March 3, 2009 – Happy 83rd Birthday, Dad
I am a writer. I can trace my abilities as a writer to my father (who, due to overactive tear-ducts, could not always express his feelings in person but was articulate on the page) and paternal grandfather (a poet). His father (my great-grandfather) was a Member of Canadian Parliament in the mid-1800s and a great orator. While a full-year has elapsed since I saw my dad for the last time, the need to remember, the need to record, and the need to write has not diminished.
In May, I was at a place in my grief where I attempted to categorize events as B.C. (Before Cari), A.D. (After Dad), or something in-between. For the events that occurred B.C., I am entirely dependent on the memory of others; for the nearly thirty-three years since my birth, I am mostly responsible. I am beginning to feel anxious that both my busy schedule and my imperfect memory are working against me and my attempts to remember all the lasts: the last time Dad said, “I’m sorry you have to go” (or was it “I’m sorry you have to leave?”) as I left for work. When did we do our last puzzle together? What day did we have that conversation about heaven? When did we pepper dad with questions about his past only to have him say, “I can’t remember?” And then there are the A.D. types of questions: Was Dad still alive when we watched “Dan in Real Life”? Wasn’t dad there when we had that St. Patrick’s get-together? Oh, that’s right, he was gone by then.
A few weeks before my father’s death, when he was recovering from the flu, I had pulled out a manila folder full of talks he had given at several Catholic retreats back in the 60s and 70s. Although my father was a man of faith, he never really talked about what he believed. Since he was often more eloquent as a writer, I wanted to read them with him; but the day wore on and the folder returned to the bottom drawer in the yellow hutch.
My father died on March 2, the day before his 82nd birthday. Two days later, my brother and I sat on the couch in the dim light of the living room to write his eulogy. We sought to outline his best qualities: generosity, humor, and faith. The first two were easy enough to demonstrate through examples, but describing dad’s faith was more elusive. It seemed best to refer to his words when fleshing out the latter, so the folder came back out of the hutch.
Reading my father’s manuscripts, and seeing the things he crossed out or changed, was like looking over his shoulder during the writing process. He jotted the names of jokes in the margins, jokes that he would tell to loosen up the crowd, jokes that are now infamous among his family and friends: Lousy Lover; Mother-In-Law; Fat-Ass.
While Michael typed away, I interrupted his brain-storm with, “Listen to this: ‘I have learned that people will be more impressed by what we are [and] by the way we live and act; the joy inside has a way of showing itself.’ ”
“That’s it,” he said.
My father was gone, and I was still getting to know him.
Since then, mother has explained that when she and dad were asked to speak at a retreat, they were often given an outline that included a topic (ie: What is Piety?), main points, and Scripture references; many of the words they spoke were not their own. She is also quick to point out that the most powerful and memorable things were the personal stories and examples they shared. This was where they shared their experiences of God’s love and faithfulness; His provision during difficult times; His grace in the midst of sorrow.
Yesterday, I spent the anniversary of my father’s death looking through that same manila folder and found that I am guilty of the same failings that my Dad admitted to in his talks: of being over-zealous, judgemental, unforgiving; I am also offered the same forbearance, grace, and forgiveness. I am my father’s daughter, and I’ve never been prouder to admit it.
Showing posts with label stories about my dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stories about my dad. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
A Eulogy for My Father
Pasted below is the text of the eulogy. I am taking a class on the power of the spoken word, so rather than edit this so that it reads more like a book, I will leave in the punctuation Patty included to help her read it aloud:
Good Morning. My name is Patty, I’m Jack’s oldest daughter. The family asked me to represent them and read this remembrance of Dad. If you know [our] propensity for crying, we’d like to reassure you that [the church] has taken out additional flood insurance!
This is not a sad day. We are gathered to celebrate an extraordinary life. There will be tears, of course, but we hope to engender tears of joy, tears of your fondest memories of your grandfather, your Uncle, or your friend.. If you are sad, please try to put on a smile…it may help you to remember the humor, fun, and zest for life that Dad brought to everything he did… Just think of him stuck in a river....running out of gas....losing his false teeth....or hunting without a gun. The day after Dad died, an old friend of his called and said, “Your Dad was one of a kind.” We have laughed and cried as we have recounted the stories that make up my Dad’s life…. We invite you to join us…
My father was a good and generous man who derived great pleasure from helping others. He was known to drop off a box of gifts for a needy family, stick a check in the mail for a friend in need, or even slip an unmarked envelope full of cash through someone’s mail slot. He even opened his home to inner city kids, a Turkish exchange student, two Ethiopian sailors, a convalescent Grandpa Peirce, several cousins and other family members in need, and a seminary student who is now a parish priest in Louisville, KY. >>>>
Dad’s generosity also emerged in his business life. As a family friend remarked, “[His company] is not just a business, it’s a ministry.” Countless out-of-work friends and family members, qualified or not, found temporary financial refuge and fellowship in [his business]… and that legacy is being carried on by his son. Many a worker found that refuge while riding in a schmutz-stained yellow pick-up truck that tilted perilously toward the curb and usually had a ladder SORT OF tied on top. Naturally, Dad’s comment about the sort-of-tied on ladder would be to say…
“Good enough.”
He had always been a man of faith, but it was through his involvement in the Cursillo movement – a Christian retreat [weekend] -- that his faith became more than just belief -- it became action. That’s what Mom says about Dad’s Christianity—he didn’t just talk it....he lived it. It was also [here] that Dad honed his stand-up comedy act. Many a Sunday morning -- with one or two
of his kids in tow -- he would loosen up the crowd, while wearing a monk costume, with a couple of (now infamous) jokes. After the jokes, he would share his perceptions about the Christian life.. Jack helped others become more faithful, because they could see how he lived as a Christian and how the Lord helped him to be a more effective husband, father, and friend. The following is an excerpt taken from one of the talks Dad gave to a new Cursillo group: ”I have learned that people will be more impressed by what we are [and] by the way we live and act…the joy inside has a way of showing itself.” Dad simply did his best, and he put his trust in God.
If you knew him, you saw it. [gesture]
When you walked through the door [of his home], you were likely to be greeted with a good-natured insult,…. a painful handshake, ….or ….“You don’t have to go home>>>but you can’t stay here.”
