Christmas

Winter purging has begun at our house. You would not even know that Christmas just occurred if it were not for the sweaters and shirts lying on our bed with the price tags on them, or the unfamiliar sounds of newly purchased music streaming from Tony’s stereo. It’s the second day after Christmas and all that reminds us of the day has been packaged up and is now stacked in boxes in the garage where it will grow cold with the coming days. I am hoping to grow warmer as the new year approaches despite the chilly weather. Life has been much too stressful, and the build up to Christmas took everything out of us, so we’re now on recovery-mode before the responsibilities of work seep back into our daily routine. But, mostly, we miss dad.

Time passes so quickly, and it has been just over four months since dad left us for the next life. Closer to the time that he passed, all of us who knew him intimately felt that he was not far, that we could still talk to him and he would speak to us through our heart’s disclosures. As the days progress, I find myself wishing to receive the secrets and bits of wisdom that I could hear him whisper from above, yet they are not there. Mother still communicates with him which gives her and us comfort, though it’s often when her soul cannot bear the next moment without him, and somehow she finds the strength to move forward. As I reflect on our first Christmas without dad, I find that I have most longed to hear his voice. Grandma Hilda even shared that she kept waiting for dad to appear from the other room and for him to engage with his brother in a lengthy philosophical conversation about God, or for him to grace us with one of his party-lifting jokes. We miss hearing him around us. We miss his hugs and his warmth and his profound understanding of life. We miss him.

Becky and I attended the 11:00 pm mass in St. Helena on Christmas Eve after sharing a Martha Stewart-inspired dinner with my husband’s parents at mom and Becky’s home, that evening. Beck and I arrived in St. Helena early enough to make a visit to the cemetery to admire the headstone that had recently been mounted at dad’s gravesite. We are most grateful for the U.S. Air Force for providing us with such a glorious marker and for the most honorable procession of his final farewell at the gravesite after his funeral. Beck and I found our seats in dad’s church somewhere towards the back. Both she and I looked for solace in this church on this night that we were to be thinking of Christ and his birthday. As soon as Father Brinkle proceeded down the isle, he spotted us in the crowd and comforted us with a glance and a wave. He mentioned to the Christmas church-goers that we were in the audience and that this would be the first Christmas without our dad. We tried to remain composed underneath our drapes of tears though they just kept falling and falling…we both kept expecting dad to walk out onto the alter and stand next to Father, and it was even more strange and heartfelt to take communion because this was dad’s favorite part of the mass. We miss him…

Christmas itself was lovely—Tony and I celebrated together on X-mas Eve, then we exchanged sentimental gifts with mom and Beck on X-mas day. I think Becky’s gift to mom took the cake—she purchased the original prints of cartoons that were drawn of dad in the local St. Helena newspaper (The St. Helena Star) each week after he passed. We spent the rest of the day with dad’s older brother and family in Sacramento where we delighted in a feast of turkey and delicious side dishes. But, ahh…it’s over, and I am so relieved. But most of all, I am anxious to discover new secrets about life, to share my musings about what life has been like since daddy began his new journey; I’m anxious to love my family as much as humanly possible, and to tender love to others as dad showed us how to do. Thanks, dad, and we hope to hear from you soon….

Thanksgiving

I had a dream about dad, last night. In my dream, it was nighttime and I was in St. Helena at The Church That Dad Built. People had gathered on the lawn outside of the church, some were sitting on chairs in a circles, some were following each other in a procession, and they were all talking about dad. It seemed that we had all come together to remember him and reminisce about all that he had given us in our lifetimes. I felt very moved that all of those people had come together to celebrate his life, and how fitting it was that we had all returned to the church to remember him.

Tony and I commented yesterday how dad will always live in our home, too; he painted and installed a screen door on our front door, and we have stones from the church in St. Helena (that were part of the original building) outlining the flowers to the right of our driveway.

Today is Thanksgiving. For many people, today will be observed by spending time with family and eating an exorbitant amount of turkey and stuffing. Some people might converge with strangers to share a meal, or they'll gather and perhaps eat more modestly because they could not afford to buy all the traditional Thanksgiving preparations. Some, too, are without all of these such blessings, and are just trying to survive another day. Dad wants us to cherish what we have been given and think of those who need love on this day. He wants us to think about the soldiers who are fighting over seas and their families who long for them to return home safely, and for the families whose sons or daughters, sisters or brothers, mothers or fathers have died serving their country.

I want to extend my deepest gratitude to so many people on this day because my little family (Tony, mom, Becky and I) and I have been blessed by such precious gifts and so much love over the past several months since dad's passing, and what better day to say "thank you" than today.

