The Water Filter

Who knew that a water filter would be the source of so much drama? But then, this family has a knack for drama, it seems. For instance, we recently went out for a meal, and the waitress practically invited herself to join us at our meal because she had nothing else to do, and then proceeded to swoop my plate away while I sat clutching fries in one hand.

But back to the Water Filter. It resides at the bottom of the cellar steps, shaped somewhat like spaghetti cannisters, hanging suspended from the waterworks of the house like modern-day stalactites. Keep in mind this drama occurs in a cellar, so picture a rough floor, a beam-studded 5'10" ceiling with the ways and means of watering, heating and electrifying the house snaking in various directions, a general dampness, with occasional pools of vague light that never seem to illumine the spot where the important 'stuff' is. Keep in mind too, that all of those works are a mystery to me - though I do know which bit inside the tank to jiggle when the loo won't flush properly, so all is not lost!

Since moving here, The Squire (my dad) undertook a regular regimen of Filter Changing, which, for the most part didn't truly register with anyone else because it was, sadly, drama-less - save for the announcement that would go out to the effect that 'it was time' and that there would briefly be no water.

At some point, however, something went a little wrong, and it was no longer a straightforward event. Tools of varying sorts began to accumulate in the cellar for removing The Filter - which had become incredibly difficult to do. We mildly began to speculate about what was up with that, and the Squire would fret a little about it being 'that time again' before he would reluctantly descend the cellar steps to tackle The Filter. He realized with the passage of time that this was a task he would have to teach us to do, so one day we braved those stairs with him, nodding understandingly as he pointed out levers and switches, hoping that the other person was keeping good notes about which needed turning, and which needed twisting. I had uneasy images of every drop of water in the house draining out of the little pipe we were working with, if I forgot to twist the lever this way instead of that way. The Squire taught us the way of adding an old t-shirt to the removal tool to encourage The Filter to come away from its mooring. It was a stubborn thing, that Filter! Much time and effort went into the business, but what pride, what satisfaction was felt when victory was won! We were not overcome...man had prevailed over machine!

Some time later, a professional plumber had cause to be in the house, and Squire prevailed on him to change The Filter as he was surely to understand its ways and have the proper tools to deal with it. Due credit to the man, he did accomplish the deed, but it took him an hour of full effort to do it. That was alarming, for we are certainly not professionals, and what was in store for us, if it took so much for him to complete the task?

When the family was gathered once more, the other man in the house was asked to tackle The Filter, so that he too would know what to do. I was asked to accompany him as "she's done it before" (gulp!) and "she is strong" (thanks for the compliment, Pop!)

With an effort that fairly shook the house, Bil made the attempt, but with no luck whatsoever. The Filter was holding fast and gave no sign it would eventually concede. We began to speculate on what was causing this relatively new reluctance on the part of The Filter to cooperate, and began to fret what would need to be undertaken to remedy the situation. Our scenarios eventually worked up to calling in the water system people and having the whole house reworked, days without water and scads of money being required.

Soon after that, Squire was taken to hospital, and even there The Filter was on his list of things needing to be addressed. Phone calls back and forth joked about whether he'd mentioned The Filter that day, knowing that in his usual way he was concerned about the details.

A few days ago, mom got up the courage to phone the water people, explaining that The Filter was being tricky and it needed changing. A date and time was arranged for the man to come to the house, and we prepared outselves for the ordeal ahead. We rehearsed the history of the Filter saga, and mentally walked through the steps of the process, should we be required to explain the levers and switches to the man. We dreaded the potential hours of being waterless, and the ominous possibility of serious construction.

In due time a truck was spotted in the driveway, and a pair of very large boots made their way down the cellar stairs. I posted myself helpfully in the doorway as he took stock of the situation. Back to his truck he went, returning with a wrench the size of Number Four Nephew. Not ten minutes after the truck arrived, those boots walked themselves back out the door; the job was done! 

I've never felt like a helpless female before that day, but I truly did feel so at that moment. But what relief to have the Drama of the Water Filter over...for now!

Beer and politics

There was a televised discussion before our own federal election - the latest one - about the growing trend among leaders to want to seem as one of the common man. This trend was called Beer + Pretzels politics, or Beer + Darts politics... I can't remember precisely what it was called, but I'm pretty sure beer figured in it somehow.

