We make hundreds of choices every day. In the aggregate these choices constitute our priorities in life. Opting to stay late to finish up something at work instead of catching your kids recital becomes a pattern when repeated. Over a period of time and through a series of decisions, priorities are determined.
As difficult as these choices are to us as individuals, prioritizing becomes overwhelming in the public sphere. With so many competing interests, arriving at a consistent theme among all of the available options is daunting. Some goals get neglected and some outcomes become muted amidst the cacophony of competing interests. We see this most clearly now when we look at the inept management of our federal budget.
I confronted this challenge head-on in the collective when I visited DC last week for Pancreatic Cancer Advocacy Day. Having finally gotten a bill passed that would increase research funding for the most recalcitrant cancers (i.e., pancreatic and lung) earlier this year, budgets for these efforts are actually being decreased because of sequestration. This represents the ultimate abdication of decision-making responsibility – just cut everything indiscriminately.
One mischaracterization of the issue is that we (the U.S.) don’t have the money for life-saving research. In an annual budget of approximately $3.80 trillion, it is disingenuous of our leaders to say that we can’t afford to allocate a couple of extra tens of millions to decrease the number of cancer deaths. (The National Cancer Institute budget is a mere $5 billion.) To my elected leaders I say - you have opted to spend lots of money to bring about much less collective good based on the advice of countless corporate lobbyists. (I bumped into the Halliburton crew at The Capital last week.) When you tell us that we can’t afford something, I would like to remind you that we will spend $673 billion on our military this year, as much as the next ten nations combined. The money is being spent. It is for us to decide what we spend it on. You allow billions of corporate taxes to go uncollected from the likes of Apple and GE - money that could be used to help the afflicted. If the Bible is true when it says in Matthew, “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also” – what do our resource decisions say about us?
I understand that it’s tough for you to tell a cancer survivor or someone who has lost a loved one that you would rather not allocate resources to help them. To say that you can’t is a cowardly lie. It makes me angry to be lied to so blatantly. Let’s at least be honest about the choices that you are making on our behalf.
Whether on the national or personal level, insisting that there are no (other) options belies either a lack of imagination or integrity. It is an admission that one is not willing to make the effort on a difficult choice. In our own lives, resisting inertia or challenging long-held sacred cow assumptions is not easy. It is easier, albeit disingenuous, to say that something can’t be done rather than admit that I choose not to.
I believe that our responsibility to each other as members of an interdependent community – whether it is a family, team, church or nation – is to keep each other honest. To allow our lies and self-deceptions to go unchallenged is to condone a deliberate falling short of our ideals. It is allowing us to achieve less than our potential, less than the individuals and society that God empowered us to be. I’d like to see doing the very best that we can for each other and ourselves be the priority every time.
Friday, June 28, 2013
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Flying Blind
A loss of five lbs. is, for most Americans, a cause for celebration. Even though I am probably on the too high side of the body mass index scale (per whoever decides such things), weight loss is not an automatic good thing for me. It could be the sign of something brewing. When this seemingly sudden drop happened to me a few weeks ago, I was much less worried than I might have been. Thanks be to God, I had just received clean CAT scan results only days before.
In my second to last annual CAT scan – the most telling check that I have available to me – there are no tumors, stones or other abnormalities that those most knowledgeable doctors could see. Yippee!!!
Because these scans – laden with radiation doses as they are – bring with them their own risks, the recommendation is for me to have just one more. (In fact, protocols are changing so quickly that I have already been scanned more than the latest approaches would recommend.) After next year’s scan I’ll be flying blind, just as we all typically do. No longer will I have that opportunity for assurance that was, each time, first nerve-wracking and then (thankfully) comforting.
So, now I wonder where I will find that calming reassurance. I will miss the illusion that all is well. Because, ultimately, that’s what it is. We like to think that we “know” things. Knowns like - that our partners love and will never leave us; that we’ll come home at the end of the day; that we’ll pay off that mortgage someday; that global warming is a hoax perpetuated by the liberal media. Certainty, even if an illusion is much more comforting than worrying that any of it could be suddenly otherwise.
I’ve had another shift from the known to the unknown column with the specter of one more series of “separations” at work. It felt better “knowing” that if I did a good job, I’d keep getting a paycheck. As too many have learned, that maxim is no longer true in this world where we’ve allowed profits to trump the interests of people at every turn.
There is a stability that comes with knowing. We make plans based on the things that we think that we know. Those many plans become a tragedy once they are ruined and their illusion is revealed.