I must sincerely thank my family--the Little's, the Venuto's, the Jackson's, the Arnett's, the Bloomstine's and Granlees. My appreciation for you spans lifetimes, and I will always be grateful for the love that you gave us during the time of our shared loss.

And for all of our friends--for those who we see more often than others (you give us strength every day), those who knew dad when he began his life with my mother, for those whom we saw on Sunday afternoons at the A's ballpark, especially those who remained friends with our family when every Sunday turned into two Sundays a year; for those whom dad and mom spend time with every day or on a frequent basis but whom Becky, Tony, and I only had the pleasure of visiting with on special occasions. For friends whom dad made the instant he met them but never saw again, for our neighbors, for friends with whom he taught, patrolled, battled, toasted, with whom he labored politically and with whom he served God in his church, I cannot say how much you mean to me and to my family. You are our "rights of line". You are in our hearts forever.

49th day

I have learned a little more about the significance of the number 49 in the Buddhist religion. Our friend, John, let me know that in the Buddhist belief, a person’s soul is said to either reincarnate on the 49th day after his or her death or achieve nirvana and not return to earth. John thinks that dad reached this state.

When I spoke with another friend of mine who is Buddhist, he said to Mahayana Buddhists, the Buddha was a boddhisatva, or a saint who became enlightened but who unselfishly delayed reaching nirvana to help others attain it as well. I’m not sure about either. I put the question to dad about whether he is in either state (has reached nirvana or is living again on earth), and he reminded me that Christians don’t believe this. Not that it is wrong, but it is simply a different perspective, or perhaps it's the same thing but the words themselves are different. I have to believe, then, that he is in union with God and all that is good. He is united with the power that helps us along our journey, that helps heal the sick, and who pushes us to love others. Whether that power is in us already, and that we seek nirvana in this life and live to help others achieve it as the Mahayana Buddhists believe, or whether we return to a life with God in a heaven that is everywhere, I believe that dad is not far from us, and he’ll be waiting with God when it is our turn to be called home.

October 22

We miss him every day. I have a picture of dad on my desk in front of me so that I might stop and recall what a warm and loving man he was, and so that I might press on as he did when the challenges seem unbearable.

This past week, Tony and I celebrated our fourth wedding anniversary. On my way to work, that morning, after enjoying our morning coffee and toast, I couldn’t help myself from slipping into my happy memories of our wedding day. My eyes welled up as I thought about how much dad loved Tony and how much effort he put into making our wedding day the most joyous day possible. When I got to work, I had received a text from Tony that brought me to tears again. We had vowed, that morning, that we would stop and think of each other each hour, regardless of what crazy business we were caught up in, and we sent each other several texts throughout the day to stay true to our promise.

We both made it home just after 4pm to give us enough time to change and make our dinner reservations at 5:30. The dinner at the Wood Tavern in Rockridge was divine. The service, the food, and the beverages juxtaposed the magnificence of our actual wedding day, and by the day’s end, I was in dreamland just as I was at the end of October 22nd, four years ago. Tony even surprised me with a gift of two precious mementos of St. Francis, which now rest next to the American Flag that I was given on the day of dad’s funeral. It was a wonderful day...

Weekend of October 2

It has now been almost eight weeks since my father has passed. We all continue to miss him deeply and wonder what he and God are up to. I wanted to reflect upon the weekend of October 2nd, as it was a most powerful and illuminating one. Really, each day was filled with a magic that was my dad.

On Friday night, Tony and I drove to mom and Beck's home where we met two other close friends of ours for a celebration of mom and dad's marriage of what would have been 38 years. Mom and Beck prepared a delectable, four-course meal. Everything tasted amazing, our conversations flowed in the typical dad fashion starting with gracious words of love from mom as our prayer, then to moments of humor which came from one particular end of the table (Beck), to talk of religion and memories, all of which carried us into the night. Of course the scrumptious dessert topped it all off, and good wine lulled us into sleep on the couch. The night was perfect save one departed soul, though there were moments when I knew dad was right next to mom, embracing her...

Saturday, mom and I celebrated their anniversary mom-style by going shopping in Walnut Creek. We spent some bucks, alright, but we found some really good deals and some hot clothes at our favorite stores. The most memorable moment of the day took place at lunchtime when mom and I sat for two hours at the Cheesecake Factory just talking. We ate some delicious food there, too, but the best part was that we opened up about all of those things that we never knew we could say about our future, our past, and our present. If they could have kept the corn fritters coming every two hours along with an apple martini every so often, we would have stayed there all day.