Those who knew him well knew also knew of his gentle, loving, nature. You didn’t have to know him long to see past the thin veneer of the raucous jokester....to the heart of a tender, compassionate, caring man. Jack’s inherent soft-hearted sensitivity made him a faithful son,
brother, husband, father, grandfather, and friend. If you felt it deeply, Dad felt it deeply too. If it was important to you, it was important to him. If it was a heart rending story, he cried; if it was
a happy story,… he cried.
Papa was fiercely proud of his family and his 27 grandchildren. Let me introduce you to his legacy… (Those who are here, as I call your name, please stand) Sean Michael, John Warren, Stephen Michael, Sean Paul, Joshua Joseph, Amanda Beth, Conor James, Joseph Paul, Jonathan Richard, Rebekah Hope, Liam Francis, Lydia Faith, Emma Elizabeth, Abigail Christie Louise, Anna Rose, Aidan Peirce, Jacob Peirce, Katherine Grace, Haley Elizabeth, Josiah Paul,
Mary Margaret, Thomas Stephen, Shannon Mercy, Susannah Patience, Alison Kate, Hanneke Joy & Elizabeth Leslie Joy. As Papa would say, “That’s a good start!!“
The following was written my son, Joshua, representing the grandchildren…
Although I do not carry the name of [my grandfather], I have the same “mutated” genes as my grandfather. On an early morning bike ride through town one day, I was pulled over by a cop who wanted to know why I wasn’t in school. I started explaining that I was home schooled when
he stopped me and asked, “Are you [related to Jack]”? I told him that my mother
was [his daughter], in which he responded by saying,
“I thought so… you look just like your grandfather.”
When we were younger, we would all sit around in a half circle, waiting for papa to pop out his false teeth. When he did, we would run screaming out of the room, only to enter timidly a few
seconds later, wanting him to do it again.
I remember one time, while I was helping him down the stairs, my grandmother stood at the bottom and called up, “Jack, hold onto the railing! You twit.” In which he responded in his usual manner, “Thanks Marilyn, I wouldn’t want to trip and fall on you…I might hurt myself.”
For those of us who were used to those comments, we knew he really was letting us know how much he loved us. Strange way to say it, I know, but in some ways it means more to me that way. Things like: “Hey! Knock it off!” One of the many popular sayings of my grandfather, in which all of the grandkids have, at one time or another tried to imitate.
“You don’t have to go home....but you can’t stay here.”
“Whaddya got, a broken leg?”
“Shut the door, you’re letting out the cold!” and
“Come back when you can’t stay so long.”
There are some things money can’t buy. Among those things are the memories, fellowship, sidesplitting laugher, and love that one experiences by knowing Jack.
I love my grandfather, and I thank God that he put me in a family with such a heritage to pass on to future generations. If I can be half the grandfather he is to me, I will die a happy man.
Over the past year or so, Dad would jokingly drop hints that he was concerned that he wasn’t going to make it to his 90’s like his brother Paul and sister Mary, and that he might not be “good
enough” to make it to heaven… As we all know, we are all less than perfect…we all say and do things we regret and fall short of loving others as Jesus has called us to do. Cari and I had little conversations with Dad when he would hint at these concerns, and we assured him many times over that Jesus” blood is more than enough to cover our sins, as today’s reading from Romans declares… “While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” …since we are now brought into right relationship with God by Christ's blood, how much more [certain it is that] we shall be saved by Him. As Dad struggled to breathe in the ER, I reminded him of this. There was nothing more he could do but let go and embrace God’s promise.
We wanted you to know that Dad never lost his sense of humor. It was a source of great joy and laughter for those who cared for him and visited with him during his final days. Only a few hours
before his death, when he was unable to speak, the nurse bustled into the room and bellowed. “How you doing?” In response, Dad rolled his eyes and pretended to pass out. A comedian right to the end.
Jack could be hysterical in person and a reprise of his shortcomings is equally hysterical. From lost teeth....to falling off of roofs....to losing his rifle while hunting....the guy’s life was a
side-splitting comic/tragedy.
Most of you know that we found the family home in Arichat, Nova Scotia—the home that everyone thought had burned to the ground. John and Steve worked out the financing to make the purchase and surprised Papa in the spring of 2006. The following summer, Cari and Dad were flying through Logan airport to meet a bunch of the clan at the house on Isle Madame in Nova Scotia.
The following could only happen to Jack....
Jack hastily grabbed his fishing rod case before leaving and checked it with his suitcase when he arrived at the airport. Jack and Cari were standing in the security line, when a TSA agent called him out of the line, took him to a separate room and asked him what he was carrying in the case. Dad said, “My fishing rod.” The TSA agent opened the case to show him {PAUSE} His shot gun! He somehow escaped arrest, traveled to Nova Scotia, and a few weeks later had worked up the courage to tell Marilyn. After dabbing away tears of laughter, Mom said, “We have to tell Lloyd.”
Lloyd, Dad’s hunting buddy, listened to the story over speaker phone and laughingly suggested, “You guys oughta write a book.” The next day Mike started writing and, to date, he has completed 10 chapters recounting Jack’s misadventures. Based on the airport story I just related, the book is appropriately titled “THE ACCIDENTAL TERRORIST.” Though not yet complete, Mike is concerned that he has finished only 10 chapters of what could be 100!
This is the Preface to “The Accidental Terrorist”:
You are about to wander through page after gaffe-filled page of missteps that somehow found their way to the feet of my Father. After reading several chapters of foibles, it would be easy to
come to the conclusion that my Dad was a complete idiot. Nothing could be further from the truth. Dad was what you might call an “accident savant”. Accident prone? Yep. Forgetful? Sure. But like “Rain-man”, an absolute genius when it came to certain things. Dad, I suppose, was a real-life Rain-man meets Macgyver—he could take ordinary materials and make something brilliantly useful. A pile of scrap lumber was turned into a fantastic A-frame fort—with a sleeping loft—dubbed Jack’s Shack. How many people do you know who can build a Christmas Tree? Dad would take two horrific looking evergreens—scrawny firs that only Charlie Brown could love—and turn them into one semi-spectacular Yule tree. He would cut the boughs off of one gaunt specimen, drill holes of appropriate sizes into the other, and viola!