The absence of the stability of knowing is stressful. How exhausting it is to wonder how the basics of food, shelter, and safety will be met for your family. Too many Americans face that dilemma every day. To have uncertainty around your health, your relationships and your job is traumatic and draining.
Could it be that some prospects might be better left unknown? In some cases, the possibilities that uncertainty allows might be preferable to the security of knowing. I was thinking about how awful it must have been for my Papa as hope kept fading that he would ever pull out of the death spiral his diagnosis brought. Some knowns are terrible. So much so that we’d rather not admit them. (That is a very heavy question…maybe for next time.) It makes flying blind look like a treat in comparison.
In my second to last annual CAT scan – the most telling check that I have available to me – there are no tumors, stones or other abnormalities that those most knowledgeable doctors could see. Yippee!!!
Because these scans – laden with radiation doses as they are – bring with them their own risks, the recommendation is for me to have just one more. (In fact, protocols are changing so quickly that I have already been scanned more than the latest approaches would recommend.) After next year’s scan I’ll be flying blind, just as we all typically do. No longer will I have that opportunity for assurance that was, each time, first nerve-wracking and then (thankfully) comforting.
So, now I wonder where I will find that calming reassurance. I will miss the illusion that all is well. Because, ultimately, that’s what it is. We like to think that we “know” things. Knowns like - that our partners love and will never leave us; that we’ll come home at the end of the day; that we’ll pay off that mortgage someday; that global warming is a hoax perpetuated by the liberal media. Certainty, even if an illusion is much more comforting than worrying that any of it could be suddenly otherwise.
I’ve had another shift from the known to the unknown column with the specter of one more series of “separations” at work. It felt better “knowing” that if I did a good job, I’d keep getting a paycheck. As too many have learned, that maxim is no longer true in this world where we’ve allowed profits to trump the interests of people at every turn.
There is a stability that comes with knowing. We make plans based on the things that we think that we know. Those many plans become a tragedy once they are ruined and their illusion is revealed.
The absence of the stability of knowing is stressful. How exhausting it is to wonder how the basics of food, shelter, and safety will be met for your family. Too many Americans face that dilemma every day. To have uncertainty around your health, your relationships and your job is traumatic and draining.
Could it be that some prospects might be better left unknown? In some cases, the possibilities that uncertainty allows might be preferable to the security of knowing. I was thinking about how awful it must have been for my Papa as hope kept fading that he would ever pull out of the death spiral his diagnosis brought. Some knowns are terrible. So much so that we’d rather not admit them. (That is a very heavy question…maybe for next time.) It makes flying blind look like a treat in comparison.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Inspiration and Easter
The cover of the Home News Tribune (a local NJ paper) on Saturday 3/23/13 featured my story of surviving pancreatic cancer. (I don’t know how long this link will work but here it is – (http://www.mycentraljersey.com/article/20130322/NJCARING/303220031/The-Pancreatic-Cancer-Action-Network-aims-beat-odds)
During the interview, before and since, the suggestion that I am some sort of inspiration (or worse yet, hero) came up. The idea is that because I am a survivor of this dreadful disease, that I provide some hope to others. I understand that perspective and very reluctantly accept that role. It makes me uncomfortable because I didn’t do anything. I am merely the conduit of God’s grace and the beneficiary of some amazing medical work. In that sense, I don’t deserve any credit for this glorious outcome, for having been spared. Still, I am glad to be an instrument of hope. (Obviously, I need to better understand and embrace my role.)
In the same way that cancer “shouldn’t happen” to people (like my Papa), anyone with a pancreatic cancer diagnosis “shouldn’t” (statistically) be alive 5 years later. Cancer is the coin – tragedy and opportunity are its’ two sides.
Then, this past week, there was Easter – the celebration of Jesus’ bodily resurrection after death. Among, many things, it represents the potential to which we can rise – the new best selves that God calls us to become. The creator God fills each of us with hope and potential.
Too often we choose to squander it – frittering it away and then justifying why that is okay. Instead of the Icarus that flies to close to the sun, we are sometimes the ones that fly too low and crash that way.
Over and over again throughout the Bible and throughout Jesus’ life and teachings, we are called to live into our truest selves, the image of God into which we were created.
Those two ideas – survivorship as inspiration and hope in the resurrection - connect in a very real way post-diagnosis for me. Both revolve around opportunity and potential.
I am re-born, resurrected as it were. I have defeated death for the time being, thankfully. I am starting over. I am being allowed to live up to my fullest potential.
All of it is now up to me.
