The following is not a letter to anyone, but the eulogy my friend Jeff Sabo did for his Dad who recently passed on. He touched on so many of the deep questions we all ask when facing death, I thought it a beautiful addition to the blog. Many hugs to you my friend, as you walk the path of grief.







First of all, thank you for being here. It is comforting to know that my Dad touched so many lives, and that all of you have chosen to come here and be with us as we celebrate a life, and mourn a passing.

Despite all of our advances as a society, all of our wisdom, and all of our accomplishments, finding some sense of meaning in death still seems elusive to us. Regardless of the God we worship, or whether we worship a God at all, death remains one of the few great unsolved mysteries of life. So, like most people, I have been trying to make sense of Dad’s death – of death in general – from the moment I knew how this one would end.

It may well be that, in our eternal quest for meaning in all things, we have overthought the meaning of death and it simply “is what it is” – the result of tragedy, or age, or illness, that is meant to be gotten through or past with no additional take-aways. That certainly seems to me the easiest explanation, but it leaves much to fate and little to the heart.

It may well be that death comes once we have fulfilled God’s unspoken plan for us. I find this idea to be soothing, it still leaves the question of just what God’s plan is for each of us. We cannot always know that, of course, and while God may know it still may be a mystery to those of us left behind. For those deeply rooted in faith, the knowledge that God is ready to accept the departed may be enough. I think it was enough for my father. One of my greater joys in my relationship with my father was the joy of watching him embrace faith relatively later in life. The fact that he chose to embrace faith here, in this church, with you and those who have worshipped here before, in a community of love and respect, has always been and continues to be of great solace to me. From a faith perspective, I know that Dad had reached the point where he believed he had fulfilled God’s plan for him, even though he may not have known what it was, and that he believed that he and God were ready for him to take the next step in his journey. For me, I believe that to be true; yet, I still seek meaning.

It may well be that death serves simply as an opportunity to gather together and review our memories, hopefully latching on to one or two that are so special that the thought of them will sustain us through times of sadness or uncertainty. I have so very many of those memories, myself. I remember his patience when I would break windows with hockey pucks or get suspended from school or end up at the emergency room after another school-boy prank. I remember him playing board games or rod hockey with me for hours on end. I remember his grace and fortitude in dealing with some of the curveballs that were thrown his way. I remember his laughter. I remember the looks of joy and love in his eyes as he held his grandsons for the first time. I remember his wisdom in advising me along my own path into fatherhood, cautioning me to learn from his mistakes and to forge my own path. I remember his stubbornness, his honorability, the way he was able to let many of us know with great truth that there were always two approaches to every problem – his way, and the wrong way. I remember so many things that many of you may not know: his singing voice, his deep love of animals, his childhood regrets, and just how far he came on his own personal journey toward contentment over the course of the last 30 years. So many of you were kind enough to share some of your memories of Dad with me on Thursday night, and before I conclude I would like you to just take a moment and find those few good memories of my Dad that you will latch onto and keep in a sacred place.

For me, these memories will serve to sustain me through the grieving that is to come, yet still I seek meaning. At the end of the day, I wonder if death - this death - is not simply a reminder for the living to live our lives with greater attention to some of the principles we all know to be true. My father was a very reliable and trustworthy man who always followed through on his commitments; perhaps we can use this as a reminder to bear up under the weight of our own responsibilities in a more positive and giving manner. My father certainly had regrets about his health, and how some of his choices may have impacted that; perhaps we can use this as a reminder to treat our own bodies and minds with greater respect so that we may keep the vessels of our spirits in good shape for years to come. My father was honest, sometimes shockingly so, but always forthright and authentic; perhaps we can use this as a reminder to be truthful and direct, to avoid pettiness and gossip, and to treat others – and ourselves – with the respect and compassion. When moving about became difficult for him, my father was able to make an enjoyable life for himself through things like coin collecting and the online relationships and community that went along with that; perhaps we can use that as a reminder of the benefits of industry, of community, of thinking positively rather than wallowing in self-pity.

