Tag: death

motorcycle rides, the mighty mississippi, richard, and human connection

This year, April/May rains give way to an “it’s as dry and hot as August” June and early July. The rebellious corn paid no attention to the high temperatures and arid conditions. You could practically hear the fields defiantly celebrating and shouting, “Knee high by the 4th of July! We did it!”

For years now I have been riding my motorcycle through the vast corn and soybean fields in the northern plains of Illinois. When the corn is proud and adorned with tassels, it feels like you’re surfing along ocean waves of green and gold as the wind turns the stalks into an emerald sea with “goldcaps” worthy of carrying, or capsizing, any sea vessel.

One of my favorite rides is heading north on U.S. Route 52. To be more precise, Route 52 follows a northwest, southeast orientation. Taking it northwest, towards the Mississippi River,  I marvel at how the landscape lets go of the plains and clothes itself with gentle, rolling hills that can feature fantastic vistas of endless farm land, farm houses, and corn silos. My destination: Savanna, IL.

On this 4th of July ride it is almost too hot to ride. Bright, blinding sunlight bounces off of everything, giving the world a washed out, desaturated feel. It  feels good to finally make it to the river. Savanna has a simple riverfront, with a boat launch and a path along the banks of the river.

I find a bench and, as I sat, I noticed an older gentleman sitting to my left at a covered picnic table. I kept my foam ear plugs in and enjoy an apple and some cold water. I couldn’t have been on the bench for more than 3 minutes when muffled words breach my consciousness and I turn to see the older looking gentleman walking towards me, greeting me, and taking a seat right next to me. His bright blue eyes match his blue jeans and blue plaid shirt.

“Are you from this area?”

“No. I am about two and a half hours from home. I ride a motorcycle and come here often to enjoy the river.”

And that’s how my connection with Richard began. I say connection instead of conversation, because that’s what happened. We connected. Of course, we had a pleasant conversation, but it was the connection that turned this 4th of July ride into a delightful memory and meeting.

Richard is 82. He tells me he is related to many, if not most, of the people in the county. His family came to the US by boat from Germany. His dad was a farmer. He has two brothers: one is a preacher, the other is a teacher, and Richard was the farmer.

He tells me he comes to the river to talk, because he is alone now.

Of all the scenes of his life that he shared –  I mean, how much can two old guys cover while they talk along the banks of the Mississippi River on a hot 4th of July? – it was his recounting of his marriage to his wife that I found so captivating.

“What is your wife’s name?,” I ask.

“Twila. Not many people named Twila anymore.”

“No… not anymore. Such a pretty name.”

He tells me that Twila passed away 4 years ago and that she battled cancer for most of their life together. His life included countless trips to the emergency room, endless doctor visits and arranging for help to take care of Twila at home. He speaks with no regret, or bitterness in his tone.

He recalls taking riverboat rides with Twila and their friends. I comment on how Twila must have been quite a force to be reckoned with and he tells me the doctors all said the same thing.

I don’t know how long we talked about Twila, grandkids, our own kids, and a number of other topics, but suddenly he looked at his watch and said, “Well. I’m going to go eat some potato salad.”

I gently placed my hand on his shoulder and said, “Can I pray for you Richard?”

I told him earlier that I was a “preacher” like his brother, and that I have been pastoring for the past 20 years in a church in Minooka, IL.

We both bow our heads and I prayed for my new friend Richard.

Here is a bit of what I remember of my prayer: I am thankful for my new friend, Richard… I am grateful for the love and care that he faithfully gave Twila and how his example is helpful for me and a legacy for his family… I pray that he will continue to bear his loneliness with the same grace that he brings to connections along the banks of the river… 

After a pause, I say Amen. We both lifted our heads and opened our eyes at the same time. His tears are flowing and make his blue eyes sparkle even more. We just look at each other in silence for a moment. I gently place my hand on his shoulder and simply say, “Life is hard.”

We both shake our heads in silent agreement. He rises and walks to his vehicle.

I wipe away my tears, filled with gratitude for a chance to connect to such a wonderful man. I make a commitment in my heart to do the best I can to welcome and connect to anyone that God brings my way. Because sometimes I fail to do so. Spectacularly so. That will be the topic of my next post.

island life, mom and dad, and new york

I suppose that I will always be – if not always feel like – a New Yorker. My hometown of East Meadow was right next door to famous Levittown. After WWII, returning vets heard the siren songs of suburban living, and Levittown sang loud and proud.

