Funeral Homily for Charlie Milmine - May 6, 2026 - The Rev. Colette Hammesfahr

 

We hear in Job: “In God’s hand is the life of every living thing and the breath of every human being.”  That is where we begin today. Because Charlie’s life—every breath of it—has always been held in God’s hand. And it still is.

His family tells us that Charlie had a refrain: “Carry on.” Not in a sentimental way. Not as a slogan. But as a way of living. And when you listen to the story of his life, you begin to see what that meant. It meant a life that kept moving… kept growing… kept giving itself away.

From a childhood wandering woods and shorelines…to a Marine who served with quiet pride…to a forester who loved wild places…to a teacher who, by his own admission, was sometimes learning the material as he taught it—and yet changed lives because he taught students something deeper: how to think. That’s a life that carried on. Not in a straight line. Not in a polished way. But in a deeply human, faithful way.

And maybe nowhere do we see that more clearly than in the way he lived among people. Charlie had this remarkable ability to make each person feel like they were the only one in the room. Think about that. In a world that moves quickly… that overlooks… that rushes past…Charlie noticed. He paid attention. He was present. And that is not a small thing. That is love.

You see it in the classroom—where he became the kind of teacher students never forgot. I can’t tell you how many people have told me that their daughter’s have always said that Mr. Milmine was their favorite teacher at St. Vincent’s. So much so that they created a day where everyone wore a bow tie to school in honor of Charlie. It’s joyful and playful, but it tells the truth: his life left a mark. Not because he tried to impress people, but because he cared about them.

And you see it right here in this church. In the hymn boards he built…and the quiet rhythm of coming in each week to put up the numbers for Sunday. In staying after Wednesday night suppers…when others were heading home…and doing the dishes. I’ve been told that the dishwasher was his and nobody better mess with it. When you leave here today you will hear the bell toll once for every year of Charlie’s life -- a bell donated by Charlie in honor of George Quail.

This is all where Matthew’s Gospel meets real life. Because when Jesus says, “go the second mile,” he’s not talking about grand gestures. He’s talking about things like  Charlie did. Showing up. Doing what needs to be done. Caring in ways that no one may ever notice. That is a life shaped by love.

And yet, for all that he gave, Charlie was also someone who received. He was enriched by community. And that matters. Because it means he didn’t stand apart from others—he lived among them, learned from you, was shaped by all of you.

And even in something as personal as faith, he made space. While he professed to be more of a Quaker, Charlie allowed his children to explore their own path. That takes trust. That takes humility. That takes love that is not controlling, but generous.

And so, when we step back and look at his life, we begin to see something. Not perfection. Not a life without struggle or loss. But a life that, in its own quiet, steady way, reflects the shape of the Gospel. A life that carried on—through service, through relationships, through devotion.

And then, at the end…his family tells us that he slipped from this life so peacefully that they didn’t even notice the moment. There is something almost holy about that. Because for us, it feels like a loss—and it is. But in the light of faith, it is also a crossing. A carrying on. Because Christian hope tells us that death is not the end of the story. The God who holds “the life of every living thing” does not let that life go. Instead, God gathers it up. Every act of love. Every quiet moment of service. Every relationship. Nothing is wasted. Nothing is lost. Everything is held by God.

When we say that Charlie is living into the promise of eternal life, we mean this: That the life he lived— the bow ties, the classrooms, the woods and wild places, the hymn boards, the dishwasher, the way he made people feel seen— all of it is now gathered into the fullness of God’s life.

And so, we grieve—but not without hope. Because Charlie has done what he always said. He has carried on. Into a life where nothing separates him from the love of God. Into a life that does not end.

And maybe the invitation he leaves with us is this: To carry on as well. To notice people. To be present. To serve quietly. To love without needing recognition. Because that kind of life—that steady, faithful love— is already the beginning of eternal life. “In God’s hand is the life of every living thing.” Charlie’s life was in God’s hand. Charlie’s life is in God’s hand. And one day, we trust, we will be gathered there too. Held. Known. Loved. And we will carry on. Amen.