I still remember the sharp ring of the telephone in the dark hours of April 11, 1987. I was 30 years old when I heard the words no daughter ever wants to hear: “Your father died.”
My dad, Dave Baue, was the owner of our family’s funeral-home business in St. Charles, Missouri. I worked alongside him but had not been groomed to lead. In the instant after the phone rang, my life changed. The wake-up call was literal, and it became the defining moment of my life. I wasn’t just inheriting grief; I was inheriting responsibility.