Not quite sure where East Meadow fits in the swift rise of suburbia, but it mostly likely knew the songs that were in the air.

In 1964, Wilfredo and Carmen purchased a small, two story Cape Cod style home on a corner lot in East Meadow. I’ve always loved the name of our street: Wilson Lane. It has a noble sound befitting my mom and dad. They were poor, could hardly speak English, and were uneducated. Their royalty was in their wisdom, their tenacity and, in full measure, their love.

And you would need love to survive the “dawning of the age of Aquarius” in East Meadow, located in Nassau County, on Long Island, in New York State. Ironically, we were a little island of Puerto Ricans in an ocean of Italian, Irish, and Jewish families. And it was wonderful. I mean, where else could you go to school with Carmine Paradisio – is that a name, or is that a name?! – and then, as a high school student, sing in musicals with members of the local Jewish synagogue. I also grew up with the long, cold shadows of the normalization of hatred and racism.

And about that, I will say this: it wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized that it was difficult for my mom and my dad to live in that white suburban community. I’ll spare you the details of some of the stories, suffice it to say that, by some, we were not welcome. So much so that messages in the form of dog excrement being tossed in the yard was just one of the ways the turbulence of the times reached our corner lot. My mom and dad were silent about it, as far as I can recall. To this day, I truly believe they were teaching me important lessons. Don’t be a person who hates, even if you feel you have every reason to hate. Don’t order your life around those who have struggles in their hearts. Be a person of peace on a small little island in East Meadow in an ocean of turmoil. Peace would also need to make room for suffering, loss, and sorrow on that island. As much as we all want to live and experience life, this life can take so much from us that, even if we are still breathing, it feels like there is no reason to.

Rosalito was her name. Their firstborn. She lived for a few days. My mom mourned her until her last day. This event was the seed of much of my formation, but that’s a story that continues to unfold.

Which, of course, brings us to the present. My mom passed away in 2023 at the age of 97. She passed in the safety of her corner house… her little island in an ocean of love: my dad.

He still lives in that house and, even though my story is being told on the backlot of the Midwest, far from the Atlantic shore I love – more on that later – I have been returning home to be with my family almost every year for…well… 39+ years. And, following the well worn path of my childhood, those visits often included an eastbound trip on the Southern State Parkway to visit Rosalito.

I find that some childhood memories can show up for a visit in vivid, 3-D, surround sound. I find myself taking in the mysteriously beautiful sound of crunching autumn leaves as we brush them from around her tombstone. I can still feel my body sigh in relief as the cold water from a nearby hose washed away the unbearable heat and humidity of a Long Island summer. I can still smell the fresh, winter air as I huddled in my coat while my mom and dad whispered prayers and shed their tears. Home, family, and our little island in East Meadow will, for me, always be associated with death. And that is not a bad thing. It just is.

On this particular visit, a rainy, cold, late May welcomed me back home. Thankfully, a summer like early June won a toss of weather fronts with May. I set aside more than two weeks to be with my dad. We spent a day heading out to the southern tip of Long Island to greet the lighthouse at Montauk Point. A 3 ½ order lens (it sounds like I know what I’m talking about, but I don’t) built in 1902 was recently restored to the tippy top of that lighthouse. In a culture that places unnecessary value on new and improved, it’s comforting to realize that old and traditional can still guide and lead sojourners to light and safety.
Of course, we visited Rosalito and Carmen. My mom was finally resting with my sister. We cleared out weeds, took out the artificial flowers that signaled care and love all through winter, and planted fresh, impossibly red flowers. If my mom could speak, she would tell me what the flowers were.

Though uneducated, she was a brilliant “botanist” who could revive any withered leaf, twig or petal and, as if she named each and every one herself, would tell you the name of just about any flower. God created a unique kind of nurturing spirit within her and I think losing her first child only deepened her longing to give and sustain life. Our house was a greenhouse. Green, colorful life was everywhere. And now, my dad made sure that color and life adorned the resting place of his little girl and his bride of over 60 years.

Any pilgrimage back east must include multiple mini-pilgrimages to the southern shores of Long Island. Specifically, Jones Beach.

Like the faithful ostinato from Bach’s Passacaglia and Fugue in C minor, this State Park has always been a part of me. Whether it’s a frigid, windswept winter seascape, or the end of a summer day showing off with a dazzling display of clouds and shafts of light shooting into space, or the slow motion blending and mixing of sunrise colors that Crayola never dreamed existed, this shore has been a place for reflection, prayer, worship and peace. And, every now and then, I hear and see the rocks cry out and tell of a Savior alive in this world.

