Dear Pawpaw:
A month or so ago it was your birthday.
You would have been 82 years old here on earth. You are a little over 7 months
old in Heaven. You died on March 5th—seems at once forever ago and
just yesterday. Time is a fickle beast.
Did they throw you a party up there to
celebrate? Lasagna with green beans (and spaghetti sauce drizzled over top the
green beaners)? Neapolitan ice cream for dessert, straight out of the carton?
Pavarotti and Andrea Bocelli over the loud speakers? I hope so.
I know this tribute is long overdue but I
just couldn’t bring myself to write it until now. The thoughts, memories and words
have been in me all along, but time and some perspective is what I needed for
them to come to surface—and for me to come to terms. Death has (thankfully)
been a stranger to our family—and that means that the process of mourning and
grieving was (also thankfully) relatively new to me. I’m learning the grieving
process takes time. I’m learning one day I’m fine and the next I still cry for
you my ugly cry in the shower. I’m learning one day you may cross my mind but
once and another day you are all I can think about. Thoughts of you can sometimes
hit me at the strangest moments. When we were in Florida for vacation in May, I
was in the habit of running almost every day. One day on my run I couldn’t stop
thinking about you. I was thinking about all the signs I’ve gotten from you
since you’ve been gone, and I dunno, I just really, really missed you in that
moment. I got this overwhelming sense of longing, an aching in my heart. Then I
couldn’t help the tears, they just unleashed. Passersby probably thought,
“Honey, if running makes you this upset and hurts this much, you oughta stop.”
That’s when I remembered a conversation we had at you and Mamaw’s kitchen table
shortly after I started running cross country in high school. I was telling you
how I loved running so much more than I thought I ever would; that it gave me a
sense of freedom and accomplishment unlike any other sport I’d played. I was
urging you to try it. You looked at me square in the face, smiled, and said,
“The minute I see a runner who looks happy while he’s running is when I’ll consider
trying it.” I had to laugh right then and there in the middle of my run, tears
streaming down my face, my ugly cry very much publicly on display. I imagined
you in Heaven laughing your deep belly laugh and thinking, “Oh, Steph, you see?
A runner never looks happy.” The ugly cry stopped immediately and was overtaken
by an ear to ear grin. Even from up in Heaven your sense of humor is not lost
on me.
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| My Pawpaw as the cowardly Lion. What a guy. |
Even with the passing of time and the
perspective and knowledge of what life is now like on earth without you, I
still worry I will not do you justice. I worry this tribute will be rife with
clichés. Doesn’t seem fair, considering you were the most original man I know.
You were our family’s spiritual beacon, a true Italian patriarch, my very own
gentle giant—with a heart of gold, a faith unmatched by anyone I’ve ever met,
clergy or layman, and an appetite for life’s adventures, known and unknown (and
also a healthy appetite for Mamaw’s—or anyone’s—cooking!), always with good
humor. This is what’s great about granddaughters—we only ever see the good in
our grandparents. So here goes my best attempt at a tribute, one chapter at a
time.
Chapter
One: Con Te Partiro—Time to Say Goodbye
There is this beautiful song by Andrea
Bocelli called ‘Con Te Partiro.’ I have loved this song for ages and ages, but
even more so ever since your disease started to progress, probably because the
English version of the song is translated as ‘Time to Say Goodbye.’ It is the
theme song that accompanied your decline—it helped prepare me for your life’s
end. Despite its association with your death, I still adore it. If you know the
song, you know why. It is just perfection. Have
a listen. (Also, Pawpaw, you will get a kick out of the cameo
Bocelli made with Elmo on Sesame Street with ‘Time
to Say Goodnight.’)
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| Bocelli + Sesame Street= two of your faves |
My favorite verse:
Con te
partiro
Paesi
che non ho mai
veduto
e vissuto con te,
adesso
si li vivro
Roughly translated by me as:
With
you, I shall part
To
countries that I have not seen or visited with you,
And now,
yes, I will live them (with you)
The question is, are you singing this to me?
Or I to you? Or does it really matter? The point is, you know me and you know I
love to travel. So now, on all of my travels I am assured you will accompany me.
I know you accompanied Mom, too, on her trip to Assisi over the summer. That’s
the bonus about you being in Heaven, I guess. While you don’t get to accompany
us on earth in mind and body, you DO get to accompany us on earth, eternal
soul. I will never ever feel lonely on my travels again.
***
I started to say goodbye to you in November
of last year. It was Thanksgiving. I remember being so incredibly grateful that
we got to visit with you—that’s a day about giving thanks, after all. My heart
burst seeing you watch our kids that night. Thanksgiving is a busy holiday for the Goetzes,
but something told me we should better get to Julie’s house to be able to see
you before they took you back to the nursing home. We were so tired and it was
our last stop of the night—but the best one, seeing that look on your face when
watching Pili.
 |
| You seeing P, Turkey Day 2012 |
I dunno, I just had this feeling. I think it was either then, or
at Christmas, that I wrote you the last card I would ever write you. In that
card I told you that every time I saw a Speed Limit sign, all I could think of
was ‘Deeps Timil’ (you liked to flip words around and play games with them). I
told you that, despite the body you were living in, the body that was betraying
you and not allowing you to be able to speak well or do things for yourself,
that whenever I looked at you I saw beyond that and remembered the sharp-witted
man that lived for puns on words who was my Pawpaw. I told you that you’d
always taught me to be brave like the Lion in Wizard of Oz—and that the Lion’s soliloquy often runs through my head when I have to muster up the courage to do
something that takes me out of my comfort zone. (And at the end of Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy bids Lion, farewell he tells her that he wouldn't have found his courage if it weren't for her; well, I feel the same way about you.) I made Mom read the card to you
since you probably couldn’t make out the small writing yourself. Afterwards,
she tacked it on your bulletin board at the nursing home. I never actually went
into your room there, but I can imagine how it hung on your wall, amidst the
pictures and cards from others. (They say your room at Hillebrand was decked to
the nines and really was as close to homey as it could be—I’m not surprised.
Your kids loved you so; they just wanted you to be as comfortable as possible.) Why am I telling you what was in the card? You have it with you. I left it for
you in your casket to take with you to Heaven—something tangible from me, along
with the mug I bought you with the Lion on it. I bought that same mug right
after you died so that I would have one of my own. It sits next to my computer
monitor at work. It gives me great comfort to know that we have something that
is the same. Maybe you drink coffee from yours? Or eat ice cream from it? Or
does it still hold your rosary? Mine serves to provide me with smiles and
encouragement throughout the day. A cup of Pawpaw.
 |
| The mug: my daily dose of Pawpaw |
The first full weekend into 2013, Jack and I were
helping to lead the St. Charles Confirmation II group on their retreat at St.
