What follows are small scenes that have surfaced in my heart as I reflect on my mom. She passed away in 2023.
I can remember, as a child, laying on my mother’s lap as she gently consoled me through the pain of another ear infection. I can only imagine, in a moment like that, the pain that my mom might have been feeling. She lost her first child.
For my mom, it seemed as if every cough sneeze, or stomach ache was an emergency room triage worthy event. And who could blame her. An abiding, dark sorrow walked beside her until she passed. I believe her great love came from her immeasurable capacity to give of herself and serve, and her fear of loss. I am grateful that she is at rest, and has been reunited with her first child.
This may sound odd, but my mom carried herself the way I would imagine a person of true royalty would. Not in a high and mighty way, or in any way that would set her apart from others – she was the most grounded person I may ever know. She was soft spoken, easily discerned people, and gave respect and attention to any one, while quietly expecting the same. She was barely 5 feet tall, but she was regal and statuesque of heart, mind, and soul.
I cannot remember my mom without remembering my dad. In her nineties, I had the privilege of watching my dad wash my mom’s feet. Every morning he carefully washed them, then he applied lotion and an analgesic with a precision and caution that any surgeon would envy. Sacred moments.
While my mom’s melancholy and depression was always near, she had a capacity for celebration and joy that, for as long as it lasted, kicked sadness and affliction down the street. Her laughter was a sunrise… a million stars in a heartbroken sky.
Wisdom + Insight + Discernment + Knowledge + Experience + Lots of moxie + Love = mom.
I suppose that if any one of us carried the weight of this life for as long as my mom did, we would be willing and eager to be free, to leave this world, to bid farewell to the ephemeral joys and pleasures that may come, and to awaken in an eternity of unwavering, holy promises from our Lord. My mother has no need for a lamp or light, and she, who wept so, has no more tears. All of her burdens have now been lifted. I miss her smile. Her love. Her wisdom. Her sageness and savvy. I am so grateful for my mom.
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.
do you see the beauty all around you a dazzling sunrise colors and clouds singing out loud abandoned joy dancing across the sky
are you stilled in wonder at the edge of forever as melodious crashing waves meet the coarse sand beneath your feet when the morning sky touches your soul and you do and don’t know why tears appear and for a moment it’s all okay
and when you say goodbye to another day are you at rest is there peace in your mind as the sun meets the sea are you free are you free to feel all your sorrows make space for your pain see the hope of tomorrow when colors and clouds will see unending days that chase all the shadows of your heart away and all the loose ends of your crazy life story will end in the glory of lux aeterna
so be still love well just take another step away from the shame eternity covers your soul breathe into your worth abandon the lies confess your wrongs step into every sad song and just be willing to make space for the Way the Truth the Life lux aeterna will come for you so be still and love well
sometimes i wonder where it all came apart where the promises and love songs withered and sighed the radio station otherwise known as our lives just plays static the noise of our brokenness the crackle of our selfishness
sometimes i wonder where all that love went to hide where the feelings and tryings the caring that was dying before our once hope filled eyes is that love buried beneath the winter of our self-protection will there ever be a springtime of affections sunshine to melt the hardness to take back all the words that tore apart the fragile fabric otherwise known as our lives do shreds of tenderness remain i see tattered threads of holding hands i think i can make out a long lost embrace
sometimes i wonder if all these thoughts colliding in my mind can make sense of anything at all why did i say that why didn’t i tell you why did i hide why didn’t i leave you alone why did i remain silent why did i scream i have so much on repeat in my head longing to find that clue that tiny missed detail to unlock the best of us
i love you i said it but you saw through all i insisted was true and i couldn't carry the weight of what it meant to be we us together our true selves as one in the story otherwise known as our lives
we got a little brick house in Rockdale the one with the great big tree we know it’s not london or paris and not parsippany
but there’s a real nice park across the street where the slides go on for miles and the girls can climb and laugh on the swings right there in front of our little brick house the one with the great big tree
it’s not rome or breckenridge or schenectady it’s a home for the girls and for you and me here in Rockdale we’ll make memories in our little brick house the one with the great big tree
let me talk about the rain rain rain inside my heart and all those words i thought would build just tore us all part
let me talk about the rain rain rain inside my mind and all the shame and fighting ways and all this wasted time
let me talk about the rain rain rain inside your pain and all your tears all my broken tries we can’t go back again
let me talk about the rain rain rain i threw it all away don’t go the skies inside our lives will clear one day please stay and share this rain
between us darkness now there must be a way through all this muddy ground a story must be here let’s look around and find one who knows maybe it will keep us sheltered from all this rain rain rain
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