Both events are a gift from God; a reprise growing out of God’s grace. In being “new” myself and in Jesus’ rising again, the most beautiful outcome imaginable is unrecognizable from what came before.
Every breath takes on a new, fresh urgency.
Our whole lives stretch out before us every morning.
During the interview, before and since, the suggestion that I am some sort of inspiration (or worse yet, hero) came up. The idea is that because I am a survivor of this dreadful disease, that I provide some hope to others. I understand that perspective and very reluctantly accept that role. It makes me uncomfortable because I didn’t do anything. I am merely the conduit of God’s grace and the beneficiary of some amazing medical work. In that sense, I don’t deserve any credit for this glorious outcome, for having been spared. Still, I am glad to be an instrument of hope. (Obviously, I need to better understand and embrace my role.)
In the same way that cancer “shouldn’t happen” to people (like my Papa), anyone with a pancreatic cancer diagnosis “shouldn’t” (statistically) be alive 5 years later. Cancer is the coin – tragedy and opportunity are its’ two sides.
Then, this past week, there was Easter – the celebration of Jesus’ bodily resurrection after death. Among, many things, it represents the potential to which we can rise – the new best selves that God calls us to become. The creator God fills each of us with hope and potential.
Too often we choose to squander it – frittering it away and then justifying why that is okay. Instead of the Icarus that flies to close to the sun, we are sometimes the ones that fly too low and crash that way.
Over and over again throughout the Bible and throughout Jesus’ life and teachings, we are called to live into our truest selves, the image of God into which we were created.
Those two ideas – survivorship as inspiration and hope in the resurrection - connect in a very real way post-diagnosis for me. Both revolve around opportunity and potential.
I am re-born, resurrected as it were. I have defeated death for the time being, thankfully. I am starting over. I am being allowed to live up to my fullest potential.
All of it is now up to me.
Both events are a gift from God; a reprise growing out of God’s grace. In being “new” myself and in Jesus’ rising again, the most beautiful outcome imaginable is unrecognizable from what came before.
Every breath takes on a new, fresh urgency.
Our whole lives stretch out before us every morning.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Can’t Help (myself)?
I have a friend whose brother has a problem with alcohol. He goes on massive binges. Not surprisingly, these are very self-destructive – causing significant damage to his relationships, his career, his health, etc. Watching this is, of course, heart-wrenching to the man’s siblings, to his mother, to anyone who knows the wonderful person that he is.
It is awful to see a loved one in pain. For many of us, the inclination is to help in any way that we can. You want the suffering to end and the loved ones life to be better. For my children or immediate family, I’d do just about anything to avoid the anguish, soothe them if it does happen, or take it on myself instead. The saddest fact is that, as often as not, there’s nothing that I can do to help. Or it feels like that anyway.
In last month’s blog I wondered about the challenging question – “who is my neighbor?” A more eternal and poignant question for me in my life has been - how to best care, not for a neighbor or stranger-that-I-have-yet-to-meet, but those closest to me, that I already know and love?
A major aspect of love is to provide for someone’s need. In the end, as we all know, you can’t help someone who is not inclined to help themselves. Still being familiar with the circumstances or seeing a pattern repeated time and time again, begs for input. I’ve been trying hard my whole life to gently and diplomatically point something out or make a suggestion. In that instance, what if my love is rejected? It’s distressing to watch someone you love make (what appear to be) bad decisions. What do I do when I see a need that my suffering loved one refuses to admit? Still, my best intentions have been, more than once, misunderstood. I second-guess myself when my suggestions and attempts are seen as self-righteous judgments.
I recognize that making a suggestion implies to that loved one that you know better. I like to think that my meddling comes from a place of empathy and not smugness. It’s not about having the answers or trying to tell someone else how to live their lives. It’s not about being superior. Sometimes an outside perspective does allow for greater clarity. It comes from love. It comes from a place of sadness. It’s borne of caring too much to just stand on the sidelines and watch another train wreck in slow motion. The dynamics are often such that those struggling keep those most inclined and able to help at a safe distance (for them).
I have a couple of metaphorical alcoholics in my life. Yes, I struggle mightily with detaching myself from their struggles. I can’t turn and walk away. Sometimes I think that I am learning to. I am not always sure that I want to. I struggle with what the Christian thing to do is. I believe that our greatest task in life is to be our truest selves and achieve our fullest potential. Further that our relationships are key to that fulfillment.
We all have blind spots. We can choose to have friends and family that point them out and challenge us to be our best selves. Or not. The former is wonderful, the latter a damn shame.
