My father died when I was 28 years old. Because of my fierce and overblown sense of independence as a kid and teenager, I was finally getting to the point where I not only was capable of listening to him, I wanted his advice. I wanted more of his life story. I was a bit lost for a while.
When I was 24 or 25 I had rejoined the church and found a new community in my new hometown, and there were several men of the congregation who I looked up to, and while they at some level treated me like an adult, I was not too much older than their own children, and some of them had begun to take on a father-like role in my personal mythology. These were men I could look up to, draw on their experience, and ask for advice. I joined the long-standing monthly men’s breakfast, being the youngest member by at least a decade if not two.
It was because of these men that I think I was able to shrug off the last remnants of my teenage rebellion that had overstayed its welcome and listen to my father.
Now one of those men has passed away. He had moved away in retirement, but I think they had come back to the city or at least they visited a few times. He was in charge of the Men’s Breakfast at the time, which two sons of his own. On one of my first weeks at that church I joined the adult forum and he was in my small discussion group. We had watched a video of Madeline L’Engle and (I seem to recall) her summary of all prayer as either “thank you” or “help me”.
Prior to rejoining the church I had gotten married at 19, separated at 21, and eventually divorced. I was in a low spot in my life. I sat at that table with this complete stranger and admitted that during the service all I really could pray that morning had been “help”. He said something that made me feel better. He did not mock me for being weak, as I think a certain brand of man would. I remember a kindness and a sense of actual concern for my well-being, even though I was as much a stranger to him as he was to me.
What did he say? I ask my memory. No idea, my memory comes back with.
In his Meditations, Marcus Aurelius started by listing all the lessons he learned from people around him. He wrote with a sense of gratitude and could say exactly what he had learned, what had been said, what had been shown. If I were to try such a thing myself, it would be “thanks to the kid whose name I can’t remember in my second kindergarten class”. Even my childhood best friend, who I reconnected with on Twitter a few years back, is this nebulous memories of good times. What did he teach me? What did I learn? I’m not sure I could say.
Even Russ, by best friend in my last two years of high school, who died a few years after graduation, lives in my memory as a bunch of anecdotes.
And this kind man, who was one of those pillar of the community types, is gone.
I know from my readings that the best way to process a death is to remember all the good things, all the lessons, the joys, and appreciate the way the deceased has shaped your life. If I talk to his wife, I don’t know what I could possibly say other than “He was a good man” and that seems, well, generic.
My past failures continue to remind me that they exist, that I was not always a good man. I was often selfish and ignored the good advice and the good advice I did take with me entered my head without attribution. I have a memory full of regrets.