Christoffer Erik Hansen's Obituary
An Obituary for Christoffer Erik Hansen in the style of his favorite book, The Phoenix Guards by Steven Brust. He loved to read, and while his favorite authors included Tolkien, C.S. Lewis and other classics, he read this particular book at least once a year and loved the style and humor of its narrator.
From the Chronicles of a Noble Passing
It is with the sorrow of a thousand drawn swords and the reverence due a fallen captain of the Phoenix Guard that we set down the final, and far too short, passage in the chronicle of Christoffer Erik Hansen —that towering and tender-hearted Dragonlord of our age, who laid down his blade and his laughter on the twenty-sixth day of November in the year 2025, departing this mortal sphere for the Halls of Eternal Game Nights beyond the Doors of Death.
It has been remarked—whether wisely or merely with sufficient confidence that no one dared dispute— that when a man distinguishes himself in many fields at once, it becomes a matter of no small difficulty to determine the true beginning of his story. And so, reader, you will forgive me if I commence not with his birth, nor with his departure from our companionship, but instead with the observation that there are giants, and then there are giants of character, and it is my contention that Chris was the latter disguised, somewhat extravagantly, as the former. He was a gentleman of heroic proportions, towering not merely in stature, looming over his companions as a mighty Viking of old (albeit a Viking misplaced in time whose battle-cry was as often a Looney Tunes quotation as anything involving axes or the plundering of coastal villages) but in the grandeur of his spirit.
For indeed, he stood six feet and nine inches tall—taller, I am assured, than certain keep towers in less prosperous districts—and yet, if one were to approach this formidable silhouette, one discovered not the icy hauteur of the legendary warrior, but rather the guileless warmth of a man who had been raised among cats, and who had therefore learned early the virtues of patience, diplomacy, and offering gentle head-scritches at the correct moment.
Before ALL ELSE, let it be recorded, in letters of brightest gold, that Chris was the MOST beloved husband to his lady-wife, Charlotte. For thirty years he shared love and life (and no small number of jokes, puns, and philosophical ponderings) with her. She was his companion in all things, including the long road of illness. Together they formed one of those partnerships, which to the observer, seemed inevitable, and even eternal, as if God Himself had matched them with particular care.
Moreover, he was the proud, gentle father of four noble heirs: Jens (20), Jorgen (18), Elijah (14), and Eve (13), who shall carry his banner forward. He was a father of such devotion that legends may one day be told by his children concerning his feats of fatherhood. To these young lords and lady he was ever the Fun ‘Papa’ writ large: ready at any hour to abandon dignity, lowering his large frame to the floor, and there wrestle and play, erecting extravagant cushion forts, crafting wonders in LEGO, recounting tales aloud at bedtime with the gravity and gusto usually reserved for epic sagas, or surrendering graciously at the end of a heroic board-game defeat. He constructed treehouses, played football on the green, lent patient ear to their troubles, aided in their studies, and organized journeys of delight, ever yearning for more adventures by road, rail or sea. No bedtime tale was too long, no board game too trivial, no plea of “one more chapter, Papa!” ever refused. His great hands, which could tame the wildest sorceries of code, turned with equal mastery the pages of picture books and his deep, rolling laugh was the lullaby that sent his children to dreams.
If we speak of his demeanor, let us say he possessed the relaxed cheer of one who could engage in humor without compunction—sometimes at solemn moments, or what ought to have been solemn moments, though I will forbear naming examples—and whose laughter and wit came readily, contagiously, and with such particular delight that it could surprise a chuckle even from his wife, whose composure was known to be of the dignified and often serious sort.
If we speak of his mind, then we must take care, for it was a thing of quickness and clarity that might cause embarrassment to those of us who consider ourselves clever. In the wider world, he was a master of the arcane arts of technology, a code poet and a perfectionist of the most benevolent sort. He created many elegant solutions, approaching technology not as a blunt instrument but as a craft worthy of care. He loved the open-source fellowship, where generosity of mind is currency, and he gave freely, laboring to render the world better, aiding all who sought his help. Within this fellowship he made many important and lasting friendships.