Politicians believe - no doubt because of learned consultants - that Canadians want their leaders to be approachable, like you could bump into them on the street, invite them to have a beer, and talk over last night's hockey scores.

One party leader (the socialist one) seems to never be wearing a tie. Presumably he's far too busy with Very Important Things to bother knotting one properly. Personally I think it looks like he doesn't take his job seriously. Or he gets nervous in public and can't breathe so he doesn't wear one.

The trend continues as politicians downplay their education, intelligence, and background. They speak like they're still on the farm, or don't really understand economic theory, or hang out with hip hop artists. (Ok, that last may be an exaggeration, but I did briefly worry for Joe Biden at the Neighbourhood Ball)

Shouldn't people entrusted with governing a nation be well educated and articulate? I'd like them to dress in a way that shows and fosters respect for the office they hold. Certainly, they should not have an attitude of entitlement or superiority, and must remember they are to serve the people, not themselves. But that humility can walk hand-in-hand with dignity and respectability.

The Elect now is.

The Big Event finally took place - the 44th President of the United States was sworn into office. And what an event it was! It was obviously a day that captured the imagination and fired the hope of many people - and not just in the U.S.

I was not excited about him during the campaign. I believed that my political ideology took a different path from his. I still think it does. The fact that he is a black man does not figure with me, but I do see how it is historically significant and of no small account for African Amercians today. Indeed, for 'people of colour' everywhere. (My applogies, but I always feel uncomfortable with those racial labels)

As he spoke his inaugural address, and the day went on, I realized that I too was stirred to hope that he would be able to effect real change in how government operates; that he would break down the wall of partisanship; neutralize party politics; and inspire his fellow Americans with the idea that flourishing as a nation requires a group effort. He seems to believe that anything is possible and that no dream is too big. 

I truly do hope that he is able to blaze new trails to this land of dreams and possibilites he believes in. He spoke of accountability and responsibility and dignity - and those are words that mean something. They imply maturity and wisdom - something that would be unexpected but welcome from a 47 year-old political neophyte. God bless President Obama.

Islands

It is helpful to talk about my dad with other people; to hear what they remember about him, their impressions of him. I knew all along that he was a good man, and it turns out other people thought the same.

One of the things that I'm finding particularly painful right now is feeling the sadness for everyone else who knew him. I'm not the only one missing him, trying to come to grips with his absence. For instance, there is the lady who lives across the street who cried when mom told her he had died. There are the friends who live far away, for whom it is unfathomable that he is gone. There are people who knew him years ago who have clear memories of his strong, quiet presence and must now come to grips with the reality of his death. And what of those who really knew and loved him? They now are trying to regain equilibrium within a new frame of reference - one without him.

My dad was a special man - I know it - but the thing is that we are feeling this grief because we are all connected. My dad was a part of us. His being removed from among us is like having a limb excised from our body; we are lacking something that had enabled us to get on before; or in other words, we got on as we did before because of him, and now we must learn a new way of getting on. Each of us has that impact on others. Any one of us taken from this life has this effect of absence and emptiness. We are not the same as we were, but we will carry on because we are still connected, you and I. It was never just me and Pop - it was you and me and Pop.

I often turn to Donne. Below are excerpts from his Meditation XVII which has the famous lines "...for whom the bell tolls" and, "no man is an island".

And when she buries a man, that action concerns me: all mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated; God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age,some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God's hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again for that library where every book shall lie open to one another. As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come, so this bell calls us all; but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness.

If we understand aright the dignity of this bell that tolls for our evening prayer, we would be glad to make it ours by rising early, in that
application, that it might be ours as well as his, whose indeed it is. The bell doth toll for him that thinks it doth; and though it intermit again, yet from that minute that this occasion wrought upon him, he is united to God. Who casts not up his eye to the sun when it rises? but who takes off his eye from a comet when that breaks out? Who bends not his ear to any bell which upon any occasion rings? but who can remove it from that bell which is passing a piece of himself out of this world? No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea,Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;it tolls for thee.