It is awful to see a loved one in pain. For many of us, the inclination is to help in any way that we can. You want the suffering to end and the loved ones life to be better. For my children or immediate family, I’d do just about anything to avoid the anguish, soothe them if it does happen, or take it on myself instead. The saddest fact is that, as often as not, there’s nothing that I can do to help. Or it feels like that anyway.
In last month’s blog I wondered about the challenging question – “who is my neighbor?” A more eternal and poignant question for me in my life has been - how to best care, not for a neighbor or stranger-that-I-have-yet-to-meet, but those closest to me, that I already know and love?
A major aspect of love is to provide for someone’s need. In the end, as we all know, you can’t help someone who is not inclined to help themselves. Still being familiar with the circumstances or seeing a pattern repeated time and time again, begs for input. I’ve been trying hard my whole life to gently and diplomatically point something out or make a suggestion. In that instance, what if my love is rejected? It’s distressing to watch someone you love make (what appear to be) bad decisions. What do I do when I see a need that my suffering loved one refuses to admit? Still, my best intentions have been, more than once, misunderstood. I second-guess myself when my suggestions and attempts are seen as self-righteous judgments.
I recognize that making a suggestion implies to that loved one that you know better. I like to think that my meddling comes from a place of empathy and not smugness. It’s not about having the answers or trying to tell someone else how to live their lives. It’s not about being superior. Sometimes an outside perspective does allow for greater clarity. It comes from love. It comes from a place of sadness. It’s borne of caring too much to just stand on the sidelines and watch another train wreck in slow motion. The dynamics are often such that those struggling keep those most inclined and able to help at a safe distance (for them).
I have a couple of metaphorical alcoholics in my life. Yes, I struggle mightily with detaching myself from their struggles. I can’t turn and walk away. Sometimes I think that I am learning to. I am not always sure that I want to. I struggle with what the Christian thing to do is. I believe that our greatest task in life is to be our truest selves and achieve our fullest potential. Further that our relationships are key to that fulfillment.
We all have blind spots. We can choose to have friends and family that point them out and challenge us to be our best selves. Or not. The former is wonderful, the latter a damn shame.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Who is My Neighbor?
Like so many of us, I was sad to the point of spontaneous tears in the days that followed the school shootings at Newtown CT. I was so angry that I would diatribe to whoever was kind or trapped enough to listen. Leaving aside the specifics of the gun debate, I wonder what it is we do with these feelings. We feel, we express and…what then? I wonder what our responsibility is as citizens, as parents, as people that believe in God, a greater good, and love. What is our responsibility for and to each other?
I am amazed at how readily we tolerate inaction when we can’t agree on the exact cause of a problem – as if denial is a valid solution. We do it as a society all the time. Some of our leaders ignore the overwhelming evidence of global warming that threaten the lives of our grandchildren and the very world we’ve been given. The most blessed and powerful nation on Earth allows so many of its’ citizens to get sick or die by refusing to provide them adequate and available health care. Children in certain neighborhoods are denied the education necessary to succeed in our society. Drug laws and oppressive economic policies seem to deliberately target certain segments of the population. Our economic system requires a low wage worker to work 2 jobs just to survive, thus denying that worker’s child the parental guidance so critical for success. We just had a presidential election that engrossed us but directed almost zero attention to these issues. Denial.
Destructive weather patterns, inconsistent or non-existent health care, and an oppressive criminal justice and economic policies affect millions of Americans. Who is responsible to do something about it if not every one of us as citizens, parents and believers?
With the Newtown tragedy, like many, I had to turn off the TV coverage sometimes. It was just too much, too sad. It was debilitating in the short-term. Self-preservation begs for a break and that’s okay. Less okay is to walk away from that raw reality in the long-term - for that ensures that more lives will be shattered. Just as they are in poorer and more violent neighborhoods throughout this country every day.
Are we relieved of responsibility when it is happening over there, to someone else? The residents of Newtown were shocked because such devastation doesn’t happen in their (kind of) town. Thankfully this scale of tragedy only happens anywhere very rarely. Still, kids get hurt or killed by guns every day in some neighborhoods. And now, weeks later we are barely recognizing the pain of those parents as we identify the problem and offer tempered solutions.
We are all reacting after Newtown, after Sandy, and after the economic crisis because it is these truths that we deliberately ignored that have come to our gates. That could have been our children, our homes, and our jobs and savings.