Humor was another way that Dad’s genius showed itself. In his younger days, there was always a joke at the ready. He had a mental rolodex of punch lines that he could, for any occasion, flip
through and deliver. In later years, it was a wallet full of business cards with punch lines, followed by a few years of sorting through e-mails and forwarding the internet’s best. It’s a gift, the ability to make someone laugh, and Dad used his gift effectively to warm up a client, lighten a situation, or make a friend.
Dad was a genius with people. Oh, I don’t suppose that everybody liked Dad – his humor wasn’t welcomed by everyone—but most were intoxicated by his easy-going sense of fun and light-hearted approach to most of life’s challenges. An ember in Dad’s eyes was huffed into a glowing twinkle whenever Dad was engaged in conversation.
I chronicle Dad’s life to honor him, not humiliate him. So, as you read, remember that I could not have asked for a better Father. His mistakes and shortcomings only serve to make him more
endearing, more fun to be around, more of a character, more of a myth. Great guy, great
friend, great father—if you didn’t know him you missed out. Love you Dad.
We thought we would leave you with what Dad wrote in a keepsake journal. The journal asked him to recall five of the most important lessons he had learned in life. Naturally, Dad wrote seven!
Listen to your father and mother
Be thankful for the little things
Be nice to people
Work hard
Keep a smile on your face!
Give to those who need it!
Show that you love your wife!
We would like to thank you for sharing our joy and sorrow. We invite you to join us at [the cemetary], followed by fellowship, reminiscing and refreshments at the Elks Lodge. At that time,
there will be an opportunity for those who wish to share their favorite “Jack” stories. Please join us as we continue to celebrate his amazing life.
Good Morning. My name is Patty, I’m Jack’s oldest daughter. The family asked me to represent them and read this remembrance of Dad. If you know [our] propensity for crying, we’d like to reassure you that [the church] has taken out additional flood insurance!
This is not a sad day. We are gathered to celebrate an extraordinary life. There will be tears, of course, but we hope to engender tears of joy, tears of your fondest memories of your grandfather, your Uncle, or your friend.. If you are sad, please try to put on a smile…it may help you to remember the humor, fun, and zest for life that Dad brought to everything he did… Just think of him stuck in a river....running out of gas....losing his false teeth....or hunting without a gun. The day after Dad died, an old friend of his called and said, “Your Dad was one of a kind.” We have laughed and cried as we have recounted the stories that make up my Dad’s life…. We invite you to join us…
My father was a good and generous man who derived great pleasure from helping others. He was known to drop off a box of gifts for a needy family, stick a check in the mail for a friend in need, or even slip an unmarked envelope full of cash through someone’s mail slot. He even opened his home to inner city kids, a Turkish exchange student, two Ethiopian sailors, a convalescent Grandpa Peirce, several cousins and other family members in need, and a seminary student who is now a parish priest in Louisville, KY. >>>>
Dad’s generosity also emerged in his business life. As a family friend remarked, “[His company] is not just a business, it’s a ministry.” Countless out-of-work friends and family members, qualified or not, found temporary financial refuge and fellowship in [his business]… and that legacy is being carried on by his son. Many a worker found that refuge while riding in a schmutz-stained yellow pick-up truck that tilted perilously toward the curb and usually had a ladder SORT OF tied on top. Naturally, Dad’s comment about the sort-of-tied on ladder would be to say…
“Good enough.”
He had always been a man of faith, but it was through his involvement in the Cursillo movement – a Christian retreat [weekend] -- that his faith became more than just belief -- it became action. That’s what Mom says about Dad’s Christianity—he didn’t just talk it....he lived it. It was also [here] that Dad honed his stand-up comedy act. Many a Sunday morning -- with one or two
of his kids in tow -- he would loosen up the crowd, while wearing a monk costume, with a couple of (now infamous) jokes. After the jokes, he would share his perceptions about the Christian life.. Jack helped others become more faithful, because they could see how he lived as a Christian and how the Lord helped him to be a more effective husband, father, and friend. The following is an excerpt taken from one of the talks Dad gave to a new Cursillo group: ”I have learned that people will be more impressed by what we are [and] by the way we live and act…the joy inside has a way of showing itself.” Dad simply did his best, and he put his trust in God.
If you knew him, you saw it. [gesture]
When you walked through the door [of his home], you were likely to be greeted with a good-natured insult,…. a painful handshake, ….or ….“You don’t have to go home>>>but you can’t stay here.”
Those who knew him well knew also knew of his gentle, loving, nature. You didn’t have to know him long to see past the thin veneer of the raucous jokester....to the heart of a tender, compassionate, caring man. Jack’s inherent soft-hearted sensitivity made him a faithful son,
brother, husband, father, grandfather, and friend. If you felt it deeply, Dad felt it deeply too. If it was important to you, it was important to him. If it was a heart rending story, he cried; if it was
a happy story,… he cried.
Papa was fiercely proud of his family and his 27 grandchildren. Let me introduce you to his legacy… (Those who are here, as I call your name, please stand) Sean Michael, John Warren, Stephen Michael, Sean Paul, Joshua Joseph, Amanda Beth, Conor James, Joseph Paul, Jonathan Richard, Rebekah Hope, Liam Francis, Lydia Faith, Emma Elizabeth, Abigail Christie Louise, Anna Rose, Aidan Peirce, Jacob Peirce, Katherine Grace, Haley Elizabeth, Josiah Paul,
Mary Margaret, Thomas Stephen, Shannon Mercy, Susannah Patience, Alison Kate, Hanneke Joy & Elizabeth Leslie Joy. As Papa would say, “That’s a good start!!“
The following was written my son, Joshua, representing the grandchildren…
Although I do not carry the name of [my grandfather], I have the same “mutated” genes as my grandfather. On an early morning bike ride through town one day, I was pulled over by a cop who wanted to know why I wasn’t in school. I started explaining that I was home schooled when
he stopped me and asked, “Are you [related to Jack]”? I told him that my mother
was [his daughter], in which he responded by saying,
“I thought so… you look just like your grandfather.”
When we were younger, we would all sit around in a half circle, waiting for papa to pop out his false teeth. When he did, we would run screaming out of the room, only to enter timidly a few
seconds later, wanting him to do it again.
I remember one time, while I was helping him down the stairs, my grandmother stood at the bottom and called up, “Jack, hold onto the railing! You twit.” In which he responded in his usual manner, “Thanks Marilyn, I wouldn’t want to trip and fall on you…I might hurt myself.”
