In Loving Memory of Joseph Michael “Mike” Rudd
December 5, 1969 – August 26, 2026
Some people pass through this life and leave memories behind. Some leave lessons. Some leave pieces of themselves in the hearts of everyone who knew them.
And then there are people like Mike—people whose absence changes the room, whose voice you can still hear in your head, whose presence you will continue to look for long after you know they aren’t coming back.
Joseph Michael Rudd, lovingly known as Mike or Michael, passed away on August 26, 2026, at the age of 56. Born in Tennessee on December 5, 1969, Mike lived a life that was not always easy. His story was filled with struggles, hardships, mistakes, lessons, battles, and moments that tested him in ways many people never knew.
But his story was also filled with love.
And in the end, love was what mattered most.
Mike was a diesel mechanic and a hardworking man. If something was broken, he wanted to fix it. If someone needed help, he was often the one who would show up. He had a way of putting his hands to work and figuring things out, whether it was a truck, a machine, or a problem someone else couldn’t solve.
He didn’t always have the right words. He didn’t always know how to say what was in his heart.
But he showed people he cared in the ways he knew how.
He showed up.
He helped.
He fixed.
He gave.
And that was Mike.
Behind the hardworking man that so many people knew was someone who had spent much of his life carrying pain. Mike endured childhood trauma and later faced serious health complications. He carried things that weren’t always visible from the outside. There were battles inside of him that many people never saw and wounds that took years to understand.
But as he grew older, something began to change.
Mike began to understand that the things that happened to him did not have to determine who he became.
He began learning that anger didn’t have to be passed down.
That hurt didn’t have to become someone else’s hurt.
That the past could be acknowledged without allowing it to control the future.
He learned to turn anger into love.
And perhaps that was one of the hardest—and most beautiful—battles he ever fought.
Mike wasn’t perfect.
His life wasn’t perfect.
He made mistakes. He struggled. He hurt. He was hurt. There were things he wished he could have done differently and things he carried that he couldn’t change.
But he kept trying.
He kept learning.
He kept fighting.
And those who loved him saw the man he was becoming—not just the man he had been.
Mike loved his wife, Chantelle, and his family meant more to him than words could ever fully explain.
He loved his sons, Brandon and Josh, and his daughter, Ashten.
And then came his grandsons, Avery and Cade.
There was something different about Mike as a grandfather. His grandsons brought a special kind of joy into his life. The memories they made with him—the little moments, the laughter, the time spent together—are now pieces of him that will live on through them.
They may grow older and forget some of the little details, but they will never forget that their Peepaw loved them.
His love for his family wasn’t always perfect or easy to put into words. But it was real.
He loved his brothers, George and Danny, and he loved his nieces and nephews—Corrina, Katherine, Juliet, jagger, Tatum, Stephen, and Caleb.
He loved his brothers-in-law, Cory and Shane, and his sisters-in-law, Toni and Kristi.
And he loved the people who stood beside him throughout his life.
To Mike, family was more than a name or a bloodline.
Family was the people who stayed.
The people who showed up.
The people who helped carry the weight when life became too heavy.
The people you could laugh with, argue with, forgive, love, and still call family.
Mike also knew the pain of losing the people he loved.
He was preceded in death by his brother, John “Junior” Rudd; his father, John Rudd; his mother, Shirley Rudd; his father-in-law, Phillip Hansen; and his mother-in-law, Darlene Hansen.
Those losses left empty spaces in Mike’s life that never completely disappeared.
He knew what it was like to miss someone.
He knew what it was like to wish for one more conversation, one more hug, one more chance to hear a familiar voice.
And perhaps there is something comforting in believing that when Mike took his final breath, he wasn’t walking into loneliness.
He was going home.
Maybe his parents were there.
Maybe Junior was there.
Maybe Phillip and Darlene were there.
Maybe the people he had missed for years were finally standing on the other side, waiting to welcome him home.
No more sickness.
No more fighting.
No more anger.
No more burdens.
Just peace.
And after everything Mike carried in this life, he deserves that peace.
Mike fought many battles throughout his life. Some were battles the world could see. Others were battles known only to him.
But he fought.
Even when his body was tired.
Even when life was unfair.
Even when things didn’t make sense.
He kept fighting until the very end.
And perhaps that is how we should remember him—not by the things he got wrong, but by the fact that he never stopped trying to get it right.
Not by the pain he carried, but by the love he eventually learned to give.
Not by the hardest chapters of his life, but by the fact that those chapters did not get to write the ending.
Because Mike’s ending isn’t the pain.
Mike’s ending is love.
There will be an empty seat now.
There will be a phone that won’t ring.
There will be a voice that won’t answer.
There will be moments when someone turns around to tell him something, only to remember that he isn’t there.
There will be birthdays and holidays where his absence will hurt a little more.
There will be stories that begin with, “Remember when Mike…”
And there will be laughter through the tears.
There will be photographs pulled out and looked at again and again.
There will be memories that become more precious with every passing year.