Meinrad. We give a talk at that retreat every year about ‘love’ (actually, it’s
more about Theology of the Body, and abstaining from sex before marriage, and
treating your body and self with respect, etc., etc.—is your foot tapping yet?
You always did that when something that made you kind of squirmy came up in
conversation. Your daughters will remember this about you.). It’s one of Jack
and I’s favorite weekends of the year—and I know that our involvement in catechesis
made you proud. I suppose, then, it’s not so strange to think that you were on
my mind an awful lot that weekend. The grounds of that place are beautiful and
transformative things happen there for the young people in our parish on that
particular retreat. I felt you and Mamaw there with me, most especially you.
Maybe it was a premonition? I had no idea that 2013 was the year that we would
lose you, and had no idea how soon after that retreat it would be. Time to Say
Goodbye was humming through my head during many of our prayer breaks that
weekend.
We came into Cincy for a long weekend at the
end of January—and prior to coming in town, Mom told me I should definitely
make it a priority to see you. Mom doesn’t say things like that unless she
means them, so her and I packed up the kids one of the days we were in town and
went with Maria to Hillebrand. Jack didn’t want to come. He didn’t like seeing
you so fragile and so, well, not you. I hope you know that he loved you all the
same, he just preferred to preserve a different image of you—after all, you and
Mamaw were the only grandparents he had these past ten years.
During the visit, we read books to the kids.
And you did your best to make small talk with us and answer questions I was
asking you. ‘You been readin’ much? (I knew better than to ask you that
question; you couldn’t read at all. But that’s always a topic we would approach together, so it made me feel happy inside to ask you.) They taking good care of
you here? How’s the food? How’s Lauren (your favorite speech therapist and my
bestest friend in the whole world—how fortuitous that she got to take care of
you—did you know she said that you taught her far more than she could have
possibly taught you? She, as opposed to me, was prepared to talk about you the
day of your funeral.)? What music are you listening to these days?’ Miss P let
you hold her and Joe gave you hugs goodbye. I walked away from that day
wondering if it would be the last time I saw you. I just didn’t know—it was the
middle of flu/cold season and you were wearing down. Turns out it wasn’t the
last time I would see you, but it was the last time we would converse. I still
squeeze my eyes closed, squinting, trying so hard to remember what your voice
sounded like that day when you said my name and said ‘Love you!’ I cannot hear
it in my head, so I just search farther and farther back in my archives and
remember the way you sounded when I was a little girl in pigtails, or even a
college girl calling to check in on you: “STEFFF!” you would say with such
genuine happiness, and such enthusiasm, and such LOVE. It made me smile. “How
you doin’, Pawpaw?” I would ask. “Wonnerful,” you would say. And I loved when
you would answer the phone “Yello?!” and hang up with “Love ewe!” *Smile.* The
kids prayed for you before bed nearly every night from that point forward.
We didn’t plan to come back into town until
Jack’s birthday after that long weekend visit in January, which wasn’t until
the end of March. But you were in and out of the hospital and by the end of
February, that gut feeling I had that just wouldn’t budge, the one that had me
checking in with Mom multiple times a day about how you were doing, told me I
should come home again. I talked with Mom on the phone and she said yes, it was
probably necessary for us to come home. She needed only say the word. Since I
had a hunch it would be the last time I would see you, I wanted to bring you
something. That’s when I bought you the mug with the cowardly lion on it. It
said ‘Courageous.’ It seemed only appropriate, as you would be preparing to
pass over to the other side and would need to be brave, like the Lion.
We canceled the plans we had for the weekend
and made the trek into Cincy, sick kiddos and all. On Saturday, Maria and I went
to the hospital to see you. As soon as I saw you, I knew your time was coming
soon. I set your mug on the ledge of your shelf, placed your rosary inside of
it, then went to your side. You weren’t coherent the entire time I was there,
yet I know, I just know, that you were aware of my presence. They had that
awful hospital channel on the awful hospital TV playing the most awful hospital
music, meanwhile that awful hospital smell lingered in the air. As I stroked
your short, buzzed hair and rubbed your soft skin while I listened to (more
like couldn’t ignore) the fluid in your lungs, I decided to put on some decent
music for you. I turned on my Pandora, the Andrea Bocelli channel to be
specific (a channel that would have never been created if not for you!), and
then things didn’t seem so bad. Maria and I sat with you for a while, one of us
on each side of you, until it was time for us to head back to Mom and Bill’s
house so that I could catch back up with Jack and the kids. The last song that
my Pandora played was Bocelli’s own ‘Con Te Partiro.’ Time to Say Goodbye. My
heart suddenly became overwhelmingly heavy in my own body and the tears came
gushing. You squeezed my hand upon hearing it—the only acknowledgement you gave
me the entire time I was with you that day. Indeed, it was Time to Say Goodbye.
Maria left the room. I had my last moments with you while we had some privacy.
I don’t remember much about what I said to you, other than I asked (more like
begged) you to give me signs once you were gone to let me know you were doing
okay. I knew you would be fine—I wasn’t sure we would be, though. I needed you
to show me you were okay. Show me you have!
Sunday I woke up and stumbled downstairs to
Mom and Bill’s kitchen, heart still heavy. On the TV was a clip about it being
the 75th anniversary of the release of The Wizard of Oz. You were
already giving me a sign. I went to the hospital to see you again and that’s
when the whole family met with a social worker who told us it would probably be
best for you to be moved to the Hospice unit of the hospital. In niceties, they
explained that most patients who moved to Hospice at the hospital didn’t leave.
We wheeled you to your room. I kissed you goodbye and looked out the window. I
could see my high school, Mother of Mercy, in the distance. Another sign, a
nice comfort. Yes, have Mercy, I prayed to Jesus. Yes, Con Te Partiro, I said
to you under my breath and also as a prayer. A prayer to Him to take you with
dignity. A prayer to help me let go.
Chapter
Two: The Wizard of Odds
You went into hospice February 24th.
They warned us that your body would start shutting down within a few days. The
family who lived in town (all of your kids, and all of your grandkids except
me) began to set up nightly vigils. Meanwhile, I was heading into a brutal
stretch of work that was going to have me on the road interviewing candidates
for six days straight. I checked in every couple of hours—Mom and I would trade
texts:
“Status?”
“Breathing shallow. Not doing well.”
“When is your best guess?”
“Hard to say.”
