My father departed from this world during the pinnacle week between Christmas and New Years. He made it through Emily’s birthday, then Christmas Day, then he waited some more until he knew Emily had safely landed in Mexico to compete in the World Debate Championship. He was so proud. There was no way he would interrupt her getting there. He wanted her on that plane and she was. Once all of that was taken care of, he quietly slipped away during what many consider the holiest, most sacred time of year. It was poetic.
I'm not sure there's a prettier funeral mass than one at Christmastime. Our family church in Eagle Lake is of mid-century design, the altar beautifully finished in Scandinavian woodwork, warm and well-crafted. It was dressed for the season in a celebration of elegantly decorated Christmas trees, dozens of red and white poinsettias, thick garlands of greenery adorned with red velvet bows, and fragrant, plump juniper wreaths. The trees and garlands dripped with white twinkly lights while the earthy scent of frankincense permeated the entire space. I wouldn't have changed a thing; it was absolute perfection.
I don’t really know how or what to write after the passing of my father. We’ve known this day was coming for six years (tomorrow), but it doesn’t change the enormity of his absence. Words fail to capture. You quickly realize it’s not the end of human life that feels unacceptable, but the absence of a loved one’s life in your own. Eventually you do find a way to accept it, but you do not grant approval. On the way to Eagle Lake we passed a hunting shop we’d never noticed before; Adam and I wondered if it was a good one. My first thought was, “Let’s ask dad when we get to the house.” But quickly realized asking dad is no longer an option. Old habits. We miss him, and we’ll never not miss him.
Anyone that knew my father would say he died young. Even though dad made it to 70, his cancer diagnosis came as a freshly minted 64 year old. And if you knew dad, you knew he was a young 64. My father lived a good life – heck, he said it was a great life – but in the end, it was not a long one. When the diagnosis came, he’d just taken early retirement, bought a lake house in his dream location, and even had his sights on one of those delightfully unserious pontoon boats (one of his many selling points in getting mom on board with his incredibly remote retirement plans – it worked!).
I’ve only addressed dad’s cancer a handful of times here (a pinch more on Instagram), yet it has been the elephant in the room for my family for over half the time of this blog's existence. That's pretty crazy now that I stop and think about it. And while it never consumed us, nor did we wallow, there was almost always some aspect of life with this disease to tend to or discuss outside the scope of this screen over the past six years. If I'm being real specific, it's probably safe to say there has not been a passing day throughout this time that did not include a related text, phone call, or conversation among my immediate family. Cancer became a character in our story.
We planned a mass of Christian burial which involved selecting music and readings that felt foreign to my worldview, but were incredibly beautiful and fitting for dad. I chose a reading from the Book of Daniel, a little ominous and foreboding as one would expect from the Old Testament, but this last part spoke to me deeply:
But the wise shall shine brightly
like the splendor of the firmament,
And those who lead the many to justice
shall be like the stars forever.
In his homily, Father talked further on this, speaking of the stars and how they guide us, of us being the guiding stars for each other. I loved that he spoke to this because it is exactly why I’d been drawn to the reading. Sometimes we look to the stars, sometimes we are the stars. No beginning, no end. One in the same.
My father was a fine guide. In fact, for as long as I can remember Adam has literally called dad his "guide." Whether by quietly inspiring others as he went about his simple life of working hard and expecting little, or in more obvious ways such as teaching hunter-safety and conservation classes, guiding young hunters in the woods, pointing out deer rubs on trees, placing them in specific tree stands for optimal sighting: Like the stars, he guided many. And also like the stars, he did so without realizing just how luminous he was.
My father will be remembered as a hard working quiet man of integrity. He was a content person who never wanted for more in life, who never felt he deserved more or was owed anything. Sure, at the end of his life there were a few moments of what could be described as “disbelief” that this is how it was all going down (you could tell he felt it was kind of a bullshit way to go), but still, in six years of living with terminal cancer never once did he complain or ask, “Why me?” He would say, “If you're given a bad hand, shuffle the deck and deal again.”
It did not take a cancer diagnosis for my father to live his best life; he did not die with a list of regrets or things left undone. Dad felt his life was wonderful; if he could have asked for anything in the end, he simply would have asked for more of the same good life he’d already been living. That's a rather nice place for a man to reside in the twilight of his days. May we all feel so rich in the end.