But perhaps I have been looking at this all wrong. Instead of searching for meaning in his death, maybe I should be searching for meaning in his life, for clearly his life was full of purpose and meaning. Let me share with you an example from his recent past.

During a phone call we had in May, my father told me about a trip he had just taken to New Orleans. I was stunned; I mean, my father had not been able to travel for some time, and had been weakened by cancer and the subsequent treatments. But he made all of the arrangements himself, getting to and through airports and on an off airplanes to meet a friend of his, Jose, that he had met online. Eventually, he revealed to me that in addition to their love of coins, they shared another special bond – Jose was born with Spina Bifida and had been confined to a wheelchair his whole life. My father told me about how they had met, and the fellowship they experienced during Dad’s trip to New Orleans.

What my father left out was the fact that they had a deep relationship, and that my father had actually helped Jose purchase a specially-equipped automobile so he could get around. I learned that only after my father’s death, when Jose sent me a note that included the following passage:

Your dad was like a spiritual father to me. I was very fond of him, when he came to visit me, it was the happiest day of my life. My real father was never close to me, and when your dad and I became friends, we shared a bond. He was the father i never had and wanted, Ive been crying all day today because i loved him so much. But I feel comforted to know that God now has him in his arms, Your dad is not suffering anymore, he is rejoicing in heaven, I hope we can keep in touch with each other and get to know each other. Your dad left me his stuffed Raccoon SCOOTER and ive been hugging him alot today.

When I think of my father, this story really captures his essence. Understated and unspoken compassion, humility, a willingness to help and comfort, the thirst for connection. THAT has meaning, THAT has impact, THAT has lessons for all of us, and THAT is certainly spiritual. Leave it to my Father, in death, to provide such lessons for us. Thank you for being here, thank you for the support you are giving to Ann, and for the love you had for my father. It meant the world to him, and thus to me.

(Papa Tom and Chloe)


Dearest Papa Tom,

My friend Ren has a blog where she collects letter to the dead so
I’m writing you this letter as kind of an open letter, knowing
I’m going to send it to her for the blog. Therefore, I guess I’d
better start with some info for readers who don’t know us, cuz ya
can’t tell the players without a program.

Tom is my father-in-law. Technically, he’s a *step*fil cuz he and
Ronnie’s mom have only been together a little longer than Ronnie
and I and they actually didn’t get married until after Ronnie and
I did. But those are technicalities. Tom is incontestably my fil and
he’s been our daughters’ closest and most-significant grandfather.
Period. He is *Papa* Tom and there is no other.

Tom, you…

“I’m not dead.” (off-screen voice) [with apologies to Monty Python
and the Holy Grail for the following]

Ren interjects, “What?”

Nothing, I say.

“I’m not dead.” (off-screen voice)

Ren queries me, “He says he’s not dead. This is letters
to the dead.”

He will be soon. He’s quite ill.

“I’m getting better.” (Yes, ok, it’s Tom’s voice)

No you’re not. You’ll be stone dead in a moment.

“I feel fine.” (from Tom)

C’mon, Ren, he won’t be long!

“I think I’ll go for a walk.”

You’re not fooling anyone. [to Tom]

C’mon, Ren, do me a favor here. [to Ren, obviously]

“I feel happy. I feel happy.” (Tom kinda sings)

It’s the drugs, Tom. You’re loaded on morphine, dilaudid,
lorazepam, atropine and who knows what else. You’ve chosen to stop
radiation, chemo, and extreme measures and you just wanna try to control
the pain and die at home. Remember? [to Tom]

“Oh, yeah. I do remember that. Hey, can we say a rosary?” (Tom says)

Of course, I reply. And I, the rabid atheist, begin, “Pater
noster, qui es in caelis…” cuz Tom and I are (in my case, *were*)
both pre-VaticanII Catholics and I know what he wants. After a
half-century of feeling alienated from the Church, Tom wants to
reconnect. And he has. A couple of days ago, he had a nice pre-VaticanII
confession (nowadays mostly called Reconciliation), Extreme Unction
(called Anointing of the Sick post-VII), and Viaticum, which is
Eucharist/communion for the dying. He is spiritually ready for his
journey to Shakespeare’s undiscovered country.

