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.