor him, to remember him, and to do what he loved most—spend time in fellowship with friends and family. 

Morris made an impact. Whether it was a doctor, a nurse, a neighbor, or a friend—people remembered him. And we always will. 

So let us carry his spirit forward. Let us be spontaneous, generous, passionate, and kind.  Let us tell stories, share meals, and love deeply. Just like Morris did. 

Thank you, Morris, for everything. We love you, and we’ll never forget you. 

Illus: Share about the last days in the hospital with Morris

The writer of Hebrews does not mince words. He says that the entire human race is “subject to lifelong slavery through the fear of death” (Hebrews 2:15). That is not a peripheral problem. 

That is the human condition. We are born into bondage—not merely political or psychological, but spiritual, existential, eternal. 

In 1973, Ernest Becker, a secular thinker, wrote The Denial of Death and won a Pulitzer Prize. He saw it too.  

He said, “The fear of death haunts the human animal.” And his solution? Denial. Pretend it’s not coming. Distract yourself. Numb the ache. But he had no remedy. No resurrection. No Redeemer. 

But Jesus does not deny death. He destroys it. 

He is the great I AM—before Abraham was, He is. And He stepped into time, clothed Himself with mortality, and tasted death—not because He had to, but because we had to.  

He died to destroy the one who has the power of death, that is, the devil. And He rose—triumphant, indestructible, alive forevermore. 

And in doing so, He broke the chains. He shattered the slavery. He freed us from the lifelong bondage of the fear of death. 

You may not feel it, but it’s there. That fear is a silent tyrant. It binds us with invisible cords. It shrinks our lives into safe, small, self-protective routines.  

It whispers, “Don’t risk. Don’t love too deeply. Don’t speak too boldly. You might lose something. You might die.” 

But Jesus says, “If anyone keeps my word, he will never see death” (John 8:51). And again, “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32).  

Free from fear. Free from slavery. Free to live and die in the joy of unshakable hope. The world is desperate for fearless Christians—men and women who know they will never taste death. 

Morris was one of them in the end. He does not taste death. He has received his crown. His body came to an end on earth, but his soul is alive—radiant, rejoicing, satisfied in the presence of Christ. 

When we were born again, we passed from death to life (John 5:24). God made us alive when we were dead in our sins (Ephesians 2:4–5). That life is eternal. It cannot be broken. It cannot be lost.  

When our bodies die, our fellowship with God does not flicker for a moment. It is unbroken, unending, everlasting. 

But what about us—those who remain? What about the ache of absence, the sting of loss? 

I’ve been asked, “Can those in heaven see us?” It’s a tender question.  

And while Scripture is not explicit, Hebrews 12:1 gives us a glimpse ...  Hebrews 12:1

Hebrews 12:1 ESV

1 Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us,

I believe that includes the saints who have gone before us. Perhaps they are watching. Perhaps they are cheering. 

It’s as if Morris is leaning over the rails of heaven, shouting, “Don’t give up! Trust Him! Finish the race! He is worth it!” 

But don’t fix your eyes on Morris. Fix them on Christ. Morris is there because of Jesus. And if he sees you, he is not pointing to himself—he is pointing to the Lamb who was slain. 

If Morris could speak to you now, he would say, “Love Jesus. Follow Him. Don’t wait.”  So if you are here today, and you have not surrendered your life to Christ, let this be the moment.  

The best way to honor Morris is to treasure the Savior he loved. 

Today we lay Morris’s body to rest. Earth to earth. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. But his spirit is with the Lord. And one day, that dust will rise. Glorified. Immortal. Radiant with resurrection glory. 

Until then, we entrust him—and ourselves—to the mercy of God, praying that we too will finish our race with joy, and enter into the life that never ends. 

Song: Alan Jackson – “In the Garden” 

Closing Prayer