Aren’t we fooling ourselves (ultimately to our tragic detriment) when we don’t see those wrongs before they get to our gate, while they are ravaging our neighbors? Jacquelyn happens to be President of the Board of a non-profit in our town that asks the biblical question, “Who is My Neighbor?” It’s a challenging and an uncomfortable query. Isn’t it time we buck up, recognize some obvious truths, and advocate for the neighbors just beyond our gates.
After all, the gates are illusory and we are, in fact, all neighbors.
I am amazed at how readily we tolerate inaction when we can’t agree on the exact cause of a problem – as if denial is a valid solution. We do it as a society all the time. Some of our leaders ignore the overwhelming evidence of global warming that threaten the lives of our grandchildren and the very world we’ve been given. The most blessed and powerful nation on Earth allows so many of its’ citizens to get sick or die by refusing to provide them adequate and available health care. Children in certain neighborhoods are denied the education necessary to succeed in our society. Drug laws and oppressive economic policies seem to deliberately target certain segments of the population. Our economic system requires a low wage worker to work 2 jobs just to survive, thus denying that worker’s child the parental guidance so critical for success. We just had a presidential election that engrossed us but directed almost zero attention to these issues. Denial.
Destructive weather patterns, inconsistent or non-existent health care, and an oppressive criminal justice and economic policies affect millions of Americans. Who is responsible to do something about it if not every one of us as citizens, parents and believers?
With the Newtown tragedy, like many, I had to turn off the TV coverage sometimes. It was just too much, too sad. It was debilitating in the short-term. Self-preservation begs for a break and that’s okay. Less okay is to walk away from that raw reality in the long-term - for that ensures that more lives will be shattered. Just as they are in poorer and more violent neighborhoods throughout this country every day.
Are we relieved of responsibility when it is happening over there, to someone else? The residents of Newtown were shocked because such devastation doesn’t happen in their (kind of) town. Thankfully this scale of tragedy only happens anywhere very rarely. Still, kids get hurt or killed by guns every day in some neighborhoods. And now, weeks later we are barely recognizing the pain of those parents as we identify the problem and offer tempered solutions.
We are all reacting after Newtown, after Sandy, and after the economic crisis because it is these truths that we deliberately ignored that have come to our gates. That could have been our children, our homes, and our jobs and savings.
Aren’t we fooling ourselves (ultimately to our tragic detriment) when we don’t see those wrongs before they get to our gate, while they are ravaging our neighbors? Jacquelyn happens to be President of the Board of a non-profit in our town that asks the biblical question, “Who is My Neighbor?” It’s a challenging and an uncomfortable query. Isn’t it time we buck up, recognize some obvious truths, and advocate for the neighbors just beyond our gates.
After all, the gates are illusory and we are, in fact, all neighbors.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Never Knowing
Life’s curveballs defy our comfort and our beliefs. The trick is in where we end up afterwards. Unwelcome at the time, those traumas can be beneficial in the long run.
I haven’t written to my blog because I haven’t known what to say. My beliefs have been vigorously challenged in the last few months like the ground underneath many shore homes during the storm. I haven’t known enough to say anything. I don’t believe what’s happened. All I have is my heart and I am not sure that I know it anymore either.
I am in disbelief. So much is gone, including many fundamental principles.
• That life is fair. That’s at least a wish, if not false conviction.
• That life won’t change drastically in one moment.
• I still think that God is [or ought to be] just. But drawing conclusions about fairness invites a too-bold supposition that I could understand the ways of God. I am reminded, yet again, that I don’t remotely.
I’ve been in emotional and intellectual disarray for months now. (Post-storm, we all are.) I am angry that, not angry with – which makes for an awkward nebulous ire. I carry a hollow resentment that I don’t know where to direct.
And yet, that anger is just a tiny bit of who I am these days. I’ve had so very many emotions swimming about. I am overwhelmingly thankful for every fantastic day God’s grace has given me.
Papa was an incredible blessing in our lives. I miss him terribly every day. He is with God. For taking Papa, moj Papa, I am pissed. It’s a bit high stakes to be incensed with God. On the other hand, who better to express my anger at? God can take it.
I think that we’ve all been scattered since the storm, physically and emotionally. Loss will do that.
Still, I’ve seen many beautiful things borne of the storm. There have been countless amazing acts of kindness in response. Just as those individual acts add up to an astounding force for healing and recovery, our distinct stories create a shared experience that binds us in compassion. For all except those affected in the very worst way, the losses were relative. No matter what you have been through, you probably know someone who was impacted worse. You could, in the destructive aftermath of the storm - where low tides, electricity and heat were blessings - find much to be thankful for. Our collective losses, have granted us a shared relative outlook.
