Thomas H. Lindberg

Today, we gather in a place that stands as a tribute to courage, sacrifice, and service. But more importantly, we gather as family and friends to honor a man whose life cannot be measured by medals alone—but by the lives he touched, the laughter he created, and the love he gave so freely.
Tom will forever hold a place in my heart—and in all of ours—because of the unique and lasting imprint he left on each of us. Today is not about mourning a life that was lost. It is about celebrating a life that was lived fully, fiercely, and with purpose.
Tom was born to Janice and Arthur and raised outside of Chico, in the small rice farming town of Richvale, California. He grew up alongside his siblings—Laurie, Ole, Robert, and his twin brother, Rich, who is here with us today. Their upbringing was modest, shaped by resilience, adaptability, and a strong sense of family. Tom and Rich spent their early years moving between parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles—learning early on the importance of connection, grit, and showing up for one another.
After high school, Tom briefly thought his path would lead him to accounting. But it didn’t take long—just a few days sitting behind a desk—for him to realize that kind of life wasn’t for him. Tom wasn’t built for walls and ceilings. He was built for challenge, for movement, for purpose. So, he did something that would define the course of his life—he walked into a Navy recruiting office and signed up on the spot.
That moment marked the first time the Lindberg twins went their separate ways—Tom to the Navy, and Rich to the Air Force. It was a bold step into the unknown, but for Tom, it was exactly where he was meant to be.
Tom loved his time in the SEAL Teams. He was part of BUD/S Class 173, served with SEAL Team 5, and was a Plank Owner at SEAL Team 7—helping establish that team on the West Coast. He also served with Naval Special Warfare Group One and was a member of the Leap Frogs, the Navy’s elite parachute demonstration team.
There’s even a story that while on the Leap Frogs, Tom parachuted directly into the field at Sessions Elementary… the very school Madison and Hunter and their friends attend today.
Over his twenty-year career, Tom deployed nine times, including two deployments to Iraq. He earned numerous medals and commendations, but if you knew Tom, you know that recognition was never what drove him. He was humble to his core, always deflecting praise. For him, it was about the mission, the team, and the people beside him.
But as extraordinary as his military career was, it was only one part of who he was.
To many of us, Tom was also the headlining act in what we lovingly called “The Tommy Show”—a source of endless humor, energy, and larger-than-life presence. He had a way of lighting up a room, pulling people in, and making even the most ordinary moments unforgettable.
And yet, beneath that humor and charisma was something even more meaningful.
Tom was the kind of man who showed up.
He showed up when it mattered. He showed up when it didn’t. He showed up without being asked, without needing recognition, and without hesitation. Whether it was offering a helping hand, opening his home, delivering a perfectly timed joke, or giving someone the push they needed to keep going—Tom was there.
He showed us that true strength isn’t just about what you accomplish—it’s about how you show up for others.
That same unwavering presence defined who he was as a husband and father.
Tom’s love for me, Madison, and Hunter was limitless. He loved fiercely, completely, and without condition. His family was his pride, his joy, and his greatest mission of all. The energy, laughter, and devotion he poured into his home created a bond that will never be broken.
Tom and I built our life on friendship first—a foundation of trust, respect, and deep connection. When they married, life moved quickly. It became a beautiful whirlwind—marriage, then Madison, then Hunter. A life full of momentum, love, and promise.
And then came the diagnosis: osteosarcoma.
Tom faced cancer the same way he faced everything in life—with courage, determination, and an unbreakable spirit. For nearly two years, he fought. He endured. He pushed forward with a strength that inspired everyone around him. He won many battles along the way. But in the end, the war against cancer took him from us.
And yet—even in that—Tom’s story is not one of loss.
It is one of legacy.
Tom was, in every sense of the word, a warrior—not just in uniform, but in life. A man who led, protected, loved, and inspired.
There’s a saying: it’s not the years in your life that matter, but the life in your years.
And Tom filled his years to the brim.
With service.
With laughter.
With loyalty.
With love.
Today, as we place this plaque, we are doing more than marking a name on a wall. We are creating a place—a place where his family can come, where his children , Madison and Hunter, can stand and feel connected to their dad, where friends can visit and remember, and where his story will continue to be told.
This place becomes a part of his legacy.
Because while Tom may no longer be here with us physically, his spirit is not gone. It lives on—in the lessons he taught us, in the memories we carry, and most powerfully, Madison, Hunter, and me. 
They are his legacy.
They are his continuation.
And through them—through all of us—Tom’s story will never end.
So today, I don’t say goodbye.
I say thank you.
Thank you for your service.
Thank you for your strength.
Thank you for your laughter.
And most of all, thank you for the way you loved.
We will carry you with us—always.