Neither can we call this a begging of misery, or a borrowing of misery,as though we were not miserable enough of ourselves, but must fetch in more from the next house, in taking upon us the misery of our neighbours. Truly it were an
excusable covetousness if we did, for affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it. No man hath affliction enough that is not matured and ripened by it, and made fit for God by that affliction. If a man carry treasure in bullion, or in a wedge of gold, and have none coined into current money, his treasure will not defray him as he travels. Tribulation is treasure in the nature of it, but it is not current money in the use of it, except we get nearer and nearer our home, heaven, by it. Another man may be sick too, and sick to death, and this affliction may lie in his bowels, as gold in a mine, and be of no use to him; but this bell, that tells me of his affliction, digs out and applies that gold to me: if by this consideration of another's danger I take mine own into contemplation, and so secure myself, by making my recourse to my God, who is our only security.

CTK(ao)S

...that's 'and others' such as Uncles From Foreign Lands. There was something of a language barrier so he didn't intend to be funny, and as he is also a Manchester United fan, we went easy on him. He was amazed by the vastness of our country, and that included everything from distance to the size of our fridge. He once asked why there was so much water in our toilet - he thought it was a great waste. He also thought it must be very unpleasant for ladies - which I didn't really want to get into, but it was a funny comment at the time.

Along those lines, one little nephew one day was concerned when the water in the upstairs loo was suddenly blue. Really concerned. He needed reassuring more than once that day (and night) that both he and the toilet were going to be fine. But when his big brothers came home from school that afternoon, he ran right to them, urging them to come quick and see! Upstairs they flew, and we heard the "Flush!" of water, then an excited voice cried out, "See? It's blue! Isn't that cool?"

Sometimes it's the grown-ups who are funny. There is something of a battle going on between one such grown-up and a certain nephew about bathroom etiquette. Specifically on whether or not to flush. Said nephew very kindly is concerned about waking the house if he has to flush at night, but unpleasantness ensues if he doesn't. So the battle of wills goes on. One day, this fine speech was overheard, delivered in truly Shakespearean tones: "Flush. The. Toilet.... I don’t care if it’s 2 o’clock in the morning,... or 1 o’clock in the afternoon; ...you flush. The. Toilet."

And sometimes it's what kids do that is so cute. Still in the bathroom, a certain bath-loving nephew once decided that he was going to join a brother who was in the bath. There we found him, where he'd managed to divest his two-year-old body of its pants and socks. He sat in the bath water, diaper intact, and sodden fleecy sweater, happy as a clam with his water wheel and plastic cup. I think pictures were taken of the event, which may be useful in the years to come!

The smallest of the nephews is just learning to control the flailing of his limbs, and is beginning to be able to move with purpose. He belongs to a very affectionate, vocal, enthusiastic family, so when he makes his appearances between naps, he is greeted accordingly with ringing welcomes. Likewise, when he withdraws, he is sung out of the room with choruses of "Night night!" and waves of farewell. Over the last day or two, he's made sounds like he's trying to say "Night night!" but we may be imagining that much. However, just today he waved his fat little arm back at us! It was a lovely combination of the Queen majestically blessing her subjects and a puppey's wagging tail.

And finally, after a meal consisting mostly of pickles, one nephew announced to the room at large: "Don't sit on me! I'm so full, I might pop!"

Corsets

I'm still inside a Forster/James novel. Of course that's true only in my mind - I haven't found a way to bring books to life. What I'd like even better, I think, is being able to transport certain elements of those novels into real life.

Regardless the seamy underbelly of society at the time, what was presented for public consumption was polite and clean and dignified. Yes, it may have been for show, it may have been false, but you could certainly go out in public with children and not worry overly much for their spiritual and emotional innocence. Women were guarded from unpleasant men because it was not accepted behaviour to be 'fresh' with a lady. It was possible to conduct yourself well in public because manners and expectations were taught. How to address a person, or conduct yourself in any situation were not unknown factors, and you would know what to say, what was allowed and so on, eliminating awkwardness and discomfort.

The corset may have been a constriction, but it did provide sound support. So too, while social rules and expectations may have been restrictive, they provided structure for public life. I think we may be lacking a little of that today.

