Dale & Shirley Jost
“The Binder” is a term my family uses as an inside joke, but its meaning is far from humorous. The name refers to a four-inch, three-ring binder my dad, Dale Jost, created to house all the essential life documents for him and my mom, Shirley. Inside were financial accounts, insurance policies, housing contracts, medical history, and more. The Binder was my dad’s way of ensuring we’d have everything we needed if he wasn’t around.
Dad was a meticulous planner. With trusted advisors, he invested in life insurance and long-term care policies and established a trust to direct assets to my brother, Travis, and me, as well as to charitable causes. His commitment to preparation was unwavering.
I first saw The Binder during a visit to my parents’ home in Hesston, Kansas. Over coffee, Dad pulled out this massive binder, packed with pages and tabs. It was so thick that turning a page required effort. Honestly, I didn’t understand why it was necessary. Dad seemed so capable —I assumed he’d always be there to handle things.
Then came June 2022. My parents traveled to Burundi, Africa, to visit my brother Travis, who was serving as a missionary. They loved the people there, and the feeling was mutual.
While sightseeing in the mountains, Dad fell and cracked his hip. He survived surgery but didn’t survive the recovery. He died in Burundi, and we were devastated.
In our grief, we faced countless tasks: reporting his death, updating accounts, processing insurance policies, and managing passwords. Where would we start? The Binder.
Inside were account statements, access details, and contact information for every advisor. There were checklists and flowcharts outlining steps for different scenarios. It became our roadmap.
Beyond logistics, The Binder held treasures: a summary of Dad’s 40-year career in government finance, including milestones and memories. Reading his words gave us insight into his impact—something he never boasted about. We used these details for his obituary and memorial service.
One section contained trust documents, complete with amendments over the years. It outlined my parents’ wishes for asset distribution and charitable gifts, leaving no room for confusion or debate. Their clarity was a blessing.
Weeks after his death, we realized Dad’s hobby was organizing his binder. He had copied IDs, passports, and social security cards, updating everything regularly. When Mom passed in March 2025, The Binder—though it was less complete—still provided a blueprint for finalizing the estate. It made an overwhelming process manageable.
Looking back, The Binder wasn’t just a collection of documents. It was a love letter from Dad to Mom, Travis, and me—a way of saying, “I love you. You are cared for.” It was a gift. And like the best gifts, it was one we didn’t know we needed. We are so grateful!