After days of this, my mind going in
overdrive trying to figure out how I would get someone to cover for me if your
funeral were to fall in the stretch of days I was going to be out of town, I
dubbed you ‘The Wizard of Odds.’ Fitting, considering how much you loved the Wizard
of Oz, how you passed your love for that movie on to me (my very first theme
birthday party was a Wizard of Oz one; I the wicked witch, you, of course, the
Lion), and how just a few months earlier—the same weekend Jack and I were at
St. Meinrad and you were on my mind so much, in fact—my kids became enamored
with the film, too. Joe loves the Tinman because he carries an ax. Pili love
Glinda because she looks like a princess. I love Dorothy now more than ever: I
appreciate her stubbornness, her loyalty, her dash of wanderlust. As the kids
get older, they will love different characters for different reasons. They will
understand that Dorothy’s entourage on her journey to Oz is really just her
family from home in disguise. What a beautiful lesson to learn—that our family
is always with us on our journey, they just come to us through the gift of
others who were gracefully put in our caminos’ way by God’s very own hands. I
adore that film, thanks to you, Pawpaw. Each time I watch it, I am able to peel
apart another complex layer of meaning.
“How is he still hanging on?” I would text
Mom. “He must be waiting to see someone. Making peace with his maker. Preparing
for his spiritual journey.” Mom said during your early days in the hospital,
before being transferred to the hospice unit, your eyes would dart around the
room, and you would look up at the ceiling and wag your finger at something.
She swears up and down you were telling your angel that you weren’t ready yet
and to back off, to return later. You must have needed just a tad bit more time
to tie up loose ends. It turns out your body wasn’t relying on its physical
reserves to keep you going, it was relying on your spiritual reserves. Knowing
that, it’s no wonder you hung on for nearly a week and a half after you went
into hospice; you had spiritual reserves a plenty.
Meanwhile, what a strange mix of emotions I
was experiencing: I wanted you to hang on, to somehow miraculously be pulled
out of your pneumonia, to keep you on this earth forever and ever because,
well, it’s just a better earth with Pawpaws like you on it; but I also wanted
you to travel to the other side—you were so tired, so ready, and from what
Maria tells me about the conversations you had with her, you weren’t scared.
You spent your whole life on earth preparing for eternal life in Heaven, just
as we are called to do—to get to see your parents, to meet your God and finally
be Home (Dorothy tell us, after all, there there’s no place like Home); I could
just imagine you in Heaven, walking freely and without pain, talking clearly
and with your usual wit. As time slowly crept forward, I very selfishly wanted
you to go because I was starting to panic that you would die while I was away
and I consequently wouldn’t be able to make it to your funeral. With every
passing day, I felt a weight pressing heavier and heavier on my chest. My
family could sense it. Mom, Bill, Maria—they all tried to assure me that I
didn’t have to be at your funeral to prove that I loved you, that our
relationship would never be reduced to mere ‘attendance’ at such an event, that
our family wouldn’t be upset with me if I couldn’t make it. But they were all
missing the point—I wasn’t worried about how others would perceive my absence.
I certainly wasn’t worried what you would think. I was worried about what I
would think, how I would cope, how I would move on and find closure if I
couldn’t be at your funeral mass. Selfish? Yes. But sometimes we need to know
ourselves well enough to know that if selfish is what we need to be in order to
be able to move forward, then selfish it is. A dear colleague and friend
reminded me of that the weekend before you passed—and he was the colleague and
friend that ended up filling in for me so that I could be at your funeral. His
dad passed in hospice a year before, almost to the day, that you did. I am
forever grateful to him (Kee-lay, muchas gracias).
Friday, March 1st came around—and
I was talking with Mom about whether or not I should come home to see you one
last time. “Do you feel at peace with the last time you saw him (referring to
less than a week before)?” Yes, I did. And plus, Jack and I were scheduled to give
a talk on March 2nd to 15+ engaged couples at our parish’s marriage
retreat. The topic? Marriage as a sacrament and vocation. Talking it over with
Jack, we clearly came to the conclusion that you would agree those couples
needed to hear our message more than you and I needed to see each other again,
especially since your and Mamaw’s marriage has always proved such an
inspiration to us. Around 11:00 that night, Mom called. She was upset, sounded
distressed. Said you weren’t doing well, breathing shallow and taking gulps.
“Pray him over,” I told her. The whole family was there and they put me on
speaker. I excused myself to our bedroom while Jack stayed with the kids—and we
all said an Our Father together. I got off the phone, convinced you were ready.
When I got no text for an hour or two, I tried my best to sleep. I threw my
hands up in the air and said to God, “What is he waiting for?!?!” That night I dreamt of you. I dreamt I came across
you in our upstairs hallway, you were sitting in the far corner in your
wheelchair and you were just laughing your deep belly laugh, as if to say, “Do
you think you have a say in this, Steph? Do you think I do? Do you think anyone
does? I’ll go when I go.” You were not mocking me, not being mean or
condescending, just not-so-subtly reminding me that God is in charge here. I
woke up and checked my phone for a text. Nothing. But I did find a super
cryptic e-mail from a colleague that I hadn’t heard from in a long time. Was
that some sort of sign you were sending me? I was sure you were passing right
at that moment. I got chills. I woke up Jack. But nothing.
We woke up the next morning a bit tired and
ragged, not sure how our talk would go. I prayed to you right before we were
‘on’ and wondered if you would become an angel in the 30 minutes we were set to
talk. You didn’t. I spoke of you and Mamaw’s advice to us in preparing to get
married: “There is, and will always need to be, three people in your marriage:
you, your spouse, and God.” Jack and I both spoke of how you have to call on
your spiritual reserves when the going gets tough in marriage, that you have to
rely on the covenant you as a couple have spent so much time nourishing to
nourish you when your own reserves are depleted. The talk was a success, I
think. We got lots of compliments. Jack and I seem to be able to hit just the
right note for these kinds of things, speaking with raw emotion and genuine
hearts. Thank you for letting me draw on your spiritual reserves that day. I
knew right away we made the right choice to stay in Bloomington that weekend,
even though it was your last. And you know what message I kept hearing in each
and every talk that the other couples gave that day? And the talk that Fr. Tom
gave? To be open to life. We had been discerning whether or not we wanted to
add to our family, and to hear those messages loud and clear made me smile. Was
that you trying to talk to us? And will you help us to know when the time is
right to try? I’ll be listening for you. Thank you for giving me that little
Lesson Before Dying (do you remember how we both loved that book?).
