SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY II: NAVIGATING THE LOSS OF OUR GOOD NATURED DADDY BEAR

C.S. Lewis wrote: "grief is like a long valley, a winding valley where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape."

On the road near Ashburton, Dartmoor in Devon, England, 1982.

After my dad's sudden passing away from cancer on July 1st, our family slowly began to find our way through the winding valley of grief together.

We took the bends in the road one at a time. This new landscape of separation, dotted with familiar objects that would bring a flood of happy memories along with pangs of loneliness, often felt disorienting:  seeing photos everywhere of Dad vibrant and alive; his handwritten "to do" list on his desk; his customary place next to my mom now empty on the bench where they sat together on the back deck; and his glasses that he'd worn so recently, lying still and unused on the bedside table.

As my siblings left one by one after the funeral, I stayed with my mom, and brother Fr. Peter Jon and his family, in Indiana for several weeks. We began to allow ourselves to accept this new reality of daily life void of Dad's physical presence, while appreciating the new relationship and eternal presence our family was building with him spiritually.

Separately, though together, Mom and I endured many moments that could have been numbingly empty; but thankfully we experienced the mutual comfort that comes from the tender and honest companionship of another who has been left behind, as well as the blessed grace that is God's gift.

One afternoon, in search of something to read, I pulled out a vaguely familiar volume, bookended with others between a couple of heavy gilded lions on a table that I'd walked past several times a day. The spine bore the title, The Good Natured Bear.

I opened the cover to experience a little jolt of recognition, accompanied by the (lately) ever present feeling of bright sadness, as I read my own handwriting:

To my sweet Daddy Bear -- a present from our Ashburton bookstore.  

Love, Wendy Bear. Christmas '82 

My mom took this photo of me in Dartmoor,
while we were on a family trip to England
when I was 18 years old.

Tears began to flow as I recalled the day I had bought the book.  It was while we were on a family vacation in England during the summer of 1982.  For part of our visit, we stayed in a 17th Century house in the quaint town of Ashburton, which is located on the southern slopes of Dartmoor in the South Devon countryside.

This day, it was raining.  Ever the romantic, Dad, after making us kids some popcorn, had invited Mom to go walking and exploring in the rain. They left, turning down the narrow alleyway which led out to the shops, and around a corner, where they stumbled upon a cozy used bookshop.  They quickly came back and got us kids, and we all spent a fun afternoon browsing through the antique treasures on the bookshelves.

My gift to Dad from the bookstore in Ashburton

The title of the book I bought that day for my dad, and my inscription on the inside cover had a special significance.  For one thing, Dad was truly a "Good Natured Bear".  He was a big man - tall (6'4") - and his very deep voice was full of jovial humor, with a balance of authority and kindness.

Siblings with Dad in the cute town of Ashburton: Me, Ginger, Greg, Terri
and Heidi (our little brother Peter Jon, suffering a bout of chicken pox,
 had to stay hone in California - I think he got a new bicycle out of the deal!)

Not only that, we were "The Bears"!  Dad had adopted the affectionate "Bear Family" moniker after hearing the jazzy Three Bears song, composed by Bobby Troup in the 1950's after the well known children's story. [trivia note: Troup, a Sigma Alpha Epsilon like my father, also wrote Get Your Kicks on Route 66, another of Dad's favorite jazz tunes].

The Three Bears song was made popular by the Page Cavanaugh Trio, Ray Ellington Quartet, and Leon McAuliffe.

With both our parents being wonderful musicians, my brothers and sisters and I were blessed to grow up with lots of music in our home.  Our family was often requested to sing our own fun version (a musical amalgamtion of the two Youtube videos I've embedded) of The Three Bears, for friends.

Mom, a classically trained pianist, wouldn't miss a beat as she'd pound out the tune and sing the "Mama Bear" part, while Dad - in his booming bass voice - was the "Daddy Bear", and we kids were collectively "the little girl with blond hair" (aka Goldilocks) and the "Little Wee Bear".

I love this picture of my dad in the early '70's with his guitar!

Today marks 40 Days since my dad's passing. I'm dedicating this post to my precious Mom, 5 siblings, "GeeGee's" 20 grandchildren, and his soon-to-be-born first great grandson.  We'll never forget our wonderful Daddy Bear!  Memory Eternal!