Perspective often accompanies bad news -an accident, the loss of a loved one, a dire diagnosis. Sandy brought us all that perspective simultaneously. For a time – whether it’ll be weeks or months (we’ll see) – we can consider ourselves fortunate without understanding the why of what was taken away. What a wonderful turn to consider oneself blessed for each godsend, celebrating positives. In the midst of loss, we are reminded that it’s all a bonus and blessing.
As I was finally finishing up this blog entry, I read this wonderful poem by Wendell Berry called “the Slip”. It captures much of what I tried to express above much better than I did. It makes me wonder why I bother. Enjoy. It goes well leading into Advent too.
The river takes the land, and leaves nothing.
Where the great slip gave way in the bank
and an acre disappeared, all human plans
dissolve. An awful clarification occurs
where a place was. Its memory breaks
from what is known now, begins to drift.
Where cattle grazed and trees stood, emptiness
widens the air for birdflight, wind, and rain.
As before the beginning, nothing is there.
Human wrong is in the cause, human
ruin in the effect–but no matter;
all will be lost, no matter the reason.
Nothing, having arrived, will stay.
The earth, even, is like a flower, so soon
passeth it away. And yet this nothing
is the seed of all–the clear eye
of Heaven, where all the worlds appear.
Where the imperfect has departed, the perfect
begins its struggle to return. The good gift
begins again its descent. The maker moves
in the unmade, stirring the water until
it clouds, dark beneath the surface,
stirring and darkening the soul until pain
perceives new possibility. There is nothing
to do but learn and wait, return to work
on what remains. Seed will sprout in the scar.
Though death is in the healing, it will heal.
I haven’t written to my blog because I haven’t known what to say. My beliefs have been vigorously challenged in the last few months like the ground underneath many shore homes during the storm. I haven’t known enough to say anything. I don’t believe what’s happened. All I have is my heart and I am not sure that I know it anymore either.
I am in disbelief. So much is gone, including many fundamental principles.
• That life is fair. That’s at least a wish, if not false conviction.
• That life won’t change drastically in one moment.
• I still think that God is [or ought to be] just. But drawing conclusions about fairness invites a too-bold supposition that I could understand the ways of God. I am reminded, yet again, that I don’t remotely.
I’ve been in emotional and intellectual disarray for months now. (Post-storm, we all are.) I am angry that, not angry with – which makes for an awkward nebulous ire. I carry a hollow resentment that I don’t know where to direct.
And yet, that anger is just a tiny bit of who I am these days. I’ve had so very many emotions swimming about. I am overwhelmingly thankful for every fantastic day God’s grace has given me.
Papa was an incredible blessing in our lives. I miss him terribly every day. He is with God. For taking Papa, moj Papa, I am pissed. It’s a bit high stakes to be incensed with God. On the other hand, who better to express my anger at? God can take it.
I think that we’ve all been scattered since the storm, physically and emotionally. Loss will do that.
Still, I’ve seen many beautiful things borne of the storm. There have been countless amazing acts of kindness in response. Just as those individual acts add up to an astounding force for healing and recovery, our distinct stories create a shared experience that binds us in compassion. For all except those affected in the very worst way, the losses were relative. No matter what you have been through, you probably know someone who was impacted worse. You could, in the destructive aftermath of the storm - where low tides, electricity and heat were blessings - find much to be thankful for. Our collective losses, have granted us a shared relative outlook.
Perspective often accompanies bad news -an accident, the loss of a loved one, a dire diagnosis. Sandy brought us all that perspective simultaneously. For a time – whether it’ll be weeks or months (we’ll see) – we can consider ourselves fortunate without understanding the why of what was taken away. What a wonderful turn to consider oneself blessed for each godsend, celebrating positives. In the midst of loss, we are reminded that it’s all a bonus and blessing.
As I was finally finishing up this blog entry, I read this wonderful poem by Wendell Berry called “the Slip”. It captures much of what I tried to express above much better than I did. It makes me wonder why I bother. Enjoy. It goes well leading into Advent too.
The river takes the land, and leaves nothing.
Where the great slip gave way in the bank
and an acre disappeared, all human plans
dissolve. An awful clarification occurs
where a place was. Its memory breaks
from what is known now, begins to drift.
Where cattle grazed and trees stood, emptiness
widens the air for birdflight, wind, and rain.
As before the beginning, nothing is there.
Human wrong is in the cause, human
ruin in the effect–but no matter;
all will be lost, no matter the reason.
Nothing, having arrived, will stay.