Then Sunday came along and I was moved to see miracles. It was October 4th, and in the Catholic Church, it was the celebration of St. Francis. I had been going to church for a few weeks at St. Augustine's in Oakland. To start, we know dad was a huge fan of St. Francis because he was the first deacon in the church. He also built a church after hearing God tell him to "repair his house which is falling into ruins." So, as part of my new ritual to thank God for all that is good and to remember dad, I attended mass that Sunday. A few weeks prior, I had spoken to one of the parish organizers and told her that dad had passed, and she said that she would add his name to the Prayers of the Faithful. When I attended the following week, his name was read, and of course, I cried and cried. For the next several weeks, again they read his name, and the tears came. This Sunday, I was not anticipating to hear his name read since several weeks had passed, but to my surprise, it was, and I couldn't help myself. I cried like I cried at his service. They didn't even know him at this church! I paused for a moment and wiped my face just before the peace offering. When I turned around to share peace, there behind me was a man that looked uncannily like dad with the white beard and glasses. He looked me right in the eyes and wished me peace. At the end of the service, he came over to me and gave me a big hug, and he told me that we were supposed to be at church that day. He was visiting his son and daughter-in-law, having traveled from his home in Vermont, and he said he attends the church whenever he is out here. He asked me my name, and I asked his. Of course, his name was Bob. As we walked out of church, there on the ground were two pennies...one for both of us. I decided to drive up to St. Helena, that day, and spend some time on the lawn of St. Francis where dad now rests. The birds flew about the trees to the left and right of dad, and the cool breeze brought the peace I was longing for. Love you, dad...

October 9

As I continued to reflect upon the significance of the past several days in connection with dad's death, I thought about the trip Becky and I made on Friday. Our trip actually began the evening before when I arrived at the Portland Airport sometime around 8:30pm. Becky and her beaming self greeted me with a boisterous, "JULIE!!" and I went running to her. We hopped in her rented Jeep SUV that was packed with the rest of her belongings and took off down the 205 fwy (I think it was the 205). We decided to stop for dinner at the Old Spaghetti Factory. We grubbed, then we drove, she drove us about 45 minutes south to cut off some of the distance we'd have to drive the following day. We stayed over at the Black Bear Best Western, and woke early the next morning to make the long journey home. In fact, this brings me to my point of reflection. On that fateful day, dad began his journey north with the intention of spending some time with Becky and perhaps with the underlying objective to convince her to come home, back to California. And this past weekend, we completed the circle. I brought her home.

He was with us the whole trip; I envisioned his hand wrapped around mine as I was flying the hundreds of miles north, he protected us from any danger on the road through Oregon and California, and he gave us the strength to discuss our fears and unknowns. The one little snafu to the whole trip (and there will always be one) was that when we arrived at mom's house at 5:00 (30 minutes before she was to be home), we realized that neither of us had a key to the house, and you can imagine how quickly we just wanted to get home! It had been at least two hours since our last "rest stop" visit, so we were very anxious to get inside (if you get my drift).... The evening ended magnificently with a dinner at mom and dad's favorite restaurant filled with laughter, much drinking, and love....

Seven weeks

So, today is the seven-week anniversary day of my father's death. Seven...how fitting that I might begin a journey of sharing our stories on the seventh week anniversary since the number is a holy one, and the symbolism of numbers and events of the past weeks have emerged with tremendous holiness. This weekend, our family celebrated dad's life and death with a mass held in his name at St. John Vianney Catholic Church in Rancho Cordova where my Uncle Walt is a deacon. The pastor at this church suggested to my uncle that we honor my father a second time, which apparently is an Irish tradition. Most of the songs were the same as what were sung at the funeral on August 29th, as were the readings, and my sister, two uncles and I reread our eulogies. We were surrounded by our extended family and parishioners from this church whom we did not know but who knew my aunt and uncle. I have been amazed at the grace of individuals sharing in our grieving, and particularly the grace of strangers whom we don't know and who my father had never met. Obviously, he is extending the message to others to share in our love of one another.

I have so much to share about the past few weeks, though the days themselves are so short and I have limited time to write. But, dad has been present with us since the day he left his physical body on that sad yet mysterious Sunday. I must also mention that there is a Chinese belief about the power of the number 49. What I just read is that it is the "ultimate (number) of existing things". There is something else to it which our friend, Dr. John Maa, has mentioned to us but I can't remember the exact significance. I will get back to you about that. But yesterday was the 49th day of his passing.

I will leave you with this thought to make sure to stop and pick up that penny that you might see on the ground. I used to pass them, thinking, "Oh, what good is it to pick up a silly penny." Now, whenever I find a penny, I know that dad has gracefully placed that there, and wants us to be OK, and remember him.