The rest of us are absolutely not ready to say good-bye. Not.
Not. Fucking NOT!

Our culture is saturated with in-law jokes but nothing could be
farther from the truth in Tom’s case. He is a kind, loving, thoughtful,
generous, sweet-natured man, one of nature’s noblest creations. I’ve
had a marvelous relationship with him for a quarter of a century,
sharing good times and bad, happy times and sad, boring times and
adventures. We’ve certainly had a goodly dose of all of those. My
best memories are familial ones, of course.

Tom was graced with a gaggle of granddaughters, so he naturally
called ‘em his “boys.” “C’mon, boys, we’re going crabbing.” “You
boys help get that stuff ready if we’re going waterskiing and tubing.”
Etc. Naturally, they ate it up. Papa was Papa and could do no wrong.
Our older daughter, MJ, and her close-in-age cousin Chelsea were Papa’s
oldest granddaughters and his go-to boys. When he got a bit older and a
little incapacitated, they’d go out with Papa to drop the crab pots,
retrieve the crab-pots, and measure and sort the catch. Crab for dinner
tonight! They were his clamming buddies, going for their limit and anxious
to return home for some fresh seafood.

The bond between Papa and his boys was a wondrous, thick chain of
links forged from love, unbreakable, unyielding, and untouchable. Their
sadness is profound. I have had many a shirt soaked through with tears
over the last couple of days and Papa hasn’t even died yet. Tom has had a
long life and a good one. I desperately wish I could make these last days
better for him but all that can be done is being done and I guess that has
to count as enough. It breaks my heart so terribly that I am unable to
ameliorate the emotional suffering of our poor, sweet gang of “Papa’s
boys.” Their sorrow is vast. Their grief inconsolable. And I am bereft
healing balm for their wounds. This train does not pass through Gilead.

I will not extoll Tom’s virtues here like a grocery list; I would
find that demeaning somehow. They are best summed up in the simple
sentence: Papa Tom was a good man. Really, when you strip away the
chaff, the fluff, the frippery, if you can say that about someone,
you’ve said everything that needs to be said.

In the time that has elapsed since I began writing this letter,
Tom has died. He died quietly, at home, surrounded by his loving
family. I have nothing to add to what I’ve already said, except
for the sake of his reunion with his religion, I’ll say, “Frater,
requiescas in pace.” And from my own heart, I’ll quote Catullus
who wrote these words on the death of his brother, “In perpetuum,
frater, ave atque vale.”

I love you, Tom,

Frank

Carmen 101 Gaius Valerius Catullus

Multas per gentes et multa per aequora vectus advenio
has miseras, frater, ad inferias, ut te postremo donarem
munere mortis et mutam nequiquam alloquerer cinerem.
Quandoquidem fortuna mihi tete abstulit ipsum. Heu miser
indigne frater adempte mihi, nunc tamen interea haec,
prisco quae more parentum tradita sunt tristi munere ad
inferias, accipe fraterno multum manantia fletu, atque
in perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale.

To Isaiah, from Mom

To Isaiah, 1/18/02-5/27/07


My sweet Starshine,


Every time I try to write you, every time I do write you,
I find myself overwhelmed, a painful ache in my lungs
and tears in my eyes.

I miss all of you, your world’s widest smile and your
excited shriek, but most deeply, I miss the hot press
of you against my chest in the night, after reading
stories of trucks, after singing silly songs, after
endless rocking. There was always a moment when you
finally gave in to sleep, when you tucked your head
into my breast, wrapped your arms around my neck and
tangled your hands so thoroughly in my curls that later,
after I’d woken, I had to untangle us like a knot.

And then in the morning, you would call me awake
with one long “Maaaaaam.” After you died, I used to
still hear you calling, hear the feeding pump beeping.
Thankfully, through the gift of dreams, I was able to
hold you close again and let you go more peacefully.