Then I had another dream. You came to my bedside in the dream—I was sleeping peacefully, Pili by my side.
You were in your wheelchair, but looked about how old you were when I was
little. You looked so happy and healthy. I told you goodbye, told you that you
should go Home. You just smiled and did another deep, belly laugh. Then you
rubbed my arm, your skin soft as ever, and wheeled away, dream over. I wanted
the dream to last forever. Ah, the power of dreams. It was so great to see you so joyful and alive.
Sunday rolled around, as did Monday. More of
the same texts traded back and forth, but less panic from me since I finally
surrendered to God’s plan for your departure. And Mom kept saying that you
looked more peaceful than ever. I fell asleep putting Joseph to bed on Monday
night. We prayed for you and I drifted to sleep in Joe’s room, cell phone in
hand. Something jolted me awake at about 4:00 a.m. I instinctively checked my
phone, which was never out of my hands during those last few days you were
alive.
3:50. Mom: “Say a prayer. He’s close to
meeting his maker. Heading to the hospital to be with him now.”
4:21. Steph:
“Mom—how’s he doing?”
4:37. Mom: “We’re at the
hospital. Not breathing well.”
Steph: “Did you know
the saint for March 5th is St. John Joseph of the cross? He was a
Franciscan priest. From Italy.” (Yes, I had just Googled whose saint day was
March 5th at 4:37 a.m.)
Mom: “He’s in peace
now.”
Steph: “He got his
angel’s wings?”
Mom: “Yes. Godspeed.”
Steph: “Godspeed is
right. Did everyone get to be there?”
Mom: “Yes. We all
said our goodbyes and said a few prayers with him.”
Steph: “I said some
prayers from here. You did it! You prayed him through. Just how we would have
wanted it, I’m sure. Wish I could be there. He’ll be our special angel from now
on…”
I called Mom then and she said you went
peacefully, that as soon as Lori walked in the door, you took your last breath.
Maria told me the same, through simultaneous tears and smiles. I went back to Jack
and I’s bed and slept the most restful sleep that I had in days. Before closing
my eyes, I prayed that I could live as long a life as you did, have as joyous a
marriage as you did, have children who loved me as much as yours did and die as
dignified a death as you did. I didn’t tell Jack right then because I didn’t
want to have to say the words out loud. I woke up feeling relieved—for you, for
me, for all of us. You went over the rainbow, and left us, your scarecrows,
tinmen, Dorothys and Totos, to learn what life was like without you. All we
could hope was that indeed, there was no place like Home, because that was
where you were headed.
Chapter
Three: On Earth as it is in Heaven
The day after you died, I was on the road to
start my six day interviewing tour for work. In the day between your death and
my departure for northern Indiana, I talked out loud to you a lot because it
made me feel better. I would ask you questions: “What’s in like up there,
Pawpaw?” “How did you get there?” “Who was your special angel to take you to
the other side?” “Are you having fun?” “Are you worried about us?” I also could
not stop listening to the soundtrack to The Mission, a movie and soundtrack
that you introduced to me. And of course, Bocelli was on constant replay on
YouTube.
When I left for northern Indiana, your
funeral date had still not been decided. I prayed to you that you’d pull some
strings and somehow make it work so that I could be there. I could not, just
could not miss the Mass that bridged your life on earth to your life in Heaven.
On
Earth as it is in Heaven—my favorite track from The Mission and the
one that ran through my head every waking moment of that trip. One day in, and
I found out that the funeral was going to be on Saturday. Perfect. The one and
only colleague that was going to be able to cover me couldn’t do it unless it
was on a weekend. So it went like this: Wednesday morning my colleague (bless Ryan!
He helped me smile—and we ate some damn good food all the while) and I set off
from Btown for Gary. We arrived to Gary later that day and conducted interviews
until early evening. Thursday morning we also did interviews in Gary, Indiana,
and after interviews we drove to South Bend for the next set. Friday morning,
we interviewed in South Bend. After the interviews there, we drove to Fort
Wayne and I dropped off my colleague at the hotel, then left my car there. The
other colleague who covered for me drove from B-town to Fort Wayne after work
on Friday night so he could cover for me on Saturday and Sunday. Colleen and
Jason (Ft. Wayners, remember) picked me up at about 7:00 p.m. on Friday at the
hotel and we all three drove to the Nati together to make it to your funeral
Saturday morning. We arrived to the Nati close to 11:00 p.m. It wasn’t until
then that I even saw the two readings that I was doing at your Mass the next
morning. I practiced them a few times out loud before going to bed—I cried each
time. Hard. Uf—would I keep it together the next day?
 |
| On Earth as it is in Heaven |
We got up the next morning bright and early
to go to the funeral home. It was super important to Colleen and I that they
promise not to close your casket after your visitation, which was Friday, since
we couldn’t be there. We wanted to say goodbye to your earthly body, and I
wanted to give you your mug and a note that I’d written you. That was hard,
Pawpaw. I don’t know why it was, but it was hard. What broke my heart the most
was, after all of us said our goodbyes, there sat Mamaw in her wheelchair, her
head down, her hand on your casket. I imagined you as
Dorothy saying her goodbyes as she gets ready to get in her balloon to go back
to Kansas. She leans over to the Scarecrow, who I imagined was Mamaw, and says “I
think I’ll miss you most of all,” then she kisses him sweetly. My
heart hurt for her more than anyone. I was devastated just watching. How was
she going to live life without her husband of just one and a half months shy of
60 years? How? How, how, how? I found Jack and embraced him.
On to the funeral Mass we went. St. Al’s was
pretty crowded. How could it not be? You were so loved. It all seemed so
surreal—like an out of body experience, as if I were seeing it all play out
from above the church, looking down from a bird’s eye view. Before I knew it, I
was up for the first reading. Up until I stood up, I wasn’t sure how it was
going to go—but when I stood up, I knew: Joe and P had spilled Cheerios ALL
OVER. I smiled as I stepped on them with my big black boot—CrrrrrrrrUNCH,
CrrrrrrUNCH. Countless times I had spilled Cheerios on the floor of St. Al’s
church when going with you, Mamaw and Mom as a child—and without fail, EVERY
time we would get up for Communion, you would step on them and chuckle. Thanks
for that message (or sign, if you will), Pawpaw. It gave me the nudge I needed
to deliver both the first and second readings with the conviction and poise
that you deserved. While doing your readings, I took a look out at the audience,
tried to connect with them—so many familiar faces: my Dad (he always adored
you), Lauren (Mama D came with her—bless them both), Robin (mom’s best friend
and probably spent enough time at your house to call her your seventh child),
and of course all of our family spilling out of the pews—and it made my heart
full to know that your life was being celebrated with all of them.
