Papa

Our papa may have been a man of few words, but his life was a living example to us.  He was a doer by nature. He was  a hard worker both on the job and at home.   

He was busy doing dishes, or sweeping floors, doing yardwork, piddling away in the garage, or taking us out on cardboard hunts. The station wagon, a back yard perfect to get lost in, and a bar with slippery floors for spinning were a kid’s delight.  Growing up, his bark was way bigger than his bite. He teased us, he gave heavy handed birthday spankings and if you passed by him too closely, you might get a, “skeetz. . .”  

Papa was present in all the moments that mattered most to us.  I remember fondly the day I gave birth to Anjalene, his first great grand-daughter, named in part for his love, Angela.  He sat in the waiting room until after midnight to welcome her into this world. And my brothers would agree, he was at birthday parties, games, confirmations, graduations, weddings, and births until his knees started slowing  him down.  Alan and I will always have the memory of vacationing in Hawaii with him.  Seeing Pearl Harbor after years of hearing his war stories was a moment we won’t soon forget. There were always stories of serving in Italy with John Wayne told time after time. Papa’s love of westerns ran deep and were often playing when we stopped by for a visit. It was easy to get lost in a “shoot em up cowboy” movie with him. 

But in the end, it wasn’t Papa’s service that made him one of the bravest men we knew. At 91, he  willingly and confidently stared death eye to eye day in and day out over the last couple of years.  Bravery became waking up each day and still being here, despite a set of knees that were becoming increasingly uncooperative and were limiting his ability to get out and socialize. To be brave is to confidently know where we are going when this life is over, palms uplifted, to offer ourselves as the sacrifice.  That is bravery.  And there he was, glasses on, prayer book in place, rosary in hands: praying.  His very life had become a living prayer.

His body ached and the only thing that probably brought any type of real joy to his confined life the last four months was the hope of heaven.   We didn't see fear when we looked into his eyes. There was  a peace about him because he knew what awaits.  He knew there would be a grand reception and his soul would be set free from the body that was failing him in his old age.   He was ready.  He wanted to be called home.  He wanted God to usher him into the promised land. 

So from bed, he prayed diligently.  He prayed with a steadfastness and conviction that only comes from knowing and believing in our God.  He didn’t fear his death.  He welcomed it.  And that brings us comfort. . . that God would guide papa to the ultimate peace, the peace we have looked for our entire lives, but could not be found until our final moment on this earth.  His homecoming, surrounded by all of our love and prayers, was a beautiful moment.

The last words he spoke to me mid-week when I asked, “How are you?” was his traditional response, only this time whispered, “Still here.”  It was in that moment that his answer became the window into his soul.  He had poured into our lives in his own silent, strong way since the day of our births.  The power and depth of his words weren’t lost on me.  He will always be here, in our hearts for as long as we live and his legacy will be his love.