January 10, 1948-November 21, 2025
Steven Louis Wood Junior passed away on November 21, 2025, at his home in St. George, Utah. He was surrounded by his wife and four children, spending his final moments sharing laughs and memories in the comfort of those he loved most.
Steve was born on January 10, 1948. He grew up in Farmington and later raised his family there. He spent his youth in the beautiful mountains of Davis County. An avid outdoorsman, fisherman, and hunter, he passed his love of the outdoors on to his children and grandchildren. He graduated from Davis High School in 1966. Steve faithfully served as a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the British Mission. He later met and married his wife, Debra (Debbie) Hafen, in 1973, with whom he shared 52 years of marriage. His life with Debbie was filled with adventure and travel, from humble fishing and camping trips in the early years of their marriage to journeys along the Gulf Coast and throughout Mexico and Central America, or crossing the landscapes of the West in their UTV’s. The most cherished memories were made around a campfire in the Wasatch Mountains or on the water at Lake Powell. No matter the destination, his preferred company was always his family.
Steve was a generous and humble man, never hesitating to come to the aid of others. He possessed a sharp and lovable sense of humor, a warm smile, and an endless supply of endearing and playful teasing—reserved exclusively for those closest to him. He preferred private moments with loved ones and shied away from attention. A man of few words, he expressed his love through his actions and thoughtful gestures.
Steve was a devoted father, ensuring his children never went without, while at the same time instilling in them respect, self-reliance, and a lasting appreciation for hard work. His children carry countless memories of hunting adventures, skeet shooting, speeding across Lake Powell in his bass boat, and sharing quiet, wordless conversations over fresh garden tomatoes in the backyard.
Steve is survived by his wife, Debbie, and his children: Corrie (Brad), Jeffrey (Gabriela), Spencer (Amber), and Brad (Heather), along with 11 grandchildren, and his brothers David (Judy) and Douglas (Teresa). He was preceded in death by his parents, Steven Louis Wood Sr. and Dorothy Wood, and his brother, Jerry Wood.
My Father
Among some of my earliest memories, were moments I spent with my Father. They are now distant memories, somewhat blurred and with subdued sounds. Some of them I fear have faded into dreams, where I can’t be sure how much of it is memory and how much is imagined.
My Dad has always been very proper and polite in his speaking and traditionally stoic in his personality. So it may seem out of character to many who have known him over the years, to imagine him singing nursery rhymes, bouncing to the rhythms with me as he helped me comb my hair. I must have been four or five years old, still small enough to stand on the bathroom counter and see my Dad’s smiling face in the mirror behind me as we sang and danced along together. There was a joy and kindness in his face that always made me feel safe and loved.
I can still hear his voice in another memory, the voice of a young man. As he stood over me, both of us gripping tightly around the handle of a fishing rod waiting for just the right moment. My eyes hadn’t yet developed the skill of spotting fish underwater, I just remember seeing both his and my reflection on the water’s surface.
Dad whispered to me as I impatiently awaited the excitement, I didn’t know what he was seeing that I couldn’t, but I knew to trust him because Dad always caught fish. “He’s taking it… He’s taking it” I remember Dad saying, and in a splash of excitement and tugging, Dad helped me catch my first fish.
It had never occurred to me in my youth that my Dad was anything less than perfect, he was always right, he always had a good answer for every question, and he was always there. He never missed an opportunity to teach me something, he could fix anything and he always seemed to find ways to use my curiosity as a teaching asset.
I often wonder about that realm of time before my young memory was composed, what other great attributes did I learn without even knowing it?
I always knew that my Dad loved me, despite never hearing him say those words. My Father in his quiet and stern ways never missed the opportunity to show me that he cared about and loved me. Countless life lessons were passed from his loving heart to mine, with kindness and understanding, and occasionally tough love. But never was there any doubt that he loved me and wanted me to be the best I could be.
It might be hard to describe the feeling to those outside our small Wood family circle, but I come from a long line of incredibly good and kind men. As each generation of them passes, the shoes they leave for us to fill leaves me feeling uncommonly inadequate. A feeling I’d imagine my brothers share, but we could not have had better examples for good men and fathers. I’m quite confident my cousins had a similar experience, coming from the same line.
Anyone who knew my Grandfather would understand why my Dad is the way he is. They both are great examples of kindness and humbly helping others. I remember my Grandpa’s funeral, so many good people came to celebrate the life of such a wonderful man.
Just before opening up the room to the entire funeral gathering, our family was given one last chance to say goodbye to Grandpa before his casket was closed. As the funeral director said those words I was surprised to see my Father nearly sprint from the crowd to the side of the casket, it seemed out of character for Dad to move so irreverently. I often wondered what words were said as Dad stood there beside Grandpa, but with every year that passes I feel like I know a little bit more what that exchange was like. I think Dad loved my Grandfather the same way that I love him, many of the very best parts of me were simply following his example and direction. And even before I had the capacity to process and understand it completely, I felt deep down that much of the good parts of my heart and soul were inherited from my Father, and his Father before him. With a lifetime of memories, its hard to share just a few stories. 
