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For My Dad…
My father asked me to write his eulogy while he was still alive. At first, I hesitated, trying to avoid that fear that overwhelms me when I think about him dying. My dad, die? No. That cannot happen. But it does happen – it did happen – in a moment I least expected.
Death happens before we can stop to realize we’ve taken someone for granted; before we can stop to really say thank you. It happens to families all the time.
In 2005, I wrote my dad’s eulogy. And this year, I needed it. I’m glad I did it in advance. I got to tell him the things I really wanted to share … things I’m now glad he knew before he died. He read these sentiments while he was still alive, when he could embrace my gratitude and be proud of the impact he truly made on my life.
And so, this eulogy is for my living dad ….
“Other things may change us, but we start and end with family.”
I remember a lot about my childhood…flashbacks of events, familiar smells, sounds of church bells on the corner, a sense of being loved…always a sense of being loved. All of these things are knotted in my core and shape who I am. And, what is remarkable to me is that although I know very little about my actual family history, I do have a very tangible sense of what constitutes a family. The values and priorities of the family ingrain every part of who I am and shape almost every decision I make. Nowhere else is there such a great sense of loyalty, for me; never a greater sense of pride or allegiance; no higher level of responsibility than that of a person to her family. It is deep. It is who I am. It is my dad.
As little girls, my sister and I benefitted from having a mom who was able to stay home with us because my dad went to work. He worked hard, and with one company for many years. People don’t do that anymore. And on some Saturdays when he went to work, he would ask me to come with him. I remember the early wake-up on those Saturday mornings when the sun was just breaking the horizon and the dew was still wet on the grass. I remember the smell of the coffee pot dripping and the taste of the toast we shared at the kitchen table. I remember the drive into the city in my dad’s car… the car that took many of his spare moments; moments he spent under the hood or on his back in the driveway. He didn’t have a brand new car until he retired. Instead, we had a nice house, a private school education, and a vacation every year that took us to the sandy shore. We would hold hands in the surf and jump the waves, stopping between rushes of water to taste the salty ocean on our lips and to savor the warmth of the sun on our tanned cheeks. His were almost always sunburnt. We grew up with a sense of “being taken care of.” When I think about those Saturday morning rides into town, I can still sense what it felt like to be with my dad…just him and I. Those moments he pulled me away with him are precious to me.
There were rules in our house. We knew right from wrong. Sometimes we listened; sometimes we didn’t. But one rule that always stuck was about the telephone and dinnertime. Dinner in our house was 6:00 p.m. That’s when dad got home. And when he got home, we sat down for dinner. He did not tolerate interruptions. Our dinner table was filled with conversation…reflections about our day, news about schools, things coming up. And if the phone rang during our shared family time, the caller was always told we were having dinner. Friends knew not to call until after 7, and telemarketers didn’t stand a chance! It was in those moments…from 6:00 to 7:00 every night…that we were a family free from interruptions. We were together, gathered around a table. Together. My dad made that a priority. He lived what he thought was important. And every night, even though he worked all day, he cleared the table and did the dishes. He was a true partner with my mom in our family.
My dad knew how to fix stuff. We never paid for something he could do himself. I remember holding a shovel in the backyard, the earth dug out to my ankles, sweating in the summer heat as he and my sister and I worked to dig the foundation for the part of the house my dad built. In so many ways, our house was the home my dad built. Together with my mom, he dug so many of the foundations that make me who I am today. The years were filled with lots of sweat, our fair share of tears, but so many more laughs. And no matter what, my dad was the cement of it all…holding his girls together.