For those of us who were used to those comments, we knew he really was letting us know how much he loved us. Strange way to say it, I know, but in some ways it means more to me that way. Things like: “Hey! Knock it off!” One of the many popular sayings of my grandfather, in which all of the grandkids have, at one time or another tried to imitate.
“You don’t have to go home....but you can’t stay here.”
“Whaddya got, a broken leg?”
“Shut the door, you’re letting out the cold!” and
“Come back when you can’t stay so long.”
There are some things money can’t buy. Among those things are the memories, fellowship, sidesplitting laugher, and love that one experiences by knowing Jack.
I love my grandfather, and I thank God that he put me in a family with such a heritage to pass on to future generations. If I can be half the grandfather he is to me, I will die a happy man.
Over the past year or so, Dad would jokingly drop hints that he was concerned that he wasn’t going to make it to his 90’s like his brother Paul and sister Mary, and that he might not be “good
enough” to make it to heaven… As we all know, we are all less than perfect…we all say and do things we regret and fall short of loving others as Jesus has called us to do. Cari and I had little conversations with Dad when he would hint at these concerns, and we assured him many times over that Jesus” blood is more than enough to cover our sins, as today’s reading from Romans declares… “While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” …since we are now brought into right relationship with God by Christ's blood, how much more [certain it is that] we shall be saved by Him. As Dad struggled to breathe in the ER, I reminded him of this. There was nothing more he could do but let go and embrace God’s promise.
We wanted you to know that Dad never lost his sense of humor. It was a source of great joy and laughter for those who cared for him and visited with him during his final days. Only a few hours
before his death, when he was unable to speak, the nurse bustled into the room and bellowed. “How you doing?” In response, Dad rolled his eyes and pretended to pass out. A comedian right to the end.
Jack could be hysterical in person and a reprise of his shortcomings is equally hysterical. From lost teeth....to falling off of roofs....to losing his rifle while hunting....the guy’s life was a
side-splitting comic/tragedy.
Most of you know that we found the family home in Arichat, Nova Scotia—the home that everyone thought had burned to the ground. John and Steve worked out the financing to make the purchase and surprised Papa in the spring of 2006. The following summer, Cari and Dad were flying through Logan airport to meet a bunch of the clan at the house on Isle Madame in Nova Scotia.
The following could only happen to Jack....
Jack hastily grabbed his fishing rod case before leaving and checked it with his suitcase when he arrived at the airport. Jack and Cari were standing in the security line, when a TSA agent called him out of the line, took him to a separate room and asked him what he was carrying in the case. Dad said, “My fishing rod.” The TSA agent opened the case to show him {PAUSE} His shot gun! He somehow escaped arrest, traveled to Nova Scotia, and a few weeks later had worked up the courage to tell Marilyn. After dabbing away tears of laughter, Mom said, “We have to tell Lloyd.”
Lloyd, Dad’s hunting buddy, listened to the story over speaker phone and laughingly suggested, “You guys oughta write a book.” The next day Mike started writing and, to date, he has completed 10 chapters recounting Jack’s misadventures. Based on the airport story I just related, the book is appropriately titled “THE ACCIDENTAL TERRORIST.” Though not yet complete, Mike is concerned that he has finished only 10 chapters of what could be 100!
This is the Preface to “The Accidental Terrorist”:
You are about to wander through page after gaffe-filled page of missteps that somehow found their way to the feet of my Father. After reading several chapters of foibles, it would be easy to
come to the conclusion that my Dad was a complete idiot. Nothing could be further from the truth. Dad was what you might call an “accident savant”. Accident prone? Yep. Forgetful? Sure. But like “Rain-man”, an absolute genius when it came to certain things. Dad, I suppose, was a real-life Rain-man meets Macgyver—he could take ordinary materials and make something brilliantly useful. A pile of scrap lumber was turned into a fantastic A-frame fort—with a sleeping loft—dubbed Jack’s Shack. How many people do you know who can build a Christmas Tree? Dad would take two horrific looking evergreens—scrawny firs that only Charlie Brown could love—and turn them into one semi-spectacular Yule tree. He would cut the boughs off of one gaunt specimen, drill holes of appropriate sizes into the other, and viola!
Humor was another way that Dad’s genius showed itself. In his younger days, there was always a joke at the ready. He had a mental rolodex of punch lines that he could, for any occasion, flip
through and deliver. In later years, it was a wallet full of business cards with punch lines, followed by a few years of sorting through e-mails and forwarding the internet’s best. It’s a gift, the ability to make someone laugh, and Dad used his gift effectively to warm up a client, lighten a situation, or make a friend.
Dad was a genius with people. Oh, I don’t suppose that everybody liked Dad – his humor wasn’t welcomed by everyone—but most were intoxicated by his easy-going sense of fun and light-hearted approach to most of life’s challenges. An ember in Dad’s eyes was huffed into a glowing twinkle whenever Dad was engaged in conversation.
I chronicle Dad’s life to honor him, not humiliate him. So, as you read, remember that I could not have asked for a better Father. His mistakes and shortcomings only serve to make him more
endearing, more fun to be around, more of a character, more of a myth. Great guy, great
friend, great father—if you didn’t know him you missed out. Love you Dad.
We thought we would leave you with what Dad wrote in a keepsake journal. The journal asked him to recall five of the most important lessons he had learned in life. Naturally, Dad wrote seven!
Listen to your father and mother
Be thankful for the little things
Be nice to people
Work hard
Keep a smile on your face!
Give to those who need it!
Show that you love your wife!
We would like to thank you for sharing our joy and sorrow. We invite you to join us at [the cemetary], followed by fellowship, reminiscing and refreshments at the Elks Lodge. At that time,
there will be an opportunity for those who wish to share their favorite “Jack” stories. Please join us as we continue to celebrate his amazing life.
Catching You Up Part II
from September 2, 2008 (six months since my dad died)
People talk about grief having stages. I just went through a new one recently: I will never see my Dad again. When Dad died, I had that instantaneous “I miss Dad” that a person feels when someone that they love leaves; in April, it hit me: “He’s not ever coming back; this missing him is – forever.” Or, at least, until I die.
Three of the sensations I try hard to keep in mind and therefore frequently recall to memory are: 1) the feeling of holding Dad’s lily-soft hand; 2) how it felt to kiss him on his ruddy, stubbly cheek; 3) the texture of his snowy white hair (I patted him on the head a lot in the hospital). Dear God, let these memories linger.