The earth, even, is like a flower, so soon
passeth it away. And yet this nothing
is the seed of all–the clear eye
of Heaven, where all the worlds appear.
Where the imperfect has departed, the perfect
begins its struggle to return. The good gift
begins again its descent. The maker moves
in the unmade, stirring the water until
it clouds, dark beneath the surface,
stirring and darkening the soul until pain
perceives new possibility. There is nothing
to do but learn and wait, return to work
on what remains. Seed will sprout in the scar.
Though death is in the healing, it will heal.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
"What has happened to us?"
My dad, Bruno, passed on August 9, 2012 - just 7 weeks after he was diagnosed. Pancreatic cancer is a dreadful disease that ravaged him.
This is the eulogy that I was honored to deliver.
People talk about a successful/rewarding life as one where you leave the world a little better by having been in it. Papa did that on a moment-to-moment, person-to-person basis. If you were lucky enough to cross paths with Bruno, chances are your day was brighter afterwards.
Bruno was always there with a smile - that inviting disarming smile. And eyes that smiled too. His beautiful blue eyes were less piercing than inviting – as full of potential as a sky-blue sky. He managed to create a comfortable space that welcomed you in. His youthful manner and playful charm allowed him to connect so easily with so many of us, children of all ages.
My cousin, Alida, told me recently that “You could always count on Bruno. One time it was just me and your dad driving back to get Vitorio and Bruno was telling me stories about the refugee camp in Italy and what my father was like then and what our families went through to get to America. He was a great story teller and that long drive melted away and seemed to only take minutes. When we pulled in the driveway he turned and smiled at me and said he really enjoyed our conversation and was sorry it had to come to an end. I told him the same and I really meant it. I felt we had really bonded during that car ride.” That is Papa – connecting in whatever small way when given any chance.
It was not at all unusual for my friends or cousins to say at the mention of my Papa, “I love your dad” or something along those lines. I was always pleasantly surprised - not that he wasn’t lovable, but that so many other people so readily saw it too. You know…I love him , and on another level… he’s just my dad.
He was a strong-willed husband and a firm father. I can’t say that I appreciated the strictness when I was young – but I do now. You always knew where he stood. I learned more than I wanted to know about commitment, self-discipline, honesty and honor.
My first driving lessons were sitting on his lap behind the wheel or our rust orange ’67 Fairlane 500. Steering through the parking lot after a super-long fun day at the beach. As a kid, I thought he was the smartest and coolest for considering the number of lights we’d hit on the way home from anyplace when picking his route. I wish that I had more patience when it came to spending time under that Ford, learning how to fix it and so much else. Papa was meticulous and thus, not necessarily the speediest. He was the Super at my house for the last few years – a blessing if ever there was one. Til the end, we’d be waiting for Nono to finish up just one more thing before coming in from the garage for dinner. It was the only time Papa was likely to be “late”.
Like so many in this room, he worked hard his whole life. Between Saturday morning overtime and a second job driving a limo, he wasn’t always around as much as I would have liked. I imagine he felt the same.
If you’ve eaten more than once with my Papa, you know that he liked to grab that end piece from a loaf of Italian bread.
If you can tell anything about a person by the quality of their relationships, then you can’t help but conclude that Papa was exceptional. He was an incredible family man. He was a Milevoj in the very best sense – quiet and strong, respectful and respected, and incredibly devoted to his family. Besides Cio Dario and our much-loved late Cia Nela, he was like a brother to many of his cousins. He was a loving presence during the tragic illnesses of several of our family members in the past 10 years. He was right next to me when I was diagnosed and every day since. Papa is present. His expressions of love and caring went out to so many.
People have commented on how unfair papa’s death is. Even at 75 years of age, it still seems premature. The speed with which this dreadful disease ravaged him – just 50 days from diagnosis to passing - is unbelievable. I know that Papa said that word – “unbelievable” hundreds of times during that period. Still, in the cosmic balance, I’ve feel unfairly blessed to have the most fantastic dad for 45 years. He made me who I am – and…for better or worse, I am more like him than anyone else. From already good, our relationship was getting even better over time. Papa is my go-to guy. After Jacquelyn, he was primary counselor – the person I’d go to for advice on life and how to navigate the stickiest situations in it. I am sad because we had so much more growing together and loving to do.
Jacquelyn has already spoken about the love and life that Ana and Noah share with him. Whereas many kids never know their grandfathers, they were blessed with nearly 6 years of the most devoted, fantastic and loving Nono imaginable. They’d say good bye at the back door looking forward to the next time, “se vidimo Utorak” (see you on Tuesday). They brought that smile to his face until the very end. I will never forget the breathtaking beauty of their last few goodbyes with him. The sadness lies in all of the wonderful lessons and memories which they won’t be able to enjoy.