I learned something new about you during the
homily. While I knew that you and Mamaw were partial to Franciscans, I didn’t
realize you were actually a third
order Franciscan. Impressive. As the priest was talking about that, I pictured
all the St. Francis trinkets around your and Mamaw’s house and again, I smiled.
Do you know how many signs that you’ve sent me (and Mom) over the last sixth
months to assure me you are okay by having St. Francis intercede? Let’s count:
1. The election of Pope Francis. Were you wearing your ‘Team Francis’ shirt, cheering for him in Heaven? I’m quite certain the answer to that is a resounding ‘yes.’ I bet you just love him, don’t you? A real servant of the Lord. A humble gent, a solid, good dude. Fran the Man.
2. A
few weeks after your death, a plea to donate money came from Catholic Relief
Services via mail, and included was the prayer of St. Francis and a picture of
Pope Francis. Both are now on our refrigerator.
3. Two of the three times that Jack and I have gone to Mass just the two of us (i.e., been able to pay attention, instead of breaking up kiddo skirmishes and picking up—you guessed it—Cheerios from the floor) in the past sixth months, the readings, homilies and songs have all traced back to St. Francis. First was at St. Monica, St. George in Clifton. Then it was St. Thomas the Apostle in Ann Arbor, MI. Each of those times, we had contemplated going to other Masses at other times—but we ended up at those specific ones. Why? To hear those messages, straight from you. The older I get, the more I understand that there are no coincidences in this life.
4. Mom’s trip to Assisi with Bill over the summer. That story is her story to tell, but I will tell you that after she described her transcendent experience there, it went on my bucket list to visit.
5. Earlier
this month, you were on my mind a lot and I couldn’t figure out why. I was on
my way to a School Commission meeting at St. Charles, and only on my way to the
meeting did I remember that I had signed up to bring opening prayer. Oops. I
got there and in my bag I found the Prayer of St. Francis. I bet that I had put
it in there a few days earlier, knowing that if I didn’t put it in then, I
would forget. I held it together reading the prayer until the last line, when
my voice cracked a bit. I’m sure the other commission members thought I was
just having an emotional day. When the meeting began, I opened my calendar to
jot some notes down and there it was—the date was September 5th. Six
month anniversary. That’s why I had been thinking about you a lot.
1. The election of Pope Francis. Were you wearing your ‘Team Francis’ shirt, cheering for him in Heaven? I’m quite certain the answer to that is a resounding ‘yes.’ I bet you just love him, don’t you? A real servant of the Lord. A humble gent, a solid, good dude. Fran the Man.
 |
| He's a good Pope! Even kinda looks like you! |
3. Two of the three times that Jack and I have gone to Mass just the two of us (i.e., been able to pay attention, instead of breaking up kiddo skirmishes and picking up—you guessed it—Cheerios from the floor) in the past sixth months, the readings, homilies and songs have all traced back to St. Francis. First was at St. Monica, St. George in Clifton. Then it was St. Thomas the Apostle in Ann Arbor, MI. Each of those times, we had contemplated going to other Masses at other times—but we ended up at those specific ones. Why? To hear those messages, straight from you. The older I get, the more I understand that there are no coincidences in this life.
4. Mom’s trip to Assisi with Bill over the summer. That story is her story to tell, but I will tell you that after she described her transcendent experience there, it went on my bucket list to visit.
 |
| St. Thomas the Apostle, Ann Arbor, MI |
I like that I’ve
gotten to know St. Francis better through you, and that he is helping you to
communicate to me, and me to you. It’s neat.
 |
| La Basilica, Zaragoza: you spoke to me there, too |
Back to your funeral
Mass—
When Fr. blessed you
with incense, I had this flashback that brings me chills when even thinking
about it now. The rich smell of that incense, and the way the light was coming
subtly through the church took me back to La Basilica del Pilar, Zaragoza,
Spain, February of 2002: I was studying abroad in Spain that quarter, and
really struggling in my faith. We took a sponsored excursion to Zaragoza,
Spain, and Lauren, who must have had a sixth sense about her that I was
struggling in my camino of faith,
asked me to go to Mass with her at the Basilica. I don’t think I’ve ever had
such a profound experience at a Mass before. You were on my mind the whole
time, as you were my spiritual role model and anchor, even during my times of
doubt—and in the middle of the Mass, right about when I was imagining you
praying with your rosary, this beautiful white dove (well, it was probably a
pigeon that had made its way in from the plaza, but it’s prettier to imagine a
dove) flew over the congregation. I was in awe. You were talking to me, and it
was then and there that I decided I would want to name my first daughter
(should I ever have one) Pilar, after that Basilica. Fast forward nearly 11
years later to your funeral Mass and the incense, the light—it felt like I was
at the Basilica in Spain, honest to goodness. I closed my eyes tight and
indulged in the memory. I pictured a swooping dove. The rising of our family
next to me in the pew woke me from my sweet reverie, and we then moved to
process out of the church. Just like that, and your funeral Mass was over. It
was in and of itself a trip down memory lane—the Cheerios, the flashback to Spain
in 2002, the very special songs and readings we chose that were so ‘you,’
seeing so many loved ones filling the pews. It was a beautiful Mass, Pawpaw. It
was a fitting way to bridge your physical and eternal life. On Earth as it is
in Heaven.
Chapter
Four: Left Behind
I remember as a youngin’ seeing the series of
books called ‘Left Behind’ on your bookshelves. They sat on your shelves for
years and years, and I made it a point to someday read them. I haven’t thus
far, but the name of the series stands out to me as a good way of describing
what the mourning process was like for me in Bloomington. I'm not throwing a pity party for myself, I'm just keeping it real. It was kinda tough.
I was keenly aware of the fact that it would
help me to grieve if I could grieve in community—but being hours away from the
family, it was hard to do. While you were in hospice, the road trippin’ down
memory lane started with Mom, her siblings and the grandkids talking into the
nights about their memories with you. They had bubble gum blowing contests,
fits of laughter talking about camping trips, family reunions, etc., and of
course many meals were had in the hospital—some in your own room—given eating
is a favorite Tallarigo pastime. All the while, life carried on as usual in
Bloomington and in between the ins and outs of our daily routines of wiping
noses (and butts!), changing diapers, etc., I didn’t have much of a chance to reflect,
to prepare, to grieve. The brief moments I did have to process my feelings with
Jack were fleeting—and my feelings were difficult to articulate with him, given
I knew you my whole life and Jack only knew you for ten years of it. On the
other hand, being a wife, mothering our kids, and keeping up my far more than 9
to 5 job was a helpful coping mechanism. Blessing or curse, being farther away
from the Nati and keeping up with our busy life in B-town left me feeling a
bit, well, Left Behind. So when you did pass, I felt like I had a lot of
catching up on grieving to do. I had a lot to process.