"Bye, bye, bye," said the Daddy Bear

"Goodbye, bye, bye," said the Mama Bear

"Hey Babba Ree Bear," said the Little Wee Bear...

So ends the story of the Three Little Bears!

Four of us six siblings - Ginger, Greg, Heidi and me - with our
Dad and Mom, being silly in Devon, England, 1982.
[photo taken by my sister, Terri]

COME WITH ME ON A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY

Are We There Yet, Dad?
Some of my favorite childhood memories are of summer family road trips with my dad and mom. Dad's varied occupations - first as a college campus ministry director, later as a writer, editor, and publisher, and finally as a priest in the Orthodox Church - required him to travel quite a bit.  

Dad brought the whole family along as often as he could. I recall tooling down Route 66, my dad at the wheel, my mom beside him, with my siblings and me crammed in the backseat.  We kids didn't quite understand the nostalgia of that old highway; we just wanted to get to our destination as soon as possible.

Our impatience would lead to a predictable question: "Are we there yet, Dad?" His truthful, yet disappointing answer in the negative would prompt us to take turns needling him every ten minutes or so, "How much longer until we get there?" - to which he'd finally announce with authority, "Okay, kids, it's time to play The Quiet Game!"

A Final Journey
To my regular readers, it might seem as if I've been playing "The Quiet Game" for the past few weeks, but the reason I've been absent from the world of blogging is that I was on another journey with my dad.  Our last one together on this earth.

In June, Dad was told by his doctors that after thirteen years his metastatic melanoma cancer had returned, was already in stage 4, and was untreatable.

My siblings and I immediately flew out to the Midwest to be with my parents.  I think those days in the hospital were some of the most loving, blessed, and bittersweet moments we have ever had together as a family - full of thanksgiving, tears, hugs, and kisses.

I know a question we all wanted to ask was, "How much longer until we get there, Dad?" Just a week later, Dad was moved to a beautiful hospice facility, and on July 1 we accompanied him to the Gates of Heaven, praying and singing hymns at his bedside.  It was a peaceful moment that I'll never forget.

Measuring Time
A couple of years ago, I came across and saved a tender perspective on the subject of loss, which brought me comfort in facing my father's death.  It’s from Wendell Berry’s book, Andy Catlett, Early Travels.

In this affectionate, fictionalized memoir, Andy (as an elderly narrator and the main character) looks back on his boyhood in rural Kentucky, and reflects on all the family and friends who have been part of his life.

The author, in one of his most poignant passages, describes how time is halved, and how the past and future are not only divided, but connected, by the present moment:

Time is always halved...by the eye blink, the synapse, the immeasurable moment of the present. Time is only the past and maybe the future; the present moment, dividing and connecting them, is eternal...We measure time by its deaths, yes, and by its births. For time is told also by life.  As some depart, others come. The hand opened in farewell remains open in welcome...time that is told by death and birth is held and redeemed by love, which is always present.  Time, then, is told by love’s losses, and by the coming of love, and by love continuing in gratitude for what is lost.  It is folded and enfolded and unfolded forever and ever, the love by which the dead are alive and the unborn welcomed into the womb.  The great question for the old and dying, I think, is not if they have loved and been loved enough, but if they have been grateful for love received and given, however much.  No one who has gratitude is the onliest one. Let us pray to be grateful to the last.

While my Dad was in the hospital, I experienced this unique aspect of measuring time not just by death, but by birth, with the present moment dividing and connecting the past and the future.  My daughter, Mary, pregnant with her first child, brought a framed ultrasound picture of her unborn baby to my dad, in order to introduce her grandfather to his first great-grandchild and newest namesake, "Peter".

In grateful silence and awe, I watched as my daughter hugged my dad, and several realizations hit me:  hadn't it been just an "eye blink" ago that my daughter was a baby being introduced to her grandpa?  Now here she was, a grown woman and wife, soon to become a mother, and my first grandchild, still in utero, was present with us as a fourth generation of our family.

On July 1, 2012, my dad passed away amid tearful hugs and goodbyes, and my grandson will soon be born and welcomed with gentle kisses and hellos.  One journey is completed and a new one will begin...