I have always wanted to say I’m sorry, sorry that I was
so young, my voice so untested when you were born - that
if I had been wiser, more assured, I would have brought
you home that first week and held you to me until your
heart came quietly to rest and we could have avoided the
medical years that followed. But then of course, the world
would have been different, I would be different than who
I am today, and I would not truly change the gift your five
years gave to so many, the ways of living and loving and
dying you taught me and I truly could not have loved you more.
Thank you, my sweet.

Your brother has changed his name twice since you
died, from Joey to Jos to Cutter. He’s been Cutter
for a long time now. I’m learning how he misses you,
in his games and with his friends and in his questions.
He wonders what new name you might have chosen. We both
guess it would have been Thomas after your favorite
engine. He asks if I think you would like Nerf battles,
if you would like his newest video games and his closest
friends- I almost always say “Yes,” to his questions
because the two of you loved each other fiercely and
he’s trying to hold onto that, to hold onto to you,
in the ways he knows how.

When you were born, a bit small and a bit early, we
knew nothing of what lay ahead for you, for us. In
the hospital gift shop, your big brother bought a
gift for you, a plush sun that played “You are My
Sunshine.” When I was alone with you, I pulled the
cord to the play the song and I cried.

I knew you would never know how much I loved you
because even I didn’tknow. How could I know that
I would love you so much that I would listen to
your heart slow and stop, that I would love you
so much that I would know peace in your death.
All that, and I still could not carry you down
the stairs to that black van. Your dad did
that for all of us.

Your ashes have sat on the shelf in the closet for three
years now. I feel the time approach when I will plunge
my hands into them, when I will shape and scatter and
free you of what restraints remain. There are so many
trains you didn’t see, so many journeys you didn’t take,
so many hurts I couldn’t prevent - but this I can do for you,
my sweet.

I can send you far from me, along the tracks you so
loved, because you are always near, in dandelions and the
light blue sky, in sign language and construction sites,
in the brown of your father’s eyes and the gap of your
brother’s teeth, in pizza and in peanut m&ms and always,
always in my heart.


I love you,

Mom

From: Diana

Dear Daddy! Did ya see our boy on the forklift today? God!
I remember your license pride & how you smile as you
drove that thing through Heartland Paper's warehouse.
You shined! Like Hayden's face in his welding gear.

I'm sorry he doesn't know you. Honestly, I wish *I* knew
you longer, so I'd have more to tell him. I wish it was easier
for me to be in contact with your mom. Somehow, I think
she's mad at me for reminding her of what she's lost. I felt
so bad when Gran cried for my entire visit & beyond.
Forgive me.

You'd think by my 10th year without you, I'd have the
hang of it. I don't. Still flying by the seat of my pants
& pullin' ideas outta my ass. I work hard to do right
by you, to your son. I think he's mostly happy, in spite
of, well, his whole life being so chaotic. Therapy's
expensive, the life insurance gone, I go the route
of avoiding the need for it, then :)

He's becoming a hairy beast! Finally taller than his
mama - JOY! Surprise, his hair stubbornly remains
blonde :) He's sweet, charming & generous -- with a
streak of intensity that comes from us both (poor kid!).
And a Hayden-ness that is all his own.

Sometimes I imagine the fun you'd be having with him.
The healing you'd have been able to complete (or I suppose
that's moot now...) I imagine, too, how'd you still love me.
How our quirks continue to entertain each other. My
friends would LOVE you. You know you'd be the Pied
Piper of their children! You'd tolerate my crazy hippy
Oregon life, for the good beer and the good woman.
'twas Good Love we had... and that I miss ♥

Thank you for showing me the fun that love can be <3
Thank you for whispering in your son's ear when all is
quiet. Thank you for the gifts of your death.

There I said it.

The gifts I know and those yet unknown to me -- thanks.

And I forgive. Again & again.

