Dear Dad:
I know it hasn’t been that long since I’ve talked to you, but as you know it’s been over 19 years since we actually had a face-to-face conversation. On this side of the veil it’s hard to hear responses. Today is Father’s Day, though, and I wanted to write a letter to you as I used to do years ago. I guess you already know all of this, but it still feels good to talk.
I miss our conversations, you know. Some of my most cherished memories are those of sitting at the kitchen table with you sharing a couple beers or glasses of wine & talking about politics, religion, our family, My Fair Lady, and pretty much anything that came to mind. Remember when you went off on Reagan, calling him a senile old man? I still chuckle over that one. It certainly made me feel better for never having voted Republican, because I knew how you, & Granddad, & Great-Granddad had all believed very strongly in the old GOP. It’s probably a good thing you’re past politics now. The compassion–love, really–that you felt for others, especially those who were struggling just to get by, doesn’t have much place in politics now, Republican & Democrat alike. I think you’d be disgusted with the whole lot.
Mostly I miss talking to you about faith, though. Growing up the son of priest was, honestly, good. Did you know that watching you all those Sundays in church–saying Mass, preaching, talking to parishioners, even singing in your (somewhat off-key) voice–built up such a love of God that even getting sent to war wouldn’t shake it? Somehow, I don’t think you did. You weren’t the kind of dad who preached tohis kids; you were the kind whose life was homily enough. Without ever putting it into words, you taught me that our faith goes far beyond the details of canon and dogma. You taught me that our faith is but a path to a transcendent spiritual life. Now that I think of it, I can’t recall a time outside of Sunday services in which I saw you pray, though I know you did every day. To me, your life was your prayer, and that taught & affected me more than if you’d insisted on a daily family prayer time.
I remember how we used to talk about the problems in the Episcopal Church, but also about how much we cared about it, too. It was hard for you, I know, having been pushed aside by so many of your brother & sister priests, just because you hadn’t gone to seminary. You had such wisdom to share, both spiritual and worldly, and those who listened to you were always touched & moved. And you never wanted to climb the ladder of church hierarchy, so you never engaged in the politicking that is truly a blemish on the church (all churches, in fact). I know it hurt, though; after having dedicated so much of yourself to the church, and having sacrificed so much that affected your family, you ended your priesthood feeling largely ignored by all but a few. We’re only human, aren’t we? I wish with all my heart that in your last years you had felt the same appreciation & gratitude from the institution that you served as you did from the hundreds of men & women whose lives you touched. It wasn’t fair.
You know, of course, that I’m Roman Catholic now. I made my journey to Rome after you left us for quite a few reasons, but principle among them was because of what you taught me (again, by example) about the beauty and spiritual depth of the Mass. I came to know it as a time when the separation between this world and the next is much less distinct, that it is a moment in time when Heaven and Earth become one, even if it’s for a brief moment as we reckon time. I no longer felt that in the Episcopal churches I went to. Whenever Anne & I went to Mass in a Catholic church, I did. Then Mom told me, shortly after you left us, about your friendship with the Catholic priest in Madras, how you had wished you could have gone to Mass at St. Patrick’s, and how, if you were younger, you might have made the conversion yourself. I knew that I could make the change without regret (just like Mom did, later). Sort of like having your permission, I suppose, to do what I felt was right. And it has been right, Dad. I still feel the same awe and wonder now that I did when I was just a boy watching you at the altar. Sometimes, in fact, I feel as if you are there in front of me at the altar still.
You & Mom were active with the Anglican Society of St. Francis after I left home. Now that I’m a Secular Franciscan in the Order that Francis founded nearly 800 years ago, I’ve come to better understand what you (& Mom) felt in those years. You’d already been a priest of twenty years by then, and you knew what was important about faith and what was merely packaging. I understand now how you saw, like Francis, that a Christian’s life should be both prayer and a sermon. I’m afraid I’m not very good at it, but I’m trying to learn. You were a good example. By the way, say “hi” to Francis for me.
There are some other things, Dad, that I wish I could talk to you about, things that we never discussed back then. I know you were proud of me for serving in the military, but I wish I knew if it was a qualified pride. I think I understand now why you went back into the Army when Korea started up. You joined the Army in 1944, but that was too late to have served overseas in WWII. I’m guessing that you returned to the Army because you felt your wartime service was incomplete. Did you go to Korea because you needed to go to war after so many hundreds of thousands of men had before you? You had deferments in the 1940s because you worked in the packing industry, vital to the war effort. Did you feel guilty because you stayed home with your wife and two small children while so many others left for Europe & the Pacific? I wish I would have asked you that (not that you would have necessarily told me).
When I was called up for Iraq, I admit that a part of me was excited. This is what I’d trained for, after all. But I was also deeply torn, knowing that Anne & our kids were going to be here worrying about and waiting for me. I was at odds with myself, and I wish I could have talked to you about how you confronted that same quandary. I’ve felt a deep and pervasive guilt almost since the moment I was mobilized seven years ago this week. Did you feel that, too?
When I was in Iraq, I confronted the darker side of myself, of my nation, and of humanity. I’m still trying to sort out what I feel about all that. I’m guessing you confronted the same feelings. It changes the way one lives his life, knowing that the image we have of ourselves & others too often ignores the reality of what we are capable of doing. Like you, I didn’t serve in the worst of it. Like you, though, I felt my participation in war very deeply.
Looking back on my boyhood and the early years of my adult life, I can recall a number of things about you, Dad, that lead me to believe that you, too, struggled with PTSD. No one talked about it in your day, unfortunately, and that silence must have been very difficult to bear. I can see, though, how hard you worked to notstay turned inwards all the time. I can see how you avoided situations that you knew would make you angry. I can see that you struggled with depression (you never would have admitted it). I wonder: did you have nights when you cried over what you’d lost? Were there times when you felt a soul-deep despair over the ignorance & brutality of humanity? Were there times when you wished for your life to be over sooner rather than later? I’ll never know in this life, but I suspect that you felt these things, and others, just as I do.
Remember in 1966 when you took me to the funeral of the young soldier killed in Vietnam? I know now that you wanted me to see the real price of war. Thank you, Dad.
There’s so much more I wish that I could discuss with you, Dad. Even here in my 50s, I still need you. But even though we can’t sit down at the table & talk about things heavy & light, I know you’re not very far away. I want you to know that you have given me the strength & love & faith to not simply endure life but to actually live it. Thanks, Dad. I love you.
Andy