Jane, E.M., and La Belle Epoque

He's no Jane Austen, but E.M. Forster was a fine author, with an ear for dialogue and instinct for a poignant story. (I don't want to get into his lifestyle or personal opinions...let's stick to the man's talent with a pen, shall we?)
As a writer, one quote I particularly identify with is: "How can I know what I think till I see what I say?" This is so true: my thoughts don't make sense to me until I write them down.
Here are some of my favourite bits of dialogue, from Howards End and Room with a view:

One wouldn't want to keep bumping into Wilcoxes.
Yes, he likes to travel, but he does see through foreigners.
It's in pencil. Pencil never counts!
Margaret, are we concealing a Mr. Bast?
She's got some sort of madness...as if she's mad!
A young English girl transfigured by Florence. And why should she not be transfigured? It happened to the Goths!
Hello! Come and have a bathe.
He asked me if I wasn't off my head with joy, and I said no, no I wasn't!
I shall never be able to forgive myself. - You always say that, but you always do!

I've been on a Merchant Ivory kick lately, and now I must go back and visit the books, which will probably lead me to Wilde, eventually taking me back to Austen. I seem to always reunite with Austen. All my roads lead to Austen...except for the ones that take me to Tolkien, though they do sometimes converge. Is that odd? I wonder if Austen and Tolkien would have found common ground in their interests, passions and pursuits? (That too, is a quotation. Do you recognize the source?)

Merchant Ivory have been making films for decades now, and not all of them have been lush period pieces. But the lush period pieces I have seen bring on a deep longing to live in Edwardian England. I like the idea of clearly defined manners, morals, expectations and etiquette. I like lace curtains in the windows; I like the poofy hairdos of the women, the long skirts and brooches. I like the reserve which prevented people from saying the word 'stomach' in mixed company or discussing personal matters in public. Yes, I do realize that it was also clausterphobic (especially for women) and very repressed. I also realize that life was pleasant for the fortunates who had money and leisure while full of toil and drudgery for those without money and leisure... so I'll take good care to be a woman of the upper middle class who had a comfortable income!

It was also a time of refinement, elegance, and steamer trunks. It is the latter which leads me to choose the days of Lucy Honeychurch over Elizabeth Bennet (though I'd rather be Lizzy and marry Darcy than be Lucy and marry George) because Lucy was able to travel - her world was broader. She could visit Florence with no Baedecker whereas Lizzy was hampered by bad roads, slow horses and no train service. Even the elderly Miss Allans went off to Athens, with the possibility of Constantinople beckoning in their future. Darcy may have had 10,000 Pounds a year, but still he could go no further or faster than his horses could take him in a day.

Exits and acceptance

I really wanted to write about something lighthearted for a change. I had worked up a pretty good rant about bad driving habits in winter; a partial list of things I enjoy in this time of year (now that the Canal is open for skating); and a reflection on the relative unhelpfulness of automated telephone systems, and how we should return to real and personal customer service. All this, while I have also been working on a fairly important piece of writing.
I am, however, stuck on the topic of grieving and have a few thoughts to offer. One being that the stages of grief include the Wobblies and the Fuzzies. The Wobblies are characterized by a lack of coordination in, or cooperation from, your arms and legs. I fell down the stairs at one point, because my legs stopped working mid-stride; and I have feared washing dishes because my hands lacked their accustomed strength.
The Fuzzies follow the same principle but they affect the mind. There are memory lapses, emotional jags, a general slowing down of mental acuity. I am having a hard time focusing right now,and notice that conversations sometimes pass me by, or that I'm rereading the same paragraph over and over without understanding its point. There are certain things I must accomplish in the next few days, but this sluggish brain is limping along, one-legged and counter to my plans.
What I'm learning is the importance of being kind to yourself when grieving. Don't apply any pressure to 'get over it' in what you had supposed was a suitable amount of time. Also, when possible, really allow yourself to be sad, or empty or angry or whatever emotion is visiting at that moment. Work or children or traffic may occasionally prevent the possibility but I do think it is important to not deny the emotions every time; they serve a purpose and will bring healing.
This leads to something I'm finding particularly challenging,which is to not look for the exit sign. (I'm not talking 'permanent exit' but rather distractions or other emotional anaesthetics) I'm almost desperate to find distractions. I pounce on people when they're online, hoping someone will serve the purpose of taking me out of this moment in time to where I don't feel the aching emptiness. Or I go to the movies, thinking that Hollywood has perfected numbing its audience, surely they can help me out right now?
Unplugging or zoning out can be necessary in order to carry on from time to time, but I'd recommend keeping a close eye on how frequently you're trying to hide or shut down. Again, I believe that grief, fully experienced, will bring healing.