And if we speak of his nature—ah! There we must pause, for the temptation to excess is great. Let us say simply that he valued people above coin, improvement above convenience, generosity above advantage. He loved the open-source community because it concerned itself with collaboration; he loved board-game nights because they gathered friends around a common table; he loved the ocean because, like himself, it was vast, deep, and good company; he loved snorkeling and skin diving because they permitted him to slip quietly into another world, where no one objected if a man of his stature moved with surprising grace. He relished seafood, road trips, the dream of long rail journeys, and the simple joy of being the fun father/uncle—that most honored and occasionally reckless of ranks.
He was born, as the records attest, on the nineteenth day of June in the year 1970, in Salt Lake City, to the great joy of his parents, Karen Kay Anderson and Forest Andresen Hansen. From his earliest days, signs of his heroic nature were manifest: at five years of age, he received a divine visitation, shared only with his closest family members, wherein he was charged with the simple yet mighty injunction, “Be good, Chris”—a command he honored throughout his life as a true knight honors his oath. At eleven, when fate dealt him the blow of his parents’ parting, he removed with his mother to Rupert in Idaho, there to find solace amid the wilds, the hikes, the explorations, the companionship of faithful friends, and a legion of cats that attended him as loyal retainers. His path thereafter led him through many realms: Maryland, Paraguay, Nashville, Tennessee, San Jose and Santa Ana, California, Las Vegas, Nevada, and at last to the pleasant groves of Pleasant Grove in Utah, where he made his long abode—each place bearing witness to his kindness and quiet strength.
On the twenty-sixth day of November in the year 2025, at the age of fifty-five, in his home in Pleasant Grove, he fought, as we are informed by those who were present, with a determination worthy of the ancient Vikings from whom he claimed descent—a struggle not of swords against foes, but of spirit against the cruel affliction that sought to claim him before his time. Yet he lingered, clinging to this earthly sphere with a tenacity that spoke volumes of his love for his family, until finally—holding the hand of his young daughter Eve, with his wife Charlotte and son Elijah standing vigil over him, their presence a shield against the encroaching shadow—he breathed his last, a smile playing upon his lips. It was a smile most fitting to his light-hearted nature, as if he perceived some jest beyond the veil, and as if to declare to those he left behind that the contest had been nobly fought, and that he went forth in peace, sustained by the words that had been his banner through the storm, “...stand still and see the salvation of the Lord.”
He is survived by his wife and children; by his mother, Karen; by his brother David (Mara) and sister Kari Marshall (Earl); by his father-in-law Hyrum Hall (Karen Marie) who cherished him as a son; by a host of sisters- and brothers-in law who loved him as a brother; and by nieces and nephews beyond counting, whom he held most dear.
He was preceded into the next world by his father Forest; by his sister Andrea Seely, and by his mother-in-law Nancy Hale Hall, who saw him ever as her own.
In the manner of noble families who grieve deeply and privately, the household will hold a celebration of his life at a future date, when stories may be shared and laughter—his laughter—remembered.
Thus we record the passing of Christoffer Erik Hansen:
giant in stature, greater in heart;
husband without peer, father without equal;
guardsman of code and kindness;
a Viking who carried peace rather than a sword;
a man who valued people over coin, joy over sorrow, and wisdom over haste.
To him we say, as his friends might declare at the end of a tale well-told:
“Huzzah, Chris.”
May the seas you loved bear your longship swiftly to the shores of endless light, and may Heaven itself be well-prepared for a tall, kind man arriving with a joke half-formed, a project half-built, and a heart entirely full.
What’s your fondest memory of Christoffer?
What’s a lesson you learned from Christoffer?
Share a story where Christoffer's kindness touched your heart.
Describe a day with Christoffer you’ll never forget.
How did Christoffer make you smile?