I enjoyed a mid-morning stroll with my dad along the 2-mile long boardwalk. I marvel at his endurance and determination as he struggles to maintain balance and manage pain while he walks on his two artificial knees.

During a quiet, pre-dawn stroll on the shore, as the sun began to work on its morning art project, I am trying to figure out a way to take the colors right out of the sky and put them in my backpack.

I am grateful for my family…

for loss and sorrow…

for the Man of Sorrows…

for morning colors, accompanied by salty air…

for lilting, calming ocean waves…

scenes

Scene 1 fades in from black: I’m standing in the doorway of what used to be the bedroom for my two daughters. Eleven months before I said, “Her mother and I do,” at my oldest daughter’s wedding, and like the refrain of a song, I just said the same words at my youngest daughter’s wedding! My oldest son is already married. Three down, one to go. I pull out my phone and capture… this… empty room. I guess I was hoping to capture the conversations, dance parties, tears, Christmas mornings, laughter, prayers… capture all that happened in that room. The phone displays an empty room. But I am filled with gratitude as I remember that grace brought me here and will continue to lead me…home. I am crossing the vast Canyon of Parenthood, which is followed by the great Canyon of Fatherhood and the Canyon of Where Did the Time Go… and I realize that I am at the beginning of that time in my life where I will be remembered a bit less, and less. And that is what will be. And it’s ok. Scene 1 fades to black.

Scene 2 fades in from black. I’m standing in the doorway of what used to be the bedroom for my youngest son. I pull out my phone… you know the rest. Now, the emptiness of the room is a bit more final in my heart. All four of our children (can I still call them children?) are gone. Now I watch our children and their families, and I see them and the 6 little ones that are the new generation in their “rooms” praying, crying, laughing, enjoying dance parties, creating moments to remember and one day say good-bye to… one day let go… one day to try and capture on a phone. And I know that the new generation will forget more than they remember of their papa and nana. And I know that is what must be. And it’s okay. Scene 2 fades to black. One more scene.

Scene 3 fades in from black. I am being held by my mom in an impossibly strong, firm embrace. Impossible because my mom’s 96 year old body appears to be so frail, brittle and fragile. I see her connecting to my dear wife in a hushed conversation filled with memories and love. She can’t really stand up straight anymore. It seems like she is always folding in on herself, like she is ever seeking the fetal position. I tell her, as often as I can, that I love her, and her frail, thin voice tells me the same. My mom is a stranger in this world. She has lived long enough to bury he mom and dad and all of her siblings. The neighborhood is filled with strangers, for all of her friends from the old days have passed as well. She is, in so many ways, alone. Few remember who she is. And as I have had the opportunity to watch her in these late years, I am grateful for all that she has taught me. She has embraced her reality, and it is okay. She has taught me to welcome your emotions and the reality that you are in, but to not let it steal the grace and love that you can, at any moment, give to someone. She is frustrated, but not angry. She is sorrowful, but not bitter. She feels forgotten, but is not resentful. I want so badly to take away all the pain, heartache and struggle that makes up her days and nights. But I can’t. It must be this way. And that is okay. If I could take it away, it would diminish her and also diminish me. It is okay. This scene will fade to black. I am not sure I will be able to navigate that blackness. But, it will be. And that’s okay.

letting go

at this ripe young age
can it be three score
as i turn each page
i know less not more
and the more of less i know
it seems
it’s about letting go

i let go of the boy
i used to be
though he still
seems to want his own way
so still letting go
of my selfish ways
that boy won’t go away
that’s okay
i’m learning
letting go

i let go of just me
“i do” means now “we”
can it be two score
and there is so much more
of letting go
that i need to know
for “we”

letting go of
seeking me in her
letting go
of smashing mirrors
with my pride
letting go
of thinking
it’s better to hide
letting go
of staying inside
my head
letting go
of keeping my heart
to myself
i guess
the long slow road
of letting go of self

letting go
of expectations
of
well
everything
and
everyone
letting go
of just taking
letting go
of just faking
that we’re all okay

i pray i practice well
all the lettings go’s
that wait for me
‘cause someday soon
the last let go
will come into my room
and i want peace
and i want to know
that all those other letting go’s
will help me see
what waits for me
is an eternal embrace
it really is amazing grace
He never has
and never will
let go
of me

hope and light