~*~
The picture is of a corridor in La Grande Chartreuse, Motherhouse of the Carthusians, located in the French Alps. It would be so lovely to be in a place so deeply infused with peace and silence during this time of sadness, but my life is here, in the world. I must seek God's peace and silence in the life He has given me.

Gold dust

Before too much more time passes, I want to record the lighter moments, the providential circumstances...the gold dust sprinkled over my life in the past while. I don't think I can make this entertaining; it isn't a narrative. My aim is to acknowledge the good stuff, to have it written down so that it will be remembered. A simple list will do, and here it is:

• My sister was meant to have surgery in December, which would mean being incapacitated leading up to Christmas if not longer. She was inexplicably unable to contact the clinic, and whenever they phoned the house the message was forgotten and not passed on to her. Very frustrating for her at the time, but in hind-sight, a good thing, as it meant she was mobile and up to the traveling when our dad died.


• On the day he died, I had been trying to escape in various ways, one of them being taking in a matinee. Oddly enough, the obscure movie was sold out, and the theatre lobby so crowded I decided to just go home and lick my wounds in private. However, once home, I couldn't bring myself to hide in my room, so I immersed myself in the family. We were all of us gathered together when the phone call came...none of us was alone. It would have been wretched to be sitting in a darkened theatre, watching an inane movie, feeling my phone go off in my pocket, and getting the news that way. I was so peeved when my plans didn't work out, but what a good thing it turned out to be.


• Going to the funeral home was a very difficult thing to do. I was worried about losing control of myself and just didn't know how I was going to be able to manage it. As I stepped into the very crowded lobby, a beautiful grey cat sat at the edge of our family group, looking quite alot like my cat Diggory. I got a great deal of comfort from the cat that day, as it followed us from room to room all morning. I think that was a wee present from Pop...a little something to help me get through the more difficult moments of our time there. The cat consoled Number Three Nephew as well, who was really hurting from the loss of his beloved Opa.


• We had the opportunity as a family to see him and say goodbye at the funeral home. What joy that brought! I know that sounds very peculiar, but it's true, and good. You see, he had suffered a great deal and that shows on a person. When we saw him, he looked himself again, dressed in his favourite casual suit without a tie and his t-shirt peaking underneath his open shirt collar. He was at peace, restored to himself and therefore to us as well. He was Pop once more.


• Mom had a strangely difficult time getting in touch with her family, which set off a chain of events which just may lead to healing and reconciliation. It also prompted a visit from her long distance younger brother we haven't seen in over 25 years. He was able to stand by his sister's side as support, and serve as Pall Bearer to his brother in law. His nephews adored him, and we have great hope that this bond will continue to grow and strengthen with time. Pop had often encouraged Mom to visit her family but for one reason or another it wasn't possible. It will certainly happen now, and I'm sure he's had a hand in it.


• The Funeral Director (referred to by us as Mr. Director) very properly cautioned us that due to weather conditions and the time of year, it was almost likely that a grave could not be dug, and that Pop would have to temporarily be in a vault, and be buried in the spring. Well, while we reconciled ourselves to the idea we knew very well Pop would not approve of that: paying rent for a vault when he already had paid for a plot? Not likely! So the fellow whose job it is to do so said that due to the unseasonal warm spell, he felt he could prepare the site for one last burial but it really would be the last one until the Thaw. There you go: another point for the stubborn Dutchman!


• Mr. Director guided us through other decisions that needed to be made, such as who would provide the music during the Mass. There were two options: an organist and his wife, or a guitarist. The organist, a teacher, would likely be available as it was still Christmas holiday for the schools, but his wife is a dentist, and quite possibly would not be free... or they could be away on vacation. The guitarist was pretty certain to be able to do the job. Once again we resigned ourselves, but it must be said that Pop was not overly keen on folksy guitar strumming. Sure enough, both the organist and his talented wife were available and willing.