And there will be moments when his family sees something—a truck, a tool, a certain look, a familiar phrase—and for just a second, it will feel like he’s still right there.
Because death may take someone’s presence.
But it cannot take what they left inside the people who loved them.
Mike leaves behind his wife, Chantelle; his sons, Brandon and Josh; his daughter, Ashten; his grandsons, Avery and Cade; his brothers, George and Danny; his nieces and nephews, Corrina, Katherine, Juliet, Stephen, and Caleb; his brothers-in-law, Cory and Shane; his sisters-in-law, Toni and Kristi; and countless friends, loved ones, and people whose lives he touched along the way.
Each of them carries a different piece of him.
A story.
A memory.
A lesson.
A laugh.
A moment.
A little piece of Mike that death cannot take away.
And perhaps the greatest thing Mike leaves behind is the lesson that where we come from doesn’t have to determine where we end up.
He carried pain.
But he chose love.
He knew anger.
But he learned forgiveness.
He knew hardship.
But he kept going.
He knew loss.
But he continued to love.
And even though he wasn’t given a perfect life, he gave the people he loved something far more valuable:
A part of himself.
Mike fought until the very end.
He carried more than many people ever knew.
He loved more than he sometimes knew how to say.
And in the end, he left this world with something greater than the pain he once carried.
He left behind love.
So rest now, Mike.
Rest, Dad.
Rest, Peepaw.
Rest, husband.
Rest, son.
Rest, brother.
Rest knowing that you don’t have to fight anymore.
You don’t have to carry the weight anymore.
You don’t have to fix everything anymore.
You did enough.
You fought long enough.
You can finally lay your burdens down.
Go be with Mom and Dad.
Go be with Junior.
Go be with Phillip and Darlene.
And know that the family you left behind will carry you with them every single day.
Your story doesn’t end here.
It lives on in your children.
It lives on in your grandchildren.
It lives on in your family.
It lives on in every person you helped.
It lives on in every memory.
And most of all, it lives on in the love you left behind.
We love you, Mike.
We miss you.
We will carry you with us until the day we meet again.
Until then, rest easy.
You are finally home.
And a note from mom; Chantelle Rudd, Mikes loving wife of 32 years;
The Journey We Never Took
We made plans for a journey,
just you and me,
with roads unwinding endlessly
beneath a sky of possibility.
We spread our map across the table wide,
and marked the places waiting on each side—
new towns to find, new roads to roam,
new memories waiting to lead us home.
Each day we traced the route once more,
adding adventures to the shore—
points of interest, sights to see,
and hidden turns for you and me.
We laughed about the songs we’d choose,
the ones we’d love, the ones we’d lose;
we’d argue softly, mile by mile,
then make it up with one more smile.
We planned the stops along the way,
the perfect light, the perfect day—
the pictures we would pause to take,
the memories we were sure to make.
We added places to our list,
dreams we could almost touch and kiss—
destinations calling from afar,
beneath the moon, beneath each star.
There were lifetime dreams for us to share,
bright as sunlight, light as air;
a thousand roads, a thousand views,
a thousand chances to choose.
We thought we had the time to spare.
We thought the road would still be there.
Then, in one day, the journey ceased;
the map was folded, plans released.
No warning given, no farewell,
no final story left to tell.
You boarded a ship and sailed away,
beyond the reach of night and day—
past every road I knew to trace,
past every landmark, every place.
You left no trail for me to find,
no compass rose, no map aligned;
no star to guide me through the blue,
no road that led me back to you.
Only a passage, deep and wide,
that souls alone may cross and ride—
a distant sea, a silent shore,
where earthly maps can guide no more.
Now I hold an itinerary
of all the places we won’t see—
the roads we’ll never travel through,
the songs I’ll never share with you.
The pictures wait, the dreams remain,
like sunlight shining through the rain;
each destination, each old mile,
still wears the ghost of your last smile.
Tomorrow stretches on ahead,
but every sign feels lost instead.
I wander through this world alone,
through unfamiliar streets of stone.
Each turn becomes a memory,
each road returns you back to me;
and every mile I travel through
reminds me I once walked with you.
I don’t want to die, yet grief can say
it wants the pain to fade away—
to end this ache, this endless sea,
this lonely missing you in me.
Losing you did more than break
the heart no living hands can make;
it tore my soul from where it stayed,
and left me lost, afraid, and frayed.
Perhaps that missing piece of me
still wanders past the stars and sea,
crossing borders no eyes can see,
following a distant light to thee.
Perhaps it hears some hidden call,
a whisper rising through it all—
and waits, beyond the veil of blue,
to be reclaimed, my soul, by you.
So I will carry you as my guide,
your love the north I keep inside;
your memory, bright and steady still,
a lantern on each distant hill.
I’ll walk the roads you left behind,
with every dream we once designed;
and though the path is hard to bear,
I’ll feel your footsteps in the air.
And when my journey reaches its end,
perhaps the road will turn and bend
toward a shore beyond the blue,
where every lost road leads to you.