He is still with me; he’s still by my side as I walked out of the house my grandfather was born in on Cape Breton Island in 2004 and cried, “This was the best experience of my life,” and he will be by my side when I walk down the aisle.
One of my Dad’s favorite things to say when people who came to visit where getting ready to leave was, “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.” In the hospital, as my father’s inhales became shorter and his exhales longer, my brother Steve assured him that we would take good care of mom and it was okay for him to let go. Just before he died, Stephen kissed him on the forehead and said, “Go home, because you can’t stay here.”
When Stephen returned from the hospital hours later, we were all gathered at my parent’s house for an impromptu “Irish wake”; friends and family had dropped by and were crying, reminiscing, and laughing with us (it is hard to reminisce about dad and not laugh). Steve came in the front door, and said, “I thought of a joke for the last chapter of Mike’s book (see eulogy above): Dad goes to heaven; he sees Jesus at the pearly gates and gives him a big hug.
Dad asks Jesus, “Do you know how to save an Irishman from drowning?”
Jesus says, “I just did.”
Please continue to pray for me as I get used to the world without my Dad in it.
People talk about grief having stages. I just went through a new one recently: I will never see my Dad again. When Dad died, I had that instantaneous “I miss Dad” that a person feels when someone that they love leaves; in April, it hit me: “He’s not ever coming back; this missing him is – forever.” Or, at least, until I die.
Three of the sensations I try hard to keep in mind and therefore frequently recall to memory are: 1) the feeling of holding Dad’s lily-soft hand; 2) how it felt to kiss him on his ruddy, stubbly cheek; 3) the texture of his snowy white hair (I patted him on the head a lot in the hospital). Dear God, let these memories linger.
He is still with me; he’s still by my side as I walked out of the house my grandfather was born in on Cape Breton Island in 2004 and cried, “This was the best experience of my life,” and he will be by my side when I walk down the aisle.
One of my Dad’s favorite things to say when people who came to visit where getting ready to leave was, “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.” In the hospital, as my father’s inhales became shorter and his exhales longer, my brother Steve assured him that we would take good care of mom and it was okay for him to let go. Just before he died, Stephen kissed him on the forehead and said, “Go home, because you can’t stay here.”
When Stephen returned from the hospital hours later, we were all gathered at my parent’s house for an impromptu “Irish wake”; friends and family had dropped by and were crying, reminiscing, and laughing with us (it is hard to reminisce about dad and not laugh). Steve came in the front door, and said, “I thought of a joke for the last chapter of Mike’s book (see eulogy above): Dad goes to heaven; he sees Jesus at the pearly gates and gives him a big hug.
Dad asks Jesus, “Do you know how to save an Irishman from drowning?”
Jesus says, “I just did.”
Please continue to pray for me as I get used to the world without my Dad in it.
Catching you up
March 3, 2009
from March 17, 2008
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
Dear friends,
I just wanted to let you all know that my Dad passed away (in the full sense of the phrase) on Sunday, March 2, at around 4 p.m. March 3 was his 82nd birthday.
I can't fully describe the peace that I feel in the midst of all of this, but I want you to know that God is good, and his mercy has been so evident in the past few weeks.
My Dad has had his share of ailments throughout the years, from an irregular heartbeat to C.O.P.D. (chronic bronchitis from 30+ years of smoking), but he has escaped death so many times (even survived falling face-first into a pile of dirt off a two-story roof) that we became convinced that God had more for him to do.
In the past few years, Dad's memory had been diminishing, but the cause was not officially determined (we think it was the beginning stages of dementia). However, it was all a part of the aging process, so we were not really alarmed. Last month (around January 19), my Dad got bronchitis and was sick for two weeks. One evening, he got up in the middle of the night, turned all the lights on, and was wandering around the house. When my mom found him, he said, "I'm lost." Although we were not certain if it was due to the sickness or dehydration, it was apparent that his dementia was getting worse. We tried to keep him hydrated and help him gain back his strength, and after a couple of weeks, he seemed to do so.
Finally, on Superbowl Sunday, I was spending the night at my parents', and I heard my dad get up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. When I didn't hear him return to his room after he left the bathroom, I went to check on him; I found him in the front room sitting in the dark. I asked him what he was doing, and he said, "Well, I went to the bathroom, so I figured I'd follow through." I began to get very worried.
The following Thursday, I talked to my mom on the phone, and she said, "They call dementia 'The long goodbye.' " I felt like I was losing my dad before he was gone. That day, I cried a lot, but God kept bringing songs about hope to mind:
"I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have called you, and you are mine.
Seek the face of the Lord and long for Him; He will bring you his joy and his hope."
- from the song, "I Have Loved You," by Michael Joncas
"You would think now hope would be tired, but it's alright.
You would think tired, ragged, and oil brown, but it's alright."
- from the song, "Go," by the Innocence Mission
The next week, I went to my Monday night prayer group and walked in as they were discussing Lamentations 3. Lamentations was written by the prophet Jeremiah after he saw the destruction of Jerusalem (which he had warned Israel about). Despite the desolation all around him, he found the strength to say: "This I recall to my mind, therefore I have hope: The Lord's lovingkindnesses indeed never cease, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; Great is Thy faithfulness. 'The Lord is my portion,' says my soul, 'therefore I have hope in Him.' The Lord is good to those who wait for Him, to the person who seeks Him. It is good that he waits silently for the salvation of the Lord.... For the Lord will not reject forever, for if he causes grief, then He will have compassion according to His abundant lovingkindness." (Lamentations 3:21-32)
The day before Valentine's Day, Dad was on the phone with my brother John, when he started talking gibberish. My mom and sister Patty asked him if he could raise his arms, and he could not (this is a sign of stroke). They called 911, and after the doctors checked him out, they determined that he had a T.I.A. (a mini-stroke) although there was no apparent sign of a stroke in the MRI or any damage to his brain. He came home on Valentine's Day, and started running a low-grade fever the next day. We figured it was because they had given him a pneumonia shot in the hospital, but after a few days with a temp of 99, his temp spiked to 102. When his breathing became labored, we rushed him back in to the hospital. The doctor said that he tested positive for the flu, and that the fever had sent him into congestive heart failure, which led to a heart attack. During this hospital stay, which lasted a week, the doctors discovered that his heart was quite damaged. This was a surprise to us, for as far as we knew, the heart attacks he had experienced (including the current one and one he had ten years ago) were quite mild. However, given his dementia, open heart surgery was not option, because they would have to interrupt the blood flow to the brain during the procedure, so after surgery he would most likely be completely out of it. As it was, there were days in the hospital that he couldn't even finish a sentence, because he would forget what he was trying to say. As the doctors said, "When the body is sick, the mind is sick;" and in a person with dementia, it is even more pronounced.