• There is a priest - Father Brown - whom Pop loved very much. All along, Pop would confidently say that Fr. Brown would be at his funeral. (Fr. Brown lives far enough away it is measured by hours, and is also a very busy man.) Mom would caution that, yes, for sure Fr. Brown would want to be present, but may not be able. Father Brown was indeed there, and gave a very beautiful homily about confidence in God's promise, God's faithfulness to us, and that Christ is always asking us to 'come to Him'. Hearing such a message of hope and love from a holy priest who knew, respected, and loved my dad was a real blessing and consolation.


• The priest lays a Crucifix on the casket for the Mass. This Crucifix was given to Mom before we left the Church after the funeral. It broke in two pieces, for which Father apologized, but Mom found to be very symbolic of the fact that Pop's suffering was at an end. I believe it was the Sunday following that she picked up the Crucifix again to look at it,and the Corpus fell off. Again symbolic, this time of freedom. There is comfort in that, too.


• Wanting a simple funeral meant no flowers. There was some bartering on this issue: No flowers; ok, one flower from Mom if necessary; well, alright one each from the children if they had to...but the concessions were reluctantly given. We placed our order with the florist for the one flower each of us wanted to pay tribute with and charged a friend with their safekeeping. Through no personal fault at all, the flowers were not at the cemetery, and there was only one white rose there, meant to be given by a friend who kindly gave it to Mom, so she was able to place it on the casket. We brought our flowers to him the next day, which I'm sure he allowed only becuase he had gotten his own way for the funeral!


• The funeral was quiet and simple as he wished it to be. And yet there were friends who traveled long distances to be there with us. I thank you all for making the personal sacrifice and want you to know what comfort and joy you brought with you.

Mice and men

Having to do with plans, and how our own don't always pan out. On Sunday I felt very free and light, as if I could deny gravity, defy physics, and actually fly. I wanted to tackle so many things that over the months had seemed to be monumental, and far beyond my weak self to accomplish. I mapped out a schedule for the week ahead, imagining myself dancing through the chores, and organizing my life in manner of well-known domestic omni-media maven.

Shouldn't I have been prepared for Someone Else's plans to unseat my own? I woke up during the night with a heavy pain in my back. Breathing was difficult, and certainly flying was going to be pretty impossible to do. So, I had a very quiet, unaccomplished day. No problem! I planned that I would make up for it today by going to morning Mass, hitting the library, writing brilliant and focused words for several hours, and then attend to a few other essential bits and pieces I've been putting off for months.

I barely slept all night, beginning my day rather later and rather less sprightly than I would have liked. Mass was out, but surely I could still go to Adoration? Today is one of those 'first' anniversaries, and I wanted to do something to spend time with Pop. He would have gotten quite a kick out of the situation. This tiny little chapel, tucked between the modern church-in-the-round and the parish hall (which was hopping with what appeared to be a Chamber of Commerce meeting) contains five little chairs and insubstantial kneelers tucked cheek-by-jowl in a row. Hopefully you know your fellow adorer and they are fond of toothpaste, because you become rather intimate being so close together. (Granted, praying together brings people closer, but perhaps we can keep that to the spiritual plane?)

Anyway, I had imagined for myself an hour or so of deeply focused, quiet prayer - communion with my dad and my Father. Wouldn't you know? There were already two people there; but this is what Pop would have appreciated: they were two 'old guys' straight out of a British comedy. One was slightly deaf, and the other seemed to snooze between prayers. They were lovely though, praying next Sunday's readings together, offering intentions and thanksgiving, and even singing a little hymn together. Instead of solitude, I had focus and companionship; and one of their prayers lead me to a Scripture that encouraged me in one of the questions I have regarding my future.

Those two elderly gents offered me a lighthearted moment, and a reminder to ask before planning. Pretty good advice, don't you think?