I can remember when I was learning how to drive. On a sunny afternoon, dad and I ventured out in the full-sized station wagon so that I could begin maneuvering the local roads. I remember my hesitation as he directed me onto a long and windy road…the most difficult in our neighborhood. Moving along those curves, under the trees next to the cool creek, I also remember a feeling of trust, a sense that I could make that drive work, that someone believed in me. That someone was my dad. For my entire life I have thrived off of his confidence in me. That confidence followed me through grade school and led me to achieve. It followed me through high school and into college. It was with me the day I graduated from Neumann and on the day I left Rosemont. As I stood before my class to deliver the commencement address, I remember being grateful for my dad’s height. I could see him over the crowd. I was glad he was there, again navigating me down a road on which I had not yet traveled, believing in me and urging me to give my life’s journey yet another push of the gas. Oh, so many times it would have been easier to just turn the car around and take the familiar road. So many times, the road less traveled was scary and uncertain. But every time, every single time, I know I had the support of my dad. Even if he didn’t always agree, he had my back. I am so, so grateful.
My dad taught me the importance of family.
He taught me to value truth and the understanding that comes from communication.
He taught me that hard work is important not only in providing life’s necessities, but in teaching one the value of free time.
He taught me that knowing the answer is not always the most important part of the question.
He taught me what to expect of myself…and what to expect from others.
He taught me not to take life too seriously…to spend time having fun.
He taught me to be brave.
Most importantly, my dad demonstrated every single day the power that love plays in our lives. The way he loved my mother, the way me loved me and my sister, the way he was generous and kind to strangers…have all made impacts on my life.
And so, this is in fact a eulogy for a living dad. I will carry him with me everywhere I go for the rest of my life.
I love you, Dad.
Thinking about What’s New
It’s been some time since I posted anything new here. While I’d like to say that I’ve been off on some adventure, or engrossed in a cool new project, the fact of the matter is that I’ve just been dealing with life. In that life – and on the surface – nothing much has changed. But a deeper dive reflection tells me that although I am still in the same job, in the same relationships, in the same decade of my life, there has been a whole lot of change beneath the superficial surface.
As I’m prompted to write this, I can’t help but think about how many times someone’s asked me over the past year, “What’s new?” Without really thinking much about the response, my standard line has been, “Not much.” Granted, the question has more often than not come from someone making casual conversation. Kind of like a stranger asking, “How are you?” as they pass in you in the supermarket, the person wasn’t really all that interested in a genuine response. Still, I’m thinking about it as a question worthy of personal consideration, even if the verbal response is simple.
Many things have changed for many people over the past year. With the breakout of COVID-19, people have lost jobs and homes and people they love. Certainly, our way of life has changed. What’s new is that we no longer see the faces of strangers, we can’t carelessly wander around a store, we can’t visit loved ones in the hospital, or plan special event gatherings as we once did. There’s a lot that’s new. And that newness, that new way of navigating the world can be stressful and scary. It’s worth considering when someone asks, “What’s new?” The fact that we, as a society, are learning to adapt and cope is worth recognizing. It’s part of our evolution … part of our “what’s new.”
There are tons of other examples like this. What other things are shaping who you are and making you new in some way? These things may not be glaringly obvious at first, but I challenge personal reflection here. You see, the question, “What’s new?” has an implied enthusiasm about it … like the things you’d include in a response have to somehow be exciting. Even dictionary.com implies an optimism in the word “new” by citing the phrase: “Ring out the old, ring in the new” as an example of new as a noun. But what if I liked the old? What if the struggle to find some exciting new thing is just stressful? Is there a contentment to be found in the ordinary? I think maybe there is. And I think that we put entirely too much pressure on ourselves to be interesting and exciting to other people.
Perhaps there is a balance to be found. When I reflect on what’s new lately, it is easy for me to go to a place that’s not so optimistic: work is crazy and stressful, my mom is not well, my friends are absent or busy. But there are also blessings in what’s not new: I still have a job I love, I have the opportunity to be a good daughter, and I’m learning valuable lessons about friendship. I’ve shared this message before. It’s all about framing. It’s about gratitude. And, it’s about taking the time to reflect and understand yourself; what you can control and what you can’t. If you’re feeling run down and disconnected, maybe some reflection about the newness that’s tiring you out will help. And maybe – just maybe – if you can find the blessings in the things that have remained constant and unchanged, what will be new is your perspective.