Your funeral was imperative for me in having
some closure, but what I cherished perhaps
more than being able to be present at your funeral (and didn't necessarily anticipate) was hearing what you meant
to other people, in their own words. The brief less than 48 hours I was in
Cincy, many a story about you was regaled, and by many a folk. My favorites
were the stories we told about you, Colleen, Swish and I, on the drive back to
Ft. Wayne, where I was going to meet back up with my colleagues and finish out
the interview tour for candidates applying to my Program. Swish and Colleen
told me about conversations they had with you that will always stick with them,
conversations I didn't even know you had with them, conversations that didn’t at all surprise me about the kind of man you were,
but still made me smile extra big and feel like I got to know you in a whole new way. I
knew you as a great man—but somehow after you passed on, you became even
greater to me.
Jack and I were on a mini-vacation the past
couple of days, days I’ve used to sit back and reflect on many things going in
our lives recently, but especially this post about you. I got an idea to
contact each of your grandchildren to see what their number one favorite thing
about you is/was—what you have left us behind, if you will. I have LOVED
getting everyone’s responses; it’s remembering, knowing and loving you all over
again. From youngest grandkid to oldest, here goes:
 |
| You and your first great grandchild, Joseph |
Joe and P don’t have a lot of memories of
you—they are just wee little ones, after all. Joe says what he remembers of you
“is that he’s not on earth anymore.” He comments on you being his special
angel, and when I tell him you are in Heaven with Jesus, he says, “I don’t want
to go to Heaven.” The first time he said this, I was kind of in shock. My jaw
dropped, actually. Joe could sense I thought his response was odd, and he then
further clarified, “I don’t want to go to Heaven because I want to stay on
earth forever, with you and Daddy and Pili.” Ahhh, it was then that I
understood. When he said that he didn’t want to go to Heaven, he wasn’t
implying that he wanted to go to, well, you know…he was implying that he didn’t
want to die at all. Bless that little buddy—I figured that we could go a bit
deeper into that conversation another day, when his mind was a bit more ready
to wrap around it. Joe does pray for you quite often, though. And for whatever
reason, he’s got it in his mind that you are friends with the dinosaurs in
Heaven (he’s also got it in his mind that all the dinosaurs went to Heaven after
they were destroyed on earth). He thinks your favorite dinosaur is the
triceratops and that you play with the triceratops in Heaven. Is that true?
 |
| Pawpaw and the P girl: two peas in a pod |
Pili doesn’t say much when we ask her about
you. She tends to repeat ‘special angel, special angel,’ after Joe. Yet,
whenever I show her the pic of you and her on the fridge, she knows EXACTLY who
you are. “Pawpaw!” she says when she points to you. It’s the sweetest thing. Breaks my heart she won't grow up getting to see you all the time, as I did; at the same time, she's blessed to have known you at all, no matter how little time it was. To know that she knew your love and embrace for even just a short little while is a gift--to both me and her.
Michael Anthony Damon says his favorite thing
about you was playing Candyland with you and just being with you. From what I
understand, you and MAD had some intense games of Candyland at the nursing
home—I bet there were times when you let him win, but I also bet there were
times when he beat you, fair and square. He’s a clever little dude, that
Michael. I venture to guess he got some of that cleverness from you. I know it makes Toni proud.
Logan says that his favorite thing about you
is the memory he has of helping to plant the Christmas Tree on Fountain Square
every year—and then, a few weeks later, going downtown for the big reveal.
 |
| The tree on Fountain Square. OUR tree. |
Side story: every Christmas, you would send a
letter to all of your grandkids—the letter would be signed from Santa, but it
was from you (we found this out as we got older). It would say that Santa
needed help from all the grandkids to plant his Christmas tree on Fountain
Square. He would say in the letter that he gave the magic water (some water
with glitter and sparkles) and magic seed (a pinecone) to Pawpaw, and that all
the grandkids had to go to downtown with Pawpaw and the rest of the family and
plant the magic seed, sprinkling the magic water over top of it. We’d all pile
into several cars and make the trip to downtown Cincy, then descend upon
Fountain Square. You would pull out the magic seed and water, give it to the
youngins’, and then they’d dig and dig and bury that seed good and deep. A few
weeks later, we’d descend upon the Square again (you always did your research
to find out when the city would put up the tree). As we would turn the corner
on the Square, all the kids would gasp in delight knowing that THEY had planted
such a glorious tree. You always, always helped us to believe in Christmas, and
helped us understand that the true meaning of Christmas was a plentiful mix of
being with family and creating traditions.
I had almost forgotten about the tradition of
the tree planting—I loved the tradition, don’t get me wrong, it’s just that
with so many memories and so many traditions, they start to pile up in your
brain and you have to archive them so as not to forget them entirely. Then--poof--out of nowhere someone mentions one of them, and out of the archive they come to surprise me and
all the memories come flooding back. Thanks, Logan, for mentioning that one. Good call! And thanks to Aunt Julie for submitting that little ditty to the Cincy Enquirer
one Christmas and laminating a copy for all of us.
Your love for traditions at Christmas was
endearing, and something you passed down to me, through my mom. It is what
inspired the Goetz Fam to start some of our own traditions at Christmas, even
if it meant not being in town with everyone else. Christmas will always be my
favorite holiday—and that’s in no small part to how hard you and Mamaw worked
to make it so special for us. Every. Single. Year.
 |
| Mom got your Christmas tradition gene; she decorated the condo for our kids in anticipation of us going to Florida again for Christmas. Did I mention that she did this in September? She loves Christmas, thanks to you, as do I. |
Kyle says his favorite thing about you was
your sense of humor. Your good jokes and ability to always make him laugh. Your
jokes and one-liners are forever etched in my brain. I tell the very best of
your jokes to Joseph. He doesn’t get them yet, but that doesn’t stop me from
laughing at myself when I tell them. I think Kyle definitely has some of your sense of humor--Lori is his mom, after all. If anyone was blessed with your 'punniness' (ability to create funny puns), it is Lori.
Andrew says, and I quote, “He was one funny
guy, and that’s my favorite thing.” Andrew is attempting to keep your good humor
alive, as he continues to pursue stand-up comedy. Andrew looks a lot like Uncle Mike, who looks a lot like you. Those Tallarigo genes are strong, and I certainly see the best of them in Andrew.
