Be not afraid

For dad #143

Fair winds and following seas, dad

I want to talk about my dad today, who died suddenly last week. It actually does sort of count as the news, since his death made the cover of both the Rockaway Times and The Wave (with a bigger spread than our new mayor on The Wave‘s cover, an editorial and a beautiful remembrance from our friend Paula.)

After I posted about my dad’s death a friend commented that she wished me courage as I grieve. I see now that it’ll take that to start the rest of my life without him.

My dad had been sick (he was getting chemo for kidney cancer, with a treatment plan that seemed like it would be successful) but his death was unexpected. It might be harder on the living when it’s fast but it’s easier for those who go. My dad was afraid of suffering, of the next few weeks of his brutal treatments, and I hope he didn’t feel a thing.

The chemo strained my dad’s voice and it was difficult for him to speak, but I called a few hours before he died, about the stupid St. John’s loss, and how I got on the Jumbotron like we did together last year. I’d harp on how silly a conversation that was considering what happened after, but neither of us had any idea what was coming. We ended that call like we did all conversations, with “I love you,” which is the most important thing.

The week since has been a bit of a blur. Friends and neighbors began arriving on our front porch to offer their condolences Saturday night, as soon as we got back from the hospital. My dad was beloved in Rockaway, a place that is exceptionally good when things are difficult. The food arrived on Sunday and it hasn’t stopped, and we’ve heard from so many people who loved and respected my dad. That’s all made this a little easier. The bittersweet part is knowing how much he would have loved the full house, all the food, and all the stories, photos, and home videos we shared and watched while thinking of him.

My dad showed effortless kindness, warmth, and generosity for everybody. He was always there for the people in his life, with money or food or a ride or a joke. We’ve seen that come back to us this week, in so many ways, and that part has been incredibly beautiful.

His wake was packed, with so many members of the organizations he was a part of like the Knights of Columbus and American Legion. For years, my dad would travel around New York City and Long Island attending the funerals of other Legionnaires for a poppy ceremony. On Wednesday he had his own. We also met people for the first time who knew my dad from walking the dogs, and so many people who know me got to learn about the incredible person my dad was. I know he was proud of me and my sister, and his grandson Riordan, and of course my mom, but we were also so incredibly proud of him.

At his funeral, my mom read from the first letter of St. Paul to the Corinthians, about faith, hope, and love — “but the greatest of these is love.”

The musical director played “Be Not Afraid.” “Blest are you that weep and mourn/For one day you shall laugh.” And of course he played “On Eagles Wings.” We ended with “The Parting Glass,” a traditional Irish funeral song with so many different versions. My mom said she and my dad heard one a few weeks ago sung by women, and after some playing we found the one my dad liked, from boygenius and Ye Vagabonds. We paused in the back of the church behind his coffin as it played. “Good night and joy be to you all” is all you can ask for, in this life and the next.

I know the hard part, in many ways, starts now. Life resumes and we adjust to a new way of living. I spoke to my mom this week about how my dad lived a full life, and in a world full of daily tragedies this one doesn’t seem so bad. We’d rather focus on everything we did get to do with him as opposed to any bitterness. But it’s never enough time.

What I do know is we loved each other and had amazing moments while he was alive. And we sent my dad off well on his next journey, supported by the love of everyone still here and everyone he’ll see when he gets there.

There is so much we don’t understand about death, with the mysteries of faith doing a lot of the heavy lifting. I do believe his energy remains, and I hope to see him in multiple ways for the rest of my life.

So come say hi whenever you’re ready, dad. I’ll be here.