Found in a Christmas Cookie
Over the weekend, my sister texted me a photo of my mom. It seems the two had gathered to bake Christmas cookies. The photo was simple: my mom sitting at my sister’s kitchen table, a smile on her face, decorating cookies. I burst into tears at the sight of it.
This year was a hard one. My mom was sick – really sick – twice. There was more than one moment when I thought, “OK, this is it. I’m going to lose my mom.” By the grace of God, she is still here with us. That photo, her smile, reminded me in one simple second how close I was to losing her.
One of the things I’ve been reflecting about all year – even before my mom got sick – was how she and my dad are both aging; how I am aging. That process – the process of aging – is a weird thing to try and understand. It’s as if you are slowly peeling off a band-aid, revealing some version of skin that resembles your own. That skin, however, is a little less resilient, a little less vibrant, a little less able to take a blow and fully recover.
What I came to realize this year is that I am already grieving the loss of my mom as I once knew her. It’s hard to truly describe, but I miss her, even though she is still here. The things we once connected over are often not the things that tie us together now. And her physical limitations often call on me to demonstrate more patience than I think I really have. But I am trying. I am trying to maintain patience when I have to repeat a sentence for the third time. I am trying to remain calm when she falls and I have to help her back up to her feet. I am trying to preserve the loveliness of our relationship when she’s slow to follow or comprehend. I am trying to remember that she did all of those things (and more) for me once – when I was unable to stand on my own, make my own way, or understand the world. In the same caring way that she parented me, I am now trying to care for her.
There are days when I really miss the mom I had before. Most days, though, I am really grateful for the mom I still have here with me. Despite the challenges that come with her aging, I know that she is still teaching me valuable lessons – lessons that challenge me to grow in new ways, to develop qualities I wasn’t sure I had, and to become the kind of woman she has always been: full of strength and love.
My mom is different now in many ways. Perhaps so am I. But in a simple picture, I saw the smile I have known my whole life. And, I am reminded of how she is still the same in so many of the ways that really matter. She is my mom. And I am lucky to have her.
The Art of Conversation
There are a bunch of studies that claim the secret to a long, happy life is found in the relationships we have with other people. A study published in Harvard Medical School’s online newsletter, for example, says that “Dozens of studies have shown that people who have satisfying relationships with family, friends, and their community are happier, have fewer health problems, and live longer.” The article goes on to say that, “Conversely, a relative lack of social ties is associated with depression and later-life cognitive decline, as well as with increased mortality…an effect on mortality risk roughly comparable to smoking up to 15 cigarettes a day, and greater than obesity and physical inactivity.” And yet, we are a society spending more and more time on our smartphones, increasingly tied to technology, and overwhelmingly hooked on social media. I guess my question is whether or not these ways of communicating will, in the long run, produce the same results. My guess is no.
I was at a restaurant recently with a friend. When he excused himself for a moment, I couldn’t help but notice another couple at the bar. The couple was engaged in conversation – but I use the word “conversation” loosely, as it was more a shared experience over something the man was showing the woman on his smartphone. Why did I notice this? And, so what? Well, the reason that I noticed was that in the 10 minutes my friend was gone, the man never put down the phone. In fact, when her eyes would wander away – perhaps to observe something happening in real time – he would pull her back to the tiny screen. I don’t know what they were watching, but it was clear from his reactions that he had seen whatever it was before (and found it funny). She obviously had not. And since the bar was noisy, I doubt she could hear a lick of it.
My observation of this couple led me to look at others around the same bar. Of the 10 people there, seven were doing something on a smartphone. Only one of those seven was at the bar alone. It is certainly reasonable that some of the folks were responding to a sitter who was texting, or to an email that couldn’t wait. But increasingly, we are a society losing our ability to actually have a conversation with others.
If I think about this topic on a broader scale, and think about my own use of technology to stay connected, I am guilty too. I very often feel “in touch” with someone because I’ve read their Facebook status, or shared a simple text back and forth. But if someone were to ask me how that person is – like how they are really doing on a day to day basis – I’m not sure I’d be qualified to answer that question. I could guess based on the photos they’ve posted, or the emoji they chose to send. But I’d be simply guessing.