♥ d

From: Bonnie

Dear Uncle Dick,

You've never met me before, so I should introduce myself
before I start rambling to you. I'm the only daughter of the
baby sister you left behind when you died. I'm grown now,
but I still sometimes feel like a kid - and yet, I'm older than
you ever had the chance to be. Death at 20 is something I
can hardly fathom. I know you must've had so many dreams
you never got to live out. The Army was never your choice,
and I wonder what you would've done if you'd had all the
freedom I've had. Maybe you'd still be alive. Maybe you
would've lived just a few more years, only to be sent to
Vietnam and die there, with your mind and soul broken by
the violence and horror. Korea, at the time you went, was a
safer place, and I'm glad your time overseas wasn't spent
watching your best friends die.

There's so many things I wish I could ask you. What did you
think about politics? Did you like Nixon or Kennedy? Were
you religious like Nannie and Mama, or a searcher like
Granddaddy and me? What did you like to do for fun? I know
about the dog shows, because that was Granddaddy's hobby too,
but I don't know much about who you were besides that. I've
seen a few of the letters and pictures you sent home from Korea,
and I can see your sense of humor in them, especially that one
picture of you in a dress. (We have dozens of pictures of you,
but that was always secretly my favorite.) I think you would've
made a great uncle, with that sense of humor. The only thing
anybody really said about you was that you were kind of private
and didn't share a whole lot of yourself with the family. I'm the
same way, so I can understand that. We're both Virgos, maybe
that's why, I don't know. But I do, selfishly, wish you'd left
more of yourself behind.

Mama left me last year, gone at a young age too, though she
lived two and a half times as long as you. We buried her beside
you. Nannie and Granddaddy have been gone for years, and
so have all our aunts, though Aunt Evelyn lived to be 93. Maybe
you know all that; maybe they're with you in some comforting,
tangible afterlife. But in case they're not with you, in case you
never saw them again, you should know that you were always
remembered and deeply loved. I've known about you for as long
as I've known anyone else. Mama always talked about how she
admired her big brother, and Aunt Evelyn was always going on
about little Dickie with the golden curls. Even though I never knew
you, I could feel the hole you left. There was something dark and
broken behind Nannie's eyes, some unanswerable confusion in
Mama's mind, some hardened place in Granddaddy's heart that
was built to hide his pain. Mama was so little when you died, and
had a bad memory besides, but she could still remember the way
Nannie screamed when she got that awful telegram. Nannie never
could bring herself to talk about you much. I think she was afraid
she'd start screaming again.

I've mourned for you, too, in my own way. Many times I've
regretted that I never had an uncle, when I knew I was supposed
to. Many times I've wondered if I would've had your children to
grow up with, or your grandchildren to babysit. I was scared when
I turned 20, scared some family curse would come and take me
then too. I wrote an essay about you in sixth grade, to warn my
classmates about speeding and seatbelts and all. I drive carefully.
When I hear about car accidents, I see you in my mind.

I think that's the thing that makes me most angry, when I think
about how we lost you. Like so many of your generation, you
died while in the Army, but you didn't die in service. Nobody
got to describe your death as a "sacrifice" or take comfort in
the idea that it meant something. Your death was meaningless
and stupid, wholly avoidable, a product of young foolishness
that wasn't your own. The "friend" who crashed the car that
killed you dragged your lifeless body into the driver's seat and
ran away. He only broke his arm. Thinking of that makes my
blood boil, though I sympathize with him. I'm sure he was afraid
of jail, and thought the blame could bring no consequence to a
dead man. He was wrong. It troubled Nannie deeply to think you
would do such a stupid thing. She never believed you were
responsible, and she claimed to "hear" you tell her, somehow,
that it wasn't true. A few weeks later she received a letter saying
the driver confessed to what he'd
done.

Part of me will never forgive him for taking you away from me,
for taking your potential children away, for putting out my
grandmother's inner light and making my mother grow up
feeling unstable and lost. But I also know he was young and
out for a good time, and cars weren't as safe in the 60's as they
are now, and anyway his conscience has probably ripped him
to shreds over the last 48 years. I hope he's found some peace
about it, even though I doubt I could look him in the eye.