Dad struggled to get better in the hospital, and on Monday, February 25, they discharged him. We had a visiting nurse and a physical therapist come to help complete his recovery, but after five days at home, Dad's breathing became very labored again in the early morning hours of March 2. His lungs were congested, because although we kept asking him to cough to try to clear them, it was as if the dementia made him forget to cough! Mom called the ambulance again, and as the EMT's came in, they asked him his name. "Wild Bill," he said. "Did he say 'Wild Bill'?" the EMT asked. "Yeah," I laughed (for his name is Jack). They proceeded, "Okay, Bill, we're gonna put this oxygen mask on you to help you breathe...." My Dad was a comedian to the very end.
My oldest sibling, and sister, Patty, and my oldest brother, Mike, followed the ambulance to the ER. Although Dad still might have pulled through at this point, the doctor was very candid with them about the shape his body was in; it was just a matter of time before he caught the flu or some other sickness that would tax his weakened heart and lungs and send him back into congestive heart failure. I texted some friends and people from church and asked them to pray; at the end of the message I wrote, "God have mercy."
Midday, Patty and Mike returned, and then the doctor called; it was looking pretty grim, and we would have to decide if we wanted to put him on full life-support or if we just wanted to make him comfortable. Dad had a living will, so we decided that if he was going to pull out of this, it would not be by artificial means.
Before we went to the hospital, I hugged my brother Stephen and cried, "We've been so lucky!" for the past ten years with my Dad have been truly blessed: Four years ago, we discovered the house my grandfather was born in (and my great-grandfather built) on Cape Breton Island in Arichat, Nova Scotia. In the Spring of 2006, Stephen and my brother John surprised my Dad and bought it. Since then, Dad has traveled up to visit the house five times (a beautiful historical home right on the ocean) and was able to make memories there with every one of his children. If you would like to see pictures and hear more of the story, visit: http://www.flydesignstudio.com/arichat/index.html
When I got in the car with Patty and my mom, I said, "I'm ready to let him go." My sister cried, "That's a miracle, Cari! If you can let him go, (being the baby in the family) then we all can!" In room 303, Dad's eyes were closed and his breathing was as bad as ever. They say that the hearing is the last thing to go, so we held his hand, told him we loved him, reminded him that his sins were forgiven, and that God keeps his promises. ("God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life." John 3:16) We even put a laptop on his lap and played a video that my niece Abi had made of his 27 grandchildren wishing him a happy birthday. We didn't know if Dad would pull through, or, if he was going to die, how long he'd hold on, but we didn't want him to be alone, so we decided we'd take turns staying with him. Stephen and my brother Paul volunteered to take the first shift as many of us had barely slept the night before. So at about 3 p.m., the rest of us went home.
An hour later, there was literally 18 of us in my parent's living room (me, my mom, Mike, Patty and her three children, my brother Jeff's wife Wendy and their 10 children--yes, 10). We began talking about what we would do if there was a funeral but agreed that we might be jumping the gun. Dad had pulled through so many scrapes before, and he might do so again. I said, "If there is a funeral, it is going to be the best funeral ever, because so many people love Dad!" Minutes later, the phone rang (as it had been doing all week), and Patty walked into the room with the receiver to her ear. "Okay," she said with her hand on her chest. When she hung up she said, "He's gone; he's passed." And we all cried together; IT WAS BEAUTIFUL. We cried and talked about how lucky we were to have had such a great Dad and Papa and how we would miss him, because we loved him so much. My niece, Katherine (8), said, "I'm gonna be miserable all week!" I assured her that this was normal, and she went on to say: "We're so lucky we still have Nana!" Touche.
I think when I heard the news I actually breathed a sigh of relief. It was so difficult seeing dad go in and out of the hospital and not knowing if he was going to live or die. Certainly, I did not want him to die, but I wanted him to be either well on this earth or well in heaven. In the end, my prayers were answered, and I knew that this was God's mercy for my dad. Within a quarter of an hour of receiving the news, I was able to say, "This is both the saddest and the happiest day of my life." My dad was at peace, and so was I.
Here is an excerpt from my journal dated February 11:
"I can't tell You how thankful I am (in light of recent developments with my Dad) for the memories I have of our drive to Arichat in 2007. It is one of the MOST PERFECT and MOST BEAUTIFUL memories of my life. I cannot find flaw with it, for You have allowed me to preserve only the good, priceless moments and that is the feeling THAT LINGERS. It's so delicious, if it were a fruit, I would be remiss not to eat it. It may be one of the greatest gifts You have ever given me. Thank You. I am also thankful for the opportunity to let my heart overflow for my Dad. I'm sure I won't be able to say everything I ever wanted to say, but it will be a start."
He knew we loved him, we knew he loved us, and he loved Jesus.
What else is there?
from March 17, 2008
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
Dear friends,
I just wanted to let you all know that my Dad passed away (in the full sense of the phrase) on Sunday, March 2, at around 4 p.m. March 3 was his 82nd birthday.
I can't fully describe the peace that I feel in the midst of all of this, but I want you to know that God is good, and his mercy has been so evident in the past few weeks.
My Dad has had his share of ailments throughout the years, from an irregular heartbeat to C.O.P.D. (chronic bronchitis from 30+ years of smoking), but he has escaped death so many times (even survived falling face-first into a pile of dirt off a two-story roof) that we became convinced that God had more for him to do.
In the past few years, Dad's memory had been diminishing, but the cause was not officially determined (we think it was the beginning stages of dementia). However, it was all a part of the aging process, so we were not really alarmed. Last month (around January 19), my Dad got bronchitis and was sick for two weeks. One evening, he got up in the middle of the night, turned all the lights on, and was wandering around the house. When my mom found him, he said, "I'm lost." Although we were not certain if it was due to the sickness or dehydration, it was apparent that his dementia was getting worse. We tried to keep him hydrated and help him gain back his strength, and after a couple of weeks, he seemed to do so.