The Tide

I've been told more than once that my faith must bring me peace, joy, consolation - pick a word along those lines - during my dad's illness. I'm sorry to say that at the time, it really didn't. Not in a tangible way that had an impact on the way I lived my days. I truly felt adrift, to the point I started to question whether I did in fact believe anything I'd heard, read, studied, or prayed about over the years. While I continued to know it in an impersonally intellectual way, the idea that God was present to my dad and to me, that He had a plan, and would bring good out of what was so clearly bad...did not console me as I lay weeping on my bed, or performing some mundane task at work. All I could think of was that I was going to have to live the rest of my life without the man who gave me a safe harbour, who was the point of reference for my opinions and ideas. I've said it before, but I really did fear losing my dad more than anything, and have been aware of that fear since I was a little girl.

I must say that this was in spite of the fact that my dad himself was living his life with faith and trust, embracing his suffering to the best of his abilities, believing that God in His mercy was allowing it for some purpose. And my mom right beside him, lending him her strength when he needed it, and all the while having complete faith that her trust in God would not be overlooked.
When the news of his death came, I felt something that came close to despair. I didn't know how I could go on, whether I would ever not feel such a heavy sadness, or if the emptiness would remain as bleak and heavy in my chest for the rest of my life. And so it continued for the next three days, right up until his funeral. (there were moments of light throughout, and I'll share those later...they are important, too)

As soon as I walked into the church, I felt a warm peace, reassurance, and at times even exultant joy. Since then, I do have the assurance of my faith: God is merciful, He is love, He is faithful and compassionate, and He has been present all along. My dad knew that, and that is what enabled him to go on for as long as he did. (I know that Christmas was a gift he gave to us.)

There is still sadness - of course there is. It washes over me like the tide: sometimes it's a gentle lapping, barely discernable; sometimes it's a rough wave that almost knocks me off balance. I'll take refuge in my lighthouse for a while, and when I'm ready, Pop will show me how to carry on... he's perfectly placed now, to do just that.

Resurrection

In the Catholic tradition, a funeral Mass is called a Mass of the Resurrection, because we know that death is but a door we pass through to eternal life. My dad's request was that the procedings be simple, and our respect for who he was in life meant that there would be little fanfare or hoopla. He didn't want floral tributes festooning the church or coffin, and he didn't want scores of people wailing over him at the funeral home.

As it happens, we are still in the Christmas season, so the Church is dressed in her Christmas best. The small parish church here had a simple tree decked in white lights and red ribbons; poinsettias decorated the sacristy and the Nativity was arranged in front of the altar with the Holy Family perfectly placed to welcome Pop. It was like he was a child himself as he rested before the altar, and that is how he went to God.

His mass was offered by priests and a deacon who knew and loved him; we chose hymns he had sung off-key but full-throated, often with tears streaming down his cheeks; he had selected the readings himself, and they were ones that acknowledged suffering, but praised God for His mercy and glory. 

I can't find the words to express how perfect it was in its simple and authentic love. It was a day that honoured a fine man and a day that brought peace and joy to his family and friends. A Mass of Resurrection indeed: after three days, Pop was born to eternal life and we rejoice.

*~*

The following day, the women of his family went to his grave for the first time, to give him our flowers - the ones he didn't want yesterday at the funeral. I think he would have allowed us that. We found ourselves lighthearted, as we noticed he had James Bond across the road from him, and that his vantage point allowed him to see all the comings and goings - something he took great delight in, in life. He would give everyone a name like Mr. Sock or Wilbur, saving up stories of the silly things they did to make us laugh. That too, gave us comfort. We know we can pray to him anywhere, but we have a really beautiful place to go and visit him. He had thought of that, too.

Rest in peace

My Pop 1940-2008

The moment I had greatly feared for so long happened on December 30, 2008. My father passed away. He died peacefully; at peace with himself, his family and most importantly with his God. We know he now is at rest, and we are so thankful that he is no longer in pain, no longer cold, no longer tired. He looked after us all so very well, for so very long. What words are there, that a grateful daughter could write to properly honour her father? I have always thought him to be the best man I know; he was a man of integrity, character, honesty, and wit. People have been telling me what a strong physical presence he had, but to me it was all about his mind. I admired him so much for his intelligence, and his pursuit of truth. And I enjoyed him so much for his humour and the delight he took in finding the silly things in life.

I love you, Pop. I always will. Thank you for everything. You were a good father, and I remind you that your job is not done yet! Pray for us, as we pray for you. I hope with everything in me that I will stand beside you someday. Rest in peace, beloved man.