Even though most of the people who knew you are gone, I've
still kept quite a bit of you around. I still have your coin collecting
book, though it's out of date and falling apart, and somewhere
around here is the bag of international coins you collected. I
still have your Army hat, and your Buddy Holly record, and your
favorite shirt, and your baby shoes. There's a box under Mama's
old bed with your Korean knives and the keys to the car you died
in. I have all your letters, too, though I haven't been able to bring
myself to read many of them. In some ways I've done what Nannie
did, deliberately keeping you at a distance to avoid the pain. The
more I know you, the more angry I am that I don't know you. It
hurts, too, seeing you write to people I did know and don't have
with me anymore. Someday, when the pain of losing Mama is not
so fresh, I'll dust them off. Maybe I'll write Donna and ask her to
dig up some old memories - I think she knew you better than
anybody else.

Until then, though, I want you to know that I care about you.
All of my friends who've known me for any length of time have
heard of you. I plan to tell my children about you. I think of you
when I hear Buddy Holly on the radio or see a bull terrier or a little
boy with curls. You've been gone so long, but you were never
forgotten. I plan to keep it that way.

Love,
Bonnie

From: Sylvia

Dear Jim,

My heart is so heavy today. I am sad for you, and for those
you leave behind, unutterably sad. I could hardly fathom
Linda’s words yesterday when she told me you’d taken your
own life. I am sad that you were so unhappy you saw no other
escape from your pain, no way to fill the void within you.

I knew you had been unhappy during our marriage; we both were.
I had hoped that in the years since, you’d found happiness and love.
I have found happiness and love. The source of much of that
happiness and love is Will’s presence in my life. He truly was your
gift to me. I doubt you knew that, when you talked me into having
a child together. I doubt you realized with that simple choice, you
set in motion my departure just over a year later. That gift, the child
we gave each other, the one I raised after leaving you, he’s such a
beautiful soul. In so many ways like you, which at times challenged
me and touch me still, especially today.

And, well, I’m angry too. Angry at the devastation you’ve left me,
and your family, to deal with. Angry for my son who will never
get the chance to know his biological father. Yes, Will has a Dad,
who loves him and adopted him. Still, though, he yearns to know
more of you, to know from when he comes. Now he won’t have
that opportunity.

All he’s left with is regrets. Regret that he didn’t seek you out, even
as I tell him it isn’t a child’s job to make the first advances. Worry
that his choice to be adopted, to take a new name, was a rejection
that wounded you. He feels guilt and hurt at learning that you
avoided opportunities to meet at him holidays at your father’s
home, for fear Will would reject you.

A bit about Will, if I may, Jim. He’d not have rejected you, for the
simple reason that Will loves more fiercely than anyone I’ve ever
known in my life. I remember being amazed, when he was young,
to find out just how much he loved me. He’d have loved you, too.
In his loss, he loves you. He’d also have understood, empathized
with, the depths of your pain. Over the years, as he asked about you,
I made every effort to be fair and kind in telling him what I knew of
you, of what happened between us. I told him – honestly -- that I
forgave you, forgave us both, for the pain we’d brought each other;
that what happened wasn’t entirely your fault, nor mine; that just
as it takes two people to make a marriage work, it takes two people
to let one fail; that I, too, had been at fault all that time ago.

Your father; I cannot begin to wrap my head around what he’s
feeling now. I know he was barely able to get words out over the
phone last night, and yet his words comforted Will. Your brother
was so helpful to Will in making some sense of all this. Your little
sister is heartbroken. So many people who will miss you, who
will carry a piece of your legacy of pain, with us each day from now on.

For myself, to think the world will never hear your infectious
laugh again, never see your sparkling smile, is heartbreaking.
The comfort comes in knowing that every time I hear Will laugh
or see him smile – and I’m sure I will again, though maybe not
soon – I’ll see that same sparkle, hear the infectious laugh. And
I’ll remember you, the very young man I knew and once loved.

Sylvia

Sir Elton John wrote a letter

...but not for my blog. He wrote it for the Washington Post and it's very touching. Please go read it and if you know him, or can reach him, please ask if he'll let me post it here. :) Sir Elton, surely Letters to the Dead was your inspiration? I hope you find my little project at any rate.