Alex says that his favorite thing about you
was your love of Wizard of Oz. He says he remembers the cardboard cutouts in
the basement and all the memorabilia. Indeed, your collection of Wizard of Oz
odds and end is remarkable. Recently, on a visit with Mamaw to your house
(before she went into the nursing home), the kids and I played the Wizard of Oz
board game. It was awesome. Alex loved you lots. He always knew you were on his side, no matter what. When Mom used to say to him, "Make good choices!" about what he ate, you would sneak him extra snacks. ;)
Maria says, “By far and away his heart. He
was the best man I knew. He had such a big heart and loved us all unconditionally.”
After she wrote that, we continued to have a conversation via text about how
much we missed you. Then she added, “And when he got to his OCD phase towards
the end, definitely his obsession with razors!”
 |
| "Now I know I've got a heart...cos it's breaking..." |
Maria has all the necessary credentials to
make such a statement about your heart, as she cared for you as
steadfastly and lovingly as any of your children during your last years on this
earth, most especially your last weeks. There seemed to be a level of trust and
understanding between you and Maria that is hard to put into words. Let’s put
it this way: whenever I wanted to know how you were really, doing, I asked Maria. She seemed to know your soul as well
as anyone in your remaining days. I loved her dearly for that (and for many other
reasons, of course). She and Toni were the two at your side the early morning
of your passing; I’m glad they were there then—I imagine it made your
transition a bit easier. Maria was one of your most patient and gentle
caretakers, and now she continues to do what she did for you for Mamaw. With me
being out of town and having my own family to care for, Maria has readily,
aptly and beautifully stepped into the role of oldest grandchild in Cincinnati. She will be a great mother one day. I imagine that Maria was like the tinman in your last weeks, days and hours: "Now I know I've got a heart--'cos it's breaking."
Now, about your razor obsession: this
deserves a side story. You had some real prize moments with your OCD tendencies
(I tell these stories lovingly.) Two of our favorites: 1) Evidently, in one of
your fits of razor obsession, you tried to make money off your younger brother,
good ol’ Hank. Uncle Mike had bought you an electric razor, but upon receiving
it you decided you didn’t want an electric razor anymore, that you wanted to
switch to disposable ones. So you gave your electric razor to your brother
Hank. Hank left the nursing home with his new razor in tow, but not a second
later, you decided you wanted to charge Hank for the razor (that Mike bought!)
and you sent Toni and Maria running after Hank to collect cash from him. I’ll
never forget how cross Hank was with you about that one; trust me, I heard
about it all during Thanksgving! 2) You were freaking out to Julie one day—you
called her cell phone and said your phone wouldn’t dial out. I’ll let you think
about that one for a moment. ;)
Colleen says, “He never made me feel like a
step granddaughter, rather always like one of the family. And his honesty—he
never gave me bullshit. And he got along with my dad when no one else did.” Well
said, sister. Well said.
 |
| An Uncle Swish pic of P with your Contax |
Jason (Swish) says his favorite thing was the
conversations he had with you about cameras and photography. I wasn’t aware of
the fact that Uncle Chris gave Swish one of your old cameras Christmas of 2011,
knowing Jason would be the only one to fully appreciate it. Wisely done, Uncle Chris. I love that he did that. It was a 35 mm
rangefinder, a Contax which was apparently one of a kind. Swish took photos of
our kids the following summer at B-town’s market with that camera. *Smile.* I
suspect you are wearing that very same camera in the one pic I have of you from
my Wizard of Oz themed birthday party.
 |
| An Uncle Swish pic of Joe with your Contax |
Speaking of leaving things behind—both when
you went into hospice and after you died, there was, of course, the need to
clean out your room at the nursing home. When cleaning out your room, some of
your belongings went home with family members to cherish. I couldn’t be there
for any of those occasions, so I was kind of bummed that I couldn’t snag a Pawpaw
trinket or two. I wanted something that was yours—something that you had touched,
something that you had felt, something that was in your presence…
A week or so after you died, my college
friends and I had a reunion at my house in B-town. Lauren came, since she was
part of that crew, and when all the rest of the girls were downstairs at one
point, Lauren popped into my room as I was getting ready and said she had
something for me. That entire weekend, she was interspersing stories of her
time with you as her patient here and there, which brought me tremendous joy.
She mentioned how you loved to talk about Pilar, most especially—I’m not
surprised, given the way you looked at her. I imagine seeing her reminded you
of me when I was a little girl. I was your first grandchild and they say
there’s a little something extra special between little girls and their Pawpaws
(just like there’s a little something extra special between little boys and
their Mamaws). I see that with Pili and her grandpas, that’s for sure, so
I know it existed between you and your granddaughters, too. Anyway, Lauren
prefaced the gift of the ‘something’ by saying you were one of the most spiritual
people she had ever met; that’s saying a lot, as Lauren comes from a highly
spiritual brood herself. She then handed over a book of prayers that you had
given her. I flipped open the first page of the book—and there was your name
written in your all caps writing. Something of yours, something you had touched
and felt, something you had left behind—you gave it to Lauren, likely knowing
it would some way somehow make its way to me. Thank you.
Chapter
five: Follow The Yellow Brick Road
So…what is my favorite thing about you? Well,
I thought you’d never ask!
Pawpaw, I have a million favorite things
about you. When it comes to articulating your legacy and what you left behind,
a few very obvious things came to mind:
Your
sense of humor.
As we’ve mentioned, you were a clever, witty and funny dude. Your goal was
always to get a laugh out of others. Yet at the same time, you were a deep
thinker, very wise, very sage and very profound. You always, always asked me
for my opinions on things—politics, religion, books, movies, etc. So you could
always balance your cleverness and humor with an amazing depth and capacity for
intellect. Your humor and your smarts, they went hand-in-hand.
 |
| The Lord giveth. Little nugget...coming soon! |
Your
faith.