Finally, on Superbowl Sunday, I was spending the night at my parents', and I heard my dad get up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. When I didn't hear him return to his room after he left the bathroom, I went to check on him; I found him in the front room sitting in the dark. I asked him what he was doing, and he said, "Well, I went to the bathroom, so I figured I'd follow through." I began to get very worried.
The following Thursday, I talked to my mom on the phone, and she said, "They call dementia 'The long goodbye.' " I felt like I was losing my dad before he was gone. That day, I cried a lot, but God kept bringing songs about hope to mind:
"I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have called you, and you are mine.
Seek the face of the Lord and long for Him; He will bring you his joy and his hope."
- from the song, "I Have Loved You," by Michael Joncas
"You would think now hope would be tired, but it's alright.
You would think tired, ragged, and oil brown, but it's alright."
- from the song, "Go," by the Innocence Mission
The next week, I went to my Monday night prayer group and walked in as they were discussing Lamentations 3. Lamentations was written by the prophet Jeremiah after he saw the destruction of Jerusalem (which he had warned Israel about). Despite the desolation all around him, he found the strength to say: "This I recall to my mind, therefore I have hope: The Lord's lovingkindnesses indeed never cease, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; Great is Thy faithfulness. 'The Lord is my portion,' says my soul, 'therefore I have hope in Him.' The Lord is good to those who wait for Him, to the person who seeks Him. It is good that he waits silently for the salvation of the Lord.... For the Lord will not reject forever, for if he causes grief, then He will have compassion according to His abundant lovingkindness." (Lamentations 3:21-32)
The day before Valentine's Day, Dad was on the phone with my brother John, when he started talking gibberish. My mom and sister Patty asked him if he could raise his arms, and he could not (this is a sign of stroke). They called 911, and after the doctors checked him out, they determined that he had a T.I.A. (a mini-stroke) although there was no apparent sign of a stroke in the MRI or any damage to his brain. He came home on Valentine's Day, and started running a low-grade fever the next day. We figured it was because they had given him a pneumonia shot in the hospital, but after a few days with a temp of 99, his temp spiked to 102. When his breathing became labored, we rushed him back in to the hospital. The doctor said that he tested positive for the flu, and that the fever had sent him into congestive heart failure, which led to a heart attack. During this hospital stay, which lasted a week, the doctors discovered that his heart was quite damaged. This was a surprise to us, for as far as we knew, the heart attacks he had experienced (including the current one and one he had ten years ago) were quite mild. However, given his dementia, open heart surgery was not option, because they would have to interrupt the blood flow to the brain during the procedure, so after surgery he would most likely be completely out of it. As it was, there were days in the hospital that he couldn't even finish a sentence, because he would forget what he was trying to say. As the doctors said, "When the body is sick, the mind is sick;" and in a person with dementia, it is even more pronounced.
Dad struggled to get better in the hospital, and on Monday, February 25, they discharged him. We had a visiting nurse and a physical therapist come to help complete his recovery, but after five days at home, Dad's breathing became very labored again in the early morning hours of March 2. His lungs were congested, because although we kept asking him to cough to try to clear them, it was as if the dementia made him forget to cough! Mom called the ambulance again, and as the EMT's came in, they asked him his name. "Wild Bill," he said. "Did he say 'Wild Bill'?" the EMT asked. "Yeah," I laughed (for his name is Jack). They proceeded, "Okay, Bill, we're gonna put this oxygen mask on you to help you breathe...." My Dad was a comedian to the very end.
My oldest sibling, and sister, Patty, and my oldest brother, Mike, followed the ambulance to the ER. Although Dad still might have pulled through at this point, the doctor was very candid with them about the shape his body was in; it was just a matter of time before he caught the flu or some other sickness that would tax his weakened heart and lungs and send him back into congestive heart failure. I texted some friends and people from church and asked them to pray; at the end of the message I wrote, "God have mercy."
Midday, Patty and Mike returned, and then the doctor called; it was looking pretty grim, and we would have to decide if we wanted to put him on full life-support or if we just wanted to make him comfortable. Dad had a living will, so we decided that if he was going to pull out of this, it would not be by artificial means.
Before we went to the hospital, I hugged my brother Stephen and cried, "We've been so lucky!" for the past ten years with my Dad have been truly blessed: Four years ago, we discovered the house my grandfather was born in (and my great-grandfather built) on Cape Breton Island in Arichat, Nova Scotia. In the Spring of 2006, Stephen and my brother John surprised my Dad and bought it. Since then, Dad has traveled up to visit the house five times (a beautiful historical home right on the ocean) and was able to make memories there with every one of his children. If you would like to see pictures and hear more of the story, visit: http://www.flydesignstudio.com/arichat/index.html
When I got in the car with Patty and my mom, I said, "I'm ready to let him go." My sister cried, "That's a miracle, Cari! If you can let him go, (being the baby in the family) then we all can!" In room 303, Dad's eyes were closed and his breathing was as bad as ever. They say that the hearing is the last thing to go, so we held his hand, told him we loved him, reminded him that his sins were forgiven, and that God keeps his promises. ("God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life." John 3:16) We even put a laptop on his lap and played a video that my niece Abi had made of his 27 grandchildren wishing him a happy birthday. We didn't know if Dad would pull through, or, if he was going to die, how long he'd hold on, but we didn't want him to be alone, so we decided we'd take turns staying with him. Stephen and my brother Paul volunteered to take the first shift as many of us had barely slept the night before. So at about 3 p.m., the rest of us went home.
An hour later, there was literally 18 of us in my parent's living room (me, my mom, Mike, Patty and her three children, my brother Jeff's wife Wendy and their 10 children--yes, 10). We began talking about what we would do if there was a funeral but agreed that we might be jumping the gun. Dad had pulled through so many scrapes before, and he might do so again. I said, "If there is a funeral, it is going to be the best funeral ever, because so many people love Dad!" Minutes later, the phone rang (as it had been doing all week), and Patty walked into the room with the receiver to her ear. "Okay," she said with her hand on her chest. When she hung up she said, "He's gone; he's passed." And we all cried together; IT WAS BEAUTIFUL. We cried and talked about how lucky we were to have had such a great Dad and Papa and how we would miss him, because we loved him so much. My niece, Katherine (8), said, "I'm gonna be miserable all week!" I assured her that this was normal, and she went on to say: "We're so lucky we still have Nana!" Touche.