We treasure every moment that Bruno graced our lives.
He is a special soul who lives on.
He will always have the end piece in our lives.
We love you Papa.
This is the eulogy that I was honored to deliver.
People talk about a successful/rewarding life as one where you leave the world a little better by having been in it. Papa did that on a moment-to-moment, person-to-person basis. If you were lucky enough to cross paths with Bruno, chances are your day was brighter afterwards.
Bruno was always there with a smile - that inviting disarming smile. And eyes that smiled too. His beautiful blue eyes were less piercing than inviting – as full of potential as a sky-blue sky. He managed to create a comfortable space that welcomed you in. His youthful manner and playful charm allowed him to connect so easily with so many of us, children of all ages.
My cousin, Alida, told me recently that “You could always count on Bruno. One time it was just me and your dad driving back to get Vitorio and Bruno was telling me stories about the refugee camp in Italy and what my father was like then and what our families went through to get to America. He was a great story teller and that long drive melted away and seemed to only take minutes. When we pulled in the driveway he turned and smiled at me and said he really enjoyed our conversation and was sorry it had to come to an end. I told him the same and I really meant it. I felt we had really bonded during that car ride.” That is Papa – connecting in whatever small way when given any chance.
It was not at all unusual for my friends or cousins to say at the mention of my Papa, “I love your dad” or something along those lines. I was always pleasantly surprised - not that he wasn’t lovable, but that so many other people so readily saw it too. You know…I love him , and on another level… he’s just my dad.
He was a strong-willed husband and a firm father. I can’t say that I appreciated the strictness when I was young – but I do now. You always knew where he stood. I learned more than I wanted to know about commitment, self-discipline, honesty and honor.
My first driving lessons were sitting on his lap behind the wheel or our rust orange ’67 Fairlane 500. Steering through the parking lot after a super-long fun day at the beach. As a kid, I thought he was the smartest and coolest for considering the number of lights we’d hit on the way home from anyplace when picking his route. I wish that I had more patience when it came to spending time under that Ford, learning how to fix it and so much else. Papa was meticulous and thus, not necessarily the speediest. He was the Super at my house for the last few years – a blessing if ever there was one. Til the end, we’d be waiting for Nono to finish up just one more thing before coming in from the garage for dinner. It was the only time Papa was likely to be “late”.
Like so many in this room, he worked hard his whole life. Between Saturday morning overtime and a second job driving a limo, he wasn’t always around as much as I would have liked. I imagine he felt the same.
If you’ve eaten more than once with my Papa, you know that he liked to grab that end piece from a loaf of Italian bread.
If you can tell anything about a person by the quality of their relationships, then you can’t help but conclude that Papa was exceptional. He was an incredible family man. He was a Milevoj in the very best sense – quiet and strong, respectful and respected, and incredibly devoted to his family. Besides Cio Dario and our much-loved late Cia Nela, he was like a brother to many of his cousins. He was a loving presence during the tragic illnesses of several of our family members in the past 10 years. He was right next to me when I was diagnosed and every day since. Papa is present. His expressions of love and caring went out to so many.
People have commented on how unfair papa’s death is. Even at 75 years of age, it still seems premature. The speed with which this dreadful disease ravaged him – just 50 days from diagnosis to passing - is unbelievable. I know that Papa said that word – “unbelievable” hundreds of times during that period. Still, in the cosmic balance, I’ve feel unfairly blessed to have the most fantastic dad for 45 years. He made me who I am – and…for better or worse, I am more like him than anyone else. From already good, our relationship was getting even better over time. Papa is my go-to guy. After Jacquelyn, he was primary counselor – the person I’d go to for advice on life and how to navigate the stickiest situations in it. I am sad because we had so much more growing together and loving to do.
Jacquelyn has already spoken about the love and life that Ana and Noah share with him. Whereas many kids never know their grandfathers, they were blessed with nearly 6 years of the most devoted, fantastic and loving Nono imaginable. They’d say good bye at the back door looking forward to the next time, “se vidimo Utorak” (see you on Tuesday). They brought that smile to his face until the very end. I will never forget the breathtaking beauty of their last few goodbyes with him. The sadness lies in all of the wonderful lessons and memories which they won’t be able to enjoy.
We treasure every moment that Bruno graced our lives.
He is a special soul who lives on.
He will always have the end piece in our lives.
We love you Papa.
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