The art of conversation is just that: an art. It takes effort and energy to generate a conversation that is enjoyable and meaningful. Moreover, it takes a genuine interest in the other person. A conversation that gets past the weather and into something more personal requires that each person is willing to engage, that there is a mutual trust or willingness to share, and that some kind of connection exists or is possible. It is much more complicated than sharing a status or posting a picture, or even watching TV together. Sure, we can watch TV, but if you want to use that experience to generate a connection, you’d better ask me what I thought of the show when it’s over, and then share with me what you thought. Otherwise, I could be watching alone and feeling a lot less unfulfilled when it’s over.
My point is this: the world is full of everyday possibilities to connect with other people. We share experiences and opinions that provide that opportunity. Just being in the same place at the same time is a conversation starter, if you are willing to use it. Does it take energy? Yes. It maybe even takes a little creativity. But in the end – if all of those studies are right – the work (and the connections they foster) just may be a lifesaver.
Source: https://www.health.harvard.edu/healthbeat/strengthen-relationships-for-longer-healthier-life
Priceless lessons from an empty pocket
Last weekend, I was sitting on a train platform waiting for my ride when a seemingly homeless man approached. He was cheerful and friendly and when he smiled, his broken teeth paled in comparison to the light that came from his eyes. Some might argue that he was high or even crazy, but he was honestly the friendliest person I encountered on my walk to the train. As I talked to him, others moved away. Some were probably annoyed that I even entertained the conversation. It was, after all, designed to solicit money from me. But it was also something else: it was an opportunity.
After about five minutes of joke telling and shallow compliment giving, the man finally told me that he hadn’t eaten in three days. He knew a place just upstairs in the train station where he could get a three-sandwich deal. He said that if I could help, he would buy one sandwich for himself and then take the other two to the shelter to share. Who knows if he was telling the truth? Maybe he was.
Here’s my point. I had three dollars left in my pocket from the weekend. I had taken the train into the city, had dinner at a nice restaurant, saw a show, stayed in a comfortable hotel, gone out for breakfast, and purchased a ticket home. And I still had three dollars in my pocket. Before me stood a man in torn clothes, whose teeth were rotten from neglect, who said he hadn’t eaten in three days. He had nothing in his pocket.
Please know that I am not naive. I know that some people who say they are homeless are not. I know that some who are on the streets live there because of drug use or addiction. I know that a series of bad choices often puts people in their place. But I also know that one bad break can be devastating and that not every person is blessed with the opportunities or supports I’ve had. I know that sometimes – despite all the best intentions – people just can’t seem to get it together.
I gave that man my three dollars.
A friend who was traveling with me commented that she couldn’t believe I did that. To those of you who are thinking the same thing, here’s what I offer in response:
Think about the money in your pocket or bank account. Think about the people who love you, who care for you, who make sure you’re ok. Think about the opportunities you’ve had and the blessings you enjoy. And then think about three dollars. Will you miss that three dollars when you go to bed tonight?
My answer to that question was no. In fact, in a day or so I probably won’t even be able to recount all the places I spent my money over the past week. I am lucky to say that three dollars doesn’t make a difference to me. But three dollars? It made a difference to that man.
In my opening paragraph, I mentioned that I was given an opportunity. Some may be thinking that the opportunity to which I refer was a chance to help. It was. But it was also so much more than that. My interaction with that stranger – a man I will never see again – gave me the opportunity to count my blessings. It was a chance for me to further train my brain to be more thankful. At this time of year, that seems especially important. But a happy person is one who cultivates an attitude of gratitude all year long. Three dollars seems like a bargain for that reminder.
Oh … and for three dollars I also got a pretty funny joke. Feel free to share it at your holiday parties.
How do you know Will Smith was out walking in the snow? You could see his fresh prints.
Merry Christmas, friends. May good blessings be obvious to you in the new year.
Characteristically Speaking 