I think when I heard the news I actually breathed a sigh of relief. It was so difficult seeing dad go in and out of the hospital and not knowing if he was going to live or die. Certainly, I did not want him to die, but I wanted him to be either well on this earth or well in heaven. In the end, my prayers were answered, and I knew that this was God's mercy for my dad. Within a quarter of an hour of receiving the news, I was able to say, "This is both the saddest and the happiest day of my life." My dad was at peace, and so was I.
Here is an excerpt from my journal dated February 11:
"I can't tell You how thankful I am (in light of recent developments with my Dad) for the memories I have of our drive to Arichat in 2007. It is one of the MOST PERFECT and MOST BEAUTIFUL memories of my life. I cannot find flaw with it, for You have allowed me to preserve only the good, priceless moments and that is the feeling THAT LINGERS. It's so delicious, if it were a fruit, I would be remiss not to eat it. It may be one of the greatest gifts You have ever given me. Thank You. I am also thankful for the opportunity to let my heart overflow for my Dad. I'm sure I won't be able to say everything I ever wanted to say, but it will be a start."
He knew we loved him, we knew he loved us, and he loved Jesus.
What else is there?
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
My Christmas present from God
December 26, 2008
Christmas morning I dug out a box of my father's mementos and looked through them with my family. This letter that I wrote was among them; God has answered every prayer therein:
"My dad is really sick, so please pray for him. He had a horrible headache all day, and this afternoon he passed out, broke into a cold sweat, and was nauseous. My mom took him to the doctor's office, but she just called me from the hospital. He nearly passed out at the doctor's, so they took him to the hospital. When he got to the hospital, he almost passed out again. They are doing some tests, but she doesn't know how long he will be there or if they will admit him.
It is times like this that I just wish I could relate to my father in a way that would make it easier to spend time with him. Sometimes I feel like the only thing we have in common is our last name.
If he were to die, I would never have been able to SHOW him I love him. I know he knows that, and I try to say it sometimes ("just in case," you know?), but I never have a chance to put my love into action. I wish I liked watching the O.J. Simpson trials, just so I could spend some time with him. Sometimes I feel like living a life that is pleasing to God, brings my dad honor, and makes him proud of me isn't enough.
Please pray for a renewal in my relationship with my father. The healing has already taken place, through the acceptance of God's father heart, but we haven't had an opportunity to nurture our relationship. Pray that we get that chance.
"I was regretting the past, and fearing the future.
Suddenly, my Lord was speaking:
He paused. I waited. He continued,
'When you live in the past with its mistakes and regrets,
it is hard. I am not there. My name is not I WAS.
When you live in the future with its problems and fears,
it is hard. I am not there. My name is not I WILL BE.
When you live in this moment it is not hard. I am here.
My name is I AM."
-Helen Mallicoat
I just made some chocolate mousse for my dad, only to hear that he is being transferred to Rhode Island Hospital. At Sturdy they discovered he doesn't have the flu, but something they don't have the means to test. My mom is coming home, so I heated up some soup and set the table for dinner. I hope he doesn't die. I know that is a morbid thought, but being afraid your parents were going to die since you were 10 makes you prepared at all times. I just told the Lord that my daddy's life is in His hands, and if He chooses to take it, my one prayer is this: that before he breathes his last breath, that my dad would be truly saved and deemed worthy to enter the kingdom of heaven. My heart was screaming this prayer. I know He heard me. I know He will answer in His way and time."
-April 1995
Christmas morning I dug out a box of my father's mementos and looked through them with my family. This letter that I wrote was among them; God has answered every prayer therein:
"My dad is really sick, so please pray for him. He had a horrible headache all day, and this afternoon he passed out, broke into a cold sweat, and was nauseous. My mom took him to the doctor's office, but she just called me from the hospital. He nearly passed out at the doctor's, so they took him to the hospital. When he got to the hospital, he almost passed out again. They are doing some tests, but she doesn't know how long he will be there or if they will admit him.
It is times like this that I just wish I could relate to my father in a way that would make it easier to spend time with him. Sometimes I feel like the only thing we have in common is our last name.
If he were to die, I would never have been able to SHOW him I love him. I know he knows that, and I try to say it sometimes ("just in case," you know?), but I never have a chance to put my love into action. I wish I liked watching the O.J. Simpson trials, just so I could spend some time with him. Sometimes I feel like living a life that is pleasing to God, brings my dad honor, and makes him proud of me isn't enough.
Please pray for a renewal in my relationship with my father. The healing has already taken place, through the acceptance of God's father heart, but we haven't had an opportunity to nurture our relationship. Pray that we get that chance.
"I was regretting the past, and fearing the future.
Suddenly, my Lord was speaking:
He paused. I waited. He continued,
'When you live in the past with its mistakes and regrets,
it is hard. I am not there. My name is not I WAS.
When you live in the future with its problems and fears,
it is hard. I am not there. My name is not I WILL BE.
When you live in this moment it is not hard. I am here.
My name is I AM."
-Helen Mallicoat
I just made some chocolate mousse for my dad, only to hear that he is being transferred to Rhode Island Hospital. At Sturdy they discovered he doesn't have the flu, but something they don't have the means to test. My mom is coming home, so I heated up some soup and set the table for dinner. I hope he doesn't die. I know that is a morbid thought, but being afraid your parents were going to die since you were 10 makes you prepared at all times. I just told the Lord that my daddy's life is in His hands, and if He chooses to take it, my one prayer is this: that before he breathes his last breath, that my dad would be truly saved and deemed worthy to enter the kingdom of heaven. My heart was screaming this prayer. I know He heard me. I know He will answer in His way and time."
-April 1995
My dad almost got into a fight with Rocky Marciano
September 17, 2006
They were working on a Brockton city project after the war, and once in a while the workers would bribe the foreman with a bottle of booze; then they would play cards.
One day, my dad accused Rocky of cheating. They threw their cards down and went for each other. One guy held my dad back, and about five guys held Rocky back.
One day, my dad accused Rocky of cheating. They threw their cards down and went for each other. One guy held my dad back, and about five guys held Rocky back.
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