You were the most spiritual man I know, and I’m happy to see that you passed
along that spirituality to many of us in the family. You always met us
spiritually where we were, without imposing (at least from my perspective) and
without judgment. You and Mamaw’s involvement in your church and in support
groups inside and outside of church was a model for the rest of us to follow. And
I will never, ever forget one day as a young child sitting at you and Mamaw’s
kitchen table: Mamaw and I were doing a puzzle (there’s a surprise!) and you
got a phone call informing you that a relative had passed away. Maria was just
a little gal, couldn’t have been more than a few months old. And you and Mamaw
were struggling with one of your kiddos who was still living at home at the
point. You hung up the phone, looked at me and said, “Death, birth and life
with our children. The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. Such is the circle of
life.” You didn’t say it with anger or with sadness, rather matter-of-factly
and with resolve. You didn’t question God ever in the time that I knew you (at
least not in my presence!), instead you always made yourself an instrument of His
plan, a channel of His peace, if I may say so in the spirit of St. Francis. It
was no surprise to me, then, when Colleen told us on the very evening of your funeral that she was pregnant. Wahooooo! I know you are looking after Colleen’s
little nugget until it’s time for him/her to be born. What a bittersweet day,
your funeral. The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away.
Your marriage. This is a biggie for me.
What greater a thing to leave behind than your love for your wife, which is the
seed for such a beautiful garden that you planted of six kids, twice as many
grandkids, and even a handful of great grandkids? You always used to say to me,
in the chaos of our family get togethers, “Steph, take a look around. All of this,
just because Mamaw said ‘yes.’” I didn’t appreciate that statement fully until
I got married myself. You and Mamaw were our very first and best role models as
husband and wife, our model for marriage as a vocation. This marriage gig is
tough, Pawpaw, and I know it was for you and Mawaw, too, even though to
outsiders you made it look like a breeze. When Jack and I went on a retreat as
an engaged couple (it was called ‘Engaged Encounter’), one of the sessions of
the retreat talked about marriage as a sacrament.
At the end of the session,
couples were encouraged to hand write a letter to a couple that served as a
role model to them. Jack and I tossed around a couple of ideas as to who we
could write to. We both felt very strongly (Jack was very adamant, in fact)
that you and Mamaw should be the recipient of our letter. I wonder if Mamaw
still has that letter. In any case—you two were our number one choice, and by
far. It made me so proud to have you at our wedding as witnesses to our sacred
union. Do you know wanna know something? Jack’s name is ‘John Albert.’ I didn’t
know until a few days before your funeral that your middle name was John—for
some reason, I always that it was James. Yup, you were ‘Albert John.’ Again, no coincidences in this life. No
wonder you and Jack always got along so fabulously.
By the way--I know you miss Mamaw. I cannot imagine just how much. And I sense her time is coming, soon, too. I know your reunion in Heaven will be sweet, but please help her not to be afraid first. I see fear in her eyes, which is something I never saw in yours. She needs your spiritual reserves; I know you'll come through for her.
 |
| Best. Role models. Ever. |
Your
love of music, movies, books—and Goodwill. You introduced me to opera music, to
the three tenors, to the likes of Andrea Bocelli. You introduced me to The
Mission, A Christmas Carol, and, of course Wizard of Oz. You introduced me to
Cold Mountain, The Fourth Wiseman, and countless other books that I read and
loved. I remember that I used to roll my eyes when I was younger when you would
turn on your opera—now what I wouldn’t give to enter your house on Childs
Avenue to find you sitting at your chair, opera bellowing through your
speakers! I remember when I was a teenager, so busy coming and going, and you’d
try to lure me into the backroom to watch Wizard of Oz with you for the
umpteenth time. I’d say “No, thanks,” that I wanted to, but I didn’t have time
because of basketball/student council/fill in the blank with whatever activity
I was running to…what I wouldn’t give to have the chance to sit with you and
watch that movie again! And the Goodwill thing—do you remember when I was going
through my thrift store/retro clothes phase and we used to go bargain hunting
at every Goodwill location on the Westside of town? I’d look for skater clothes
and you’d look for—suspenders. I am proud to say our trips to Goodwill
accumulated you a closet full of damn fine suspenders. You even had Santa Claus suspenders.
I thought Mamaw would kill you if you brought home another pair of
suspenders—and with each trip you’d buy at least one pair if not more (sorry,
Mamaw!). The Goodwill trips in White Lightning were one of those memories, like
the planting of the Christmas tree, that were archived way back in my brain
files—until recently, when I got on this kick to check out Goodwills all over
the state during my September visits to Indiana high schools. I couldn’t figure
out why, but I felt this compulsion to check out any Goodwill I passed, if only
for a few minutes. The first one I entered, I smelled the Goodwill smell and
was immediately, I mean immediately transported back in time with you and our
Westside visits looking for bargains and suspenders. Thanks for the reminder of
our good will hunting.
But of all the things I love/loved most about
you, I have to agree with my brother on this one: your love of Wizard of Oz is
what tops the list.
 |
| The Lion receives his badge of courage, which he had all along |
Throughout this tribute, I’ve mentioned the
lessons I’ve learned from that movie, both as a youngin’ and now an adult: that
there’s no place like Home (Dorothy says, towards the end, what she learned on
her journey was, "If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own back yard. Because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with. Is that right?" Fr. at your funeral Mass also mentioned during his homily that we ought to be
happy that you are Home, as there’s no place like it); that the friends we meet along our caminos are just our family and loved ones in
disguise, offering guidance and love; that sometimes we have to travel an awful
long way in search of what [we think] we want, only to find we had it in
ourselves and by our sides all along. But the most important lesson, for me
anyway, that the Wizard of Oz teaches us is to this: to Follow The Yellow Brick
Road. “Follow the yellow brick road?” Dorothy
asks, incredulously, as she begins her journey. You see, sometimes the yellow
brick road is not so easy to follow, Pawpaw. You know this. The challenge of
following the yellow brick road is two-fold. First, whenever there is a fork in
the road, we have to figure out which of the daggone roads is even yellow; that is
to say, which of the caminos, or paths, we are to follow in the first place;
then the challenge becomes staying true to ourselves on that yellow brick road.
Not at all easy—but life’s about the journey, not the destination, isn’t that
right? And so it’s always worth reevaluating if we’re on the yellow brick road,
and if we are making the choices that really reflect who we are and what we are
about.
 |
| Follow the Yellow Brick Road (?!) |
Pawpaw, thank you for helping me to seek my camino, the right camino for me, my very own yellow brick road. And if you could,
keep sending me those signs to let me know you’re doing okay. I love getting
them. One last favor: because I can sense that there may be some forks in the
road soon, help me to understand which is the yellow brick road, K? Pretty please? Maybe spill
some yellow paint for me on the right path, line the way with ‘Deeps Timil’
signs, or maybe rain down some more of those pennies that you’ve been dropping
us now and again? I look forward to seeing you again on my journey; I’ll look
for you in all those that I meet.
Love ewe! Peace and all good things.
Steph
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| Make us all instruments of your peace, Pawpaw. Peace and all good things. |
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