Yesterday was my father's funeral. Today, his body is being buried in the upper peninsula of Michigan in the town of his birth in a plot adjacent to his parents' remains.
Yesterday we received many gifts. The service was dignified and lovely. My brother Paul and sister Peggy and Dave and I prepared eulogies for the time after Mass when it is customary to reflect on the life of the deceased. Paul, a brilliant photographer, shared in words a few snapshots of Dad that were seared into his mind. These images conveyed the fatherly-ness of Dad--from playing catch, to coaching baseball, to helping his adult son finish the last push of college and to avoid the regret of quitting. My sister, Peggy, who works for the State, but whose passion is the kennel where she raises champion Gordon Setters, told of Dad's love of learning and his avid reading and his stalwart work ethic wherein no labor is beneath you, even the allowance chore she had of picking up dog doo. As a kid, she was embarassed by this being the source of her income. As an adult, she continues this job, times ten. She shared her moments with him near the end and at the end and that Dad had a peaceful death.
Dave was prepared to talk about his instant rapport with Dad, who also served his country as an Infantry Lieutenant. Dave knew that Dad was a patriot and valued honor. They both shared their love of "his baby girl." The tears, which began flowing at Paul's talk, and continued with Peggy's talk, overcame Dave and he just could not give his talk. He handed it to Mom afterwards so she knew what he was going to say.
In our married life, I can count on one hand the times I've seen my husband cry. At those moments, there's something in me that completely shuts off my tear ducts. I don't know why, but it's always been the case. Neither of us puddle up at the same time, although, in fairness, Dave has millions more chances to restrain tears than I do. After that, I delivered my talk:
I want to tell you about my the faith of my father.
When he was a little boy, his father died and it was the Depression. He would spend a lot of time with his grandparents in Michigan. His grandmother was an organist for her church. He would tag along with his grandmother on Saturdays when she would rehearse in the empty church. Dad would lie on his back and look up at the altar. It read "God is Love." He told me he knew it was true.
As a young man,someone told him "You don’t send your children to church. You take them." Thatmade a big impression on him long before he was a husband or father.
When Dad courted Mom, he was not Catholic. When they were married, back in the good old days of Latin Mass, and communion rails, the NON-Catholic groom had to promise to be open to children and to raise them in the faith. That was part of the deal. Not just that he wouldn’t impede their faithful upbringing, but that he would see to it that they were raised in the faith. He gave his word and he fulfilled his word.
I am the youngest of his children. I’m told that Mom would take to Mass those who could behave and Dad would stay behind with those who were too young to sit through Mass. I’m told that as a little girl of about 4, I asked Dad if we could please go to Mass with the others. He did. Every Sunday. For my whole memory, Dad was always there with us at Mass. Through the years, he participated more and more in the Mass. About the time of my First Communion, I asked him why he didn’t receive Communion. He told me simply, "I’m not Catholic."
As a teen, I was preparing for Confirmation. Like many adolescents who know a whole lot more than their parents, I was uncertain whether I wanted to make the big commitment that Confirmation entailed. I wondered if I could promise to be a Catholic for the rest of my life. He understood my doubt and he was very patient and kind. He made it O.K. to challenge and question my faith, so as to finally embrace my faith. I knew that even if Mom would be upset, he would back me up if I wanted to not be confirmed.
Very few people know that Dad’s morning routine was an early morning exercise, followed by scripture. He read a chapter of the Bible almost every morning. And he read it in 4 different versions in his concordance Bible. He looked at his faith as an intellectual pursuit.
I always believed that if I married someone like my dad, I’d be doing good. I married a non-Catholic and as I really began to embrace my faith as an adult, it began to bother me that my husband wasn’t Catholic. I asked him about it. In a brilliant stroke, he told me that when my dad converted, he would consider it. Let me tell you. I went about my Dad’s conversion with the evangelical zeal of St. Paul. Mom had been praying for Dad for over 40 years. Every little prayer for his conversion was a little piece of kindling on a pile. I pretty much got in Dad’s face and challenged him as to why he was not Catholic. Was it papal infallibility? No. Marian devotion? No. Confession? No. What was it, Dad? Turns out, he had doubt about the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist. That pile of kindling? I threw lighter fluid on it. Father Bill invited Dad to become Catholic and he lit the match.
My birthday is the day before Mom and Dad’s anniversary. Eight years ago, they called to wish me a happy birthday and then he sheepishly told me that the next day, he would be making his First Confession and First Holy Communion in a private Mass...just Dad, Mom and Father Bill. I was overjoyed for him. I demanded "When were you going to tell me this?" He said, "I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you to start bugging David."
Dad’s conversion was completed a couple months later when he was Confirmed. The bishop was making his annual visit and Dad, a white-haired man well in his 60s, was confirmed with all the teenagers. He showed me then that IT IS NEVER TOO LATE.
A brief while later, he had his stroke and that intellectual faith, that newly found faith, that faith that was manifest in the prayers and devotion of his wife changed to a child-like faith overnight. Throughout this last phase of his life, I saw the fulfillment of God’s promises to believers. God is love. God pursues us like a Good Shepherd. He loves us where we are and he takes us as we are. He doesn’t just send us to church. He meets us in church.
Dad believed that God is Love. He loved his wife, who prayed for his conversion. I believe Dad’s years as a Catholic onlooker and later as a Catholic in full communion, is a testament to the Sacrament of Marriage. For decades, Marriage was the Sacrament that sustained his faith. In his final days, he was blessed with the Sacraments of Anointing of the Sick and his final morsel of food he ever consumed was the Eucharist. Food for his journey onward to Heaven.
For me, the greatest gift of love was being surrounded by my wonderful family, but especially for the gifts of my friends from ages past, being there. My maid of honor just happened to be in town, up from Florida, with her little girl. My matron of honor adjusted a very busy family schedule and drove several hours from the Twin Cities to be there. My last local non-sibling bridesmaid and her husband [incidentally, my first boyfriend in 6th grade] both took off work and came. All of us shared the afternoon together, poolside at the hotel, while the children swam, making plans and solving all the worlds' problems. Last night, we went to my sister's house and went to the local Lake Days festival and heard a really good band play until midnight. We retired, slept in and prepare to fly home today.
There are three little redheads whom I've missed.