Every one of us has felt a loss since Dad passed away, I consider it an honor to have actually lost a piece of me with him. As many of you know, Dad needed a kidney back in 2010. His own kidneys had been failing for some time, and without a new one, he wouldn’t live much longer. All of our family stepped up to be tested and see if we could help by offering a piece of ourselves in exchange for more Grandpa time for our kids. After much testing and many family members offering themselves, some of whom sit among you, it was narrowed down to Spence and myself, and I guess you could say I drew the straw.
I was terrified at the idea of being cut apart, but I knew I couldn’t bear the greater pain of having Dad cut from our lives. I remember sitting in the hospital, alone and separated from my own young family. Shivering from both the cold temperature of the operating room, and the nerves that had me on edge. I tried to hide my fear, and keep my composure, but it wouldn’t last long.
At the last moment before heading in to the operating room, I shuffled over to Dad dragging my IV tree, to give him one more hug and tell him I loved him one more time, should the surgery go poorly for either of us. Instead I ended up just sobbing into his shoulder, the same way I often had as a child when he would pick me up. But now his weak arms reached up to me. He held me tight, as I’m sure he was equally worried about both of us. His jaundiced and teary eyes told me what his voice would not.
Dad and I often understood each other without saying much, as I had been forced throughout life to develop fluency in the telepathic language that Dad used to communicate. Often having to guess between various possibilities until one became clear.
After recovering from our surgeries, and a few hiccups that followed us both, it seemed Dad had setback the clock, or at least it had gone into overtime. Recognizing his new lease on life, I promised myself that I would make every effort to fill what time we had left together with as many memories as possible. Our shared love of fishing and hunting gave us infinite opportunities to enjoy what we both loved.
Many years ago now, Dad, my son Ridley and I were chasing mule deer just up on the mountain from here. It was the first time ever that the three of us had been hunting as a trio and I had pressured myself to ensure all three of us were successful.
After several days of hard hunting, and as much hiking as Dad could handle, we found ourselves without any success.
As anyone who hunts with me can tell you, I was soured about our lack of any victories. In my desperate attempts to ensure some success for the three of us, I lost my temper and my attitude descended into despair. I was lucky to have my cool-headed Father along, who used his way of speaking to my heart in as few words as possible. And in a way only he could, he helped me understand that the great experience I was hoping to create was going to be lost if I didn’t pay attention to my attitude and the little guy watching me. With a fresh perspective, the day turned out to be an amazing adventure, as barely an hour later Dad and I both watched as Ridley shot his very first deer.
Forty-something years ago I can still remember following Dad around the house, in and out of the garage. He was always tinkering on something, one project or another and like little boys do I was happy just to be there and soak up the manly atmosphere.
I can still hear the AM radio playing old country music, and the smell of old grease and tools in the garage. Dad would tolerate my questions, and do his best to explain to me what he was doing. I would listen and watch, engrossed in whatever project we were doing. As those old songs would roll along Dad would sing and I would try to learn and follow as best I knew how. I knew the words to many of them, and like most kids I knew the words I wasn’t supposed to say. I would always pay attention, curious to see what Dad would do when one of those words was sung. As though he knew I was watching he’d just hum over those parts and continue singing along.
Just a year or two ago, we were again tinkering together on the tailgate of Dad’s truck. And those same old country songs played quietly from the cab of the truck, I softly sang the words having long since learned them by heart. Dad joined me as we worked, then in a moment of clarity I noticed that it was now him who occasionally struggled to remember some of the words as he hummed through some of it. My heart ached as this moment clarified my worst fears that my Father was creeping closer to the end of our time together.
As the years have passed, Dad and I have always understood each other. Even as his time drew nearer, we could both joke about him not being there for future events we anticipated. Not just for the morbid laughs obviously, but I think because we both had an understanding of life, and our purpose. Something he had taught me well, in fact, he had spent his whole life preparing me to live without him. Just like in fishing, his foresight seeing what I couldn’t yet see was used to teach me a valuable lesson.
It wasn’t always that way though, the arrogance and recklessness of my youth drove a deep divide between us. I never had time for doing what Dad thought I should, I can imagine the abandonment he must have felt as we drifted apart those years. Something I was too foolish to notice, and all these years later I am glad he was around long enough for me to recognize what I was missing out on.
We have spent some time together recently, driving across country or slowly rumbling down dirt roads chatting about life and its finer points. I have been able to see so much clearer just how much I have gotten from my Dad. He lived his life in such a way that there was never any doubt of how he felt and what he believed, despite not saying much about it. What a beautiful thing it was as a young man, to know right and wrong simply by whether or not my dad would do it.
I know now that my Father was far from perfect, and yet he is still my hero, now more than ever. Looking back as a father myself, my opinion of him has only been amplified. And I can only hope that someday my own children will think as highly of me as my father’s children think of him. I am so grateful that I was blessed with my father, and to be able to be next to him as he made his way from this world. I couldn’t stand the idea of him going through it alone. 
Dad called his own shots, and that’s how he left us as well, on his own terms. Despite the pain of losing my Dad, our father, brother, friend and grandpa, I know I will see him again and it will be a beautiful day in eternity when I can see his loving smile again, and hug him once more, two kidneys each.
-CBM