Where maps are needless, stars shine bright,
and every traveler knows the light;
where no goodbye can tear apart
the roads that meet within the heart.
Then, after all the miles we’ve known,
I’ll find the way that leads back home—
and there, beyond all time and view,
my soul will find its way to you.
A note from your daughter Ashten Rudd;
Dad,
I know you were so strong, and I know you went through so much in your life. As hard as it is to let you go, I know you needed to rest. I hope you have found peace now and that you are no longer hurting or in pain.
I love you, and Avery loves you. We all loved you so much, and we miss you more than words can say.
I know I said so many things that I didn’t mean, and I hope you knew, deep down, how much I truly loved you. I wish I could have helped you more. I wish I could have been there for you when you needed me, and I am so sorry that I couldn’t be.
I know you had a hard life, Dad, and my heart hurts knowing you carried so much. I hope you can finally lay all of that down and rest.
Avery will always remember you, and I will make sure your memory lives on. You will always be a part of us, and you will always be loved.
I love you, Dad. Rest peacefully. You deserve it.
A note from your son Joshua Rudd;
Dad,
I keep thinking about all the things I wish I could say to you if I had just one more chance.
I wish I could sit across from you one more time. I wish I could hear your voice. I wish I could give you one more hug. I wish I could tell you that I love you without all the things that happened between us getting in the way.
There were times when I was angry with you. There were things you did and things that happened between us that hurt me deeply. There were words I said out of anger that I wish I could take back. I know I wasn’t always the son I wish I had been either.
I’m sorry, Dad.
I’m sorry for the things I said that I didn’t truly mean. I’m sorry for the times I let my anger speak louder than my love. And I’m sorry for the times I wasn’t there when I wish I could have been.
But I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about you, and I’ve realized something.
You were a person before you were my father.
You were a little boy once, carrying things that no child should have had to carry. You grew up with your own pain, your own wounds, and your own battles. And I know now that sometimes people spend their whole lives trying to figure out how to live with the things that happened to them.
I wish I had understood that sooner.
I don’t excuse the things that hurt me, but I understand now that you were fighting battles of your own.
And what means something to me is that as you got older, you started trying to turn that pain into something different.
You learned to love through it.
You tried to leave some of that anger behind.
You tried to be there for people.
You helped people without asking for anything in return. You worked hard. You fixed things. You showed up when someone needed you. And even when your own life was difficult, you still found ways to help other people.
That was you, Dad.
A man who kept fighting.
A man who kept going.
A man who didn’t always get it right, but who was still trying to find his way.
And I wish I could tell you how much that means to me now.
You fought so hard for so long. Your health took so much from you, and I know you were tired. But you kept fighting until the very end.
Now you don’t have to fight anymore.
You can finally rest.
One of the hardest things about losing you is knowing that there are conversations we’ll never get to have. There are questions I’ll never get to ask. There are things I’ll never get to hear you say.
But there are also things I don’t need to hear anymore.
I know you loved me.
Maybe you didn’t always know how to show it.
Maybe I didn’t always know how to receive it.
But I know.
And I love you too.
I promise I’ll make sure Avery and Cade know who their grandfather was. I’ll tell them about the hardworking man you were. I’ll tell them about the ways you helped people. I’ll tell them about the good in you. I’ll tell them that you loved them more than words could ever explain.
And I’ll make sure they know that you fought.
Because I think that’s what I’ll remember most.
You fought.
And now, Dad, I want to do something for you that I wish you had been able to do for yourself.
I’m going to let the pain stop with me.
I’m going to take the things that hurt us and make sure they don’t become the things that hurt the next generation.
I’m going to love my son in all the ways I know how.
I’m going to show up.
I’m going to listen.
I’m going to hug him.
I’m going to tell him I love him.
And I’m going to make sure he never has to wonder whether his dad loves him.
Maybe that’s one of the ways I can honor you.
Not by pretending everything was perfect.
Not by forgetting the hard parts.
But by taking everything you went through, everything I went through, and choosing to make something better from it.
Dad, I wish I could have saved you from some of the things you carried.
I wish I could have taken away your pain.
I wish I could have had more time.
But I can’t change the past.
So I’ll carry the memories instead.
I’ll carry the good.
I’ll carry the lessons.
I’ll carry the love.
And I’ll leave the anger behind.
I hope you’re somewhere peaceful now.
I hope you’re finally free from the pain.
I hope you’re finally able to rest.
And I hope, wherever you are, you know that your son loves you.
I forgive you for the things I needed to forgive you for.
And I hope you forgive me for the things I wish I could change.
I’ll miss you for the rest of my life, Dad.
But I’ll carry you with me.
And every time I look at Avery and Cade, I’ll remember that a part of you is still here.
I love you, Dad.
I’m sorry.
I forgive you.
Thank you.
And goodbye.
Your son,
Josh
And from your son Brandon;
Best javelin operator since 2012!! Ihope you saved me seat at the lynard skynard reunion concert!