Not a Eulogy

Dad loved words.  

You could tell this by how sparingly he used them.  

You know this by how judiciously he used them. He not only used words sparingly, but he used them thoughtfully and carefully as if they were meant to last.  I think Dad would want to be remembered and described in a single word. The word I would use is impressive. Impressive in the way something which is constantly present makes an impression.  Impressive in the way a jug of water never runs dry, nor a jug of oil runs empty, nor a measure of flour that’s never exhausted.

I too love words.  You know this by the great abundance of them I use.  I rarely use them as judiciously as Dad did, and almost never as thoughtfully or as carefully.  In Dad’s quiet way, and my very noisy way, we shared a great love of words.

My dad was a gentleman.  He embodied those qualities we associate with gentlemen.  He was polite, orderly, disciplined, gracious, honest, generous, humble, strong, deferential.  These qualities were developed over a lifetime of many influences such as his parents, and some very close cousins, Benedictine priests who taught him, his military service, a happy marriage, and, an only child himself, being a parent to seven children born in nine years. However these influences were not solely responsible for turning my dad into the gentleman he became.  Dad developed said qualities with great intentionality, perseverance and dedication.

When I was much younger Dad and I frequently went to the Stations of the Cross on Friday nights during Lent. We really knew how to kick off a happening weekend.   I imagine he took us all, but in my mind I am with him and listening to him. The text was Everyone’s Way of the Cross by Clarence Enzler.  The Stations of the Cross is a short contemplation service based on the passion of the Christ. The text is short and has a dialog of sorts between the priest reading Christ’s part and the people reading “the people’s” part.  As happens in most liturgies the people respond in unison and by rote so as to seemingly speak in one voice. However Dad always deliberately read the text using a different inflection and cadence from everyone else. I believed he was reading the responses with such intentionality so as to teach himself some difficult and very humble ways to live.  The reality is that by the time he started taking us to the Stations, he had pretty well cemented his legacy of goodness, but still his focus and emphasis on the words gave them greater meaning.

Here are some of the responses, and they are all partial but see if they seem familiar to Jim Seigel’s way of living:

“My Jesus Lord, obedience cost you your life.  For me it takes an act of will-no more.”

“My Jesus Lord I take my daily cross.  I welcome the monotony that often marks my day, discomforts of all kinds, the summer’s heat, the winter’s cold, my disappointments, tensions, setbacks, cares.”

Another great one: “I willingly accept my weaknesses, my irritations and my moods, my heartache and fatigue, all my defects of body, mind and soul.”

My favorite: “Lord make me realize that every time I wipe a dish, pick up an object off the floor, assist a child in some small task, or give preference in traffic (as if that ever happened) or in the store, teach the ignorant or lend a hand in any way it matters not to whom--my name is Simon and the kindness I extend to them I really give to you.”

“May gentleness become my cloak.  Lord make me kind like you.”

“My Lord I see you take a moment’s rest and rise and stagger on.”

“Detach from me the craving for prestige, position, and wealth.  Root out of me all traces of envy of my neighbor who has more than I.”

“The teachings you could not impart, the suffering you could not bear, the works of love you could not do in your short life on earth, let me impart, and bear, and do… through you.”

So when all fourteen stations have been addressed the Christ voice speaks to the People, and I could always see Dad focus on these two lines.

“Accept each moment as it comes to you with faith, and trust that all that happens has my mark on it.  A simple fiat; this is all it takes.”

And lastly: “So seek me not in far off places.  I am close at hand. Your workbench, office, kitchen, these are altars where you offer love.  And I am there with you.”

These fairly simple lines seem to me representative of the way Dad lived.  Obedient, dependable, patient, understanding, hopeful, charitable, kind, generous, gentle, humble, hard working, accepting and available.  Dad embodied these qualities so completely, when we recently broke into his toolbox we discovered in the lid where he displayed his pride. Never a boastful man, and one who was very sensitive to the trappings of pride, he nonetheless kept a daily reminder of something truly great of which he was a key element.  Everyday at work he would have his toolbox open, and where he kept those tools he needed for his job, nicely displayed in the lid, were pictures of his beloved and lovely wife and beautiful, amazingly well behaved children. It was there at this quiet altar that he offered up his love. I pray that we too should live like Dad did, and know that he is there with you.

An open letter to my high school class

Hearing about the death of our classmate Paul Eganhouse made me take something more than a sideways glimpse of my own mortality, and judging from the many rapidly arriving responses to the post on the 1986 Regis Facebook page, many of you likely did the same.  Knowing some of you have experienced a much harder, and more prolonged confrontation with your mortality, I have to think that Paul's early exit from this life stirred more poignant feelings well beyond my imagination.  At 50 years of age, give or take, we are neither old nor young.  That we have lost more than 5% of our classmates seems like a statistic that would not necessarily be alarming.  Should someone know if that number is high or low, or if anyone wishes for some grizzly research, it would be interesting to know.  However the reassurance that our class' mortality is statistically within range does not help refocus our day to day lives.

Many of you were probably very good friends with Paul.  He was very smart, gracious, good looking, mature, and he had a very reliable jump shot.  Of course he possessed many other great qualities, as you all do, but these were the first that came to mind upon hearing that he had died.  They are qualities that I remember well because they are the ones he exhibited to me.  His intelligence and graciousness we're pretty easy to see, and since he and I were not close they are the qualities that stood out to me.  Undoubtedly many of you remember other qualities that add to the dimension of his life.  Wouldn't it be fascinating to hear everyone's perspective of Paul?  I'm confident that our collective recollection would reveal a richly complex man who left us with good feelings of humanity.  While I would eagerly participate in and enjoy such a memorialization, that's not actually the point of this writing.

The second thing that crossed my mind while reading the announcement of Paul's passing was that I was inexplicably sad.  That sadness rose from the realization that while he and I were not close, or even friends really, we shared this time and space where  mostly disparate, but some common, experiences occurred.  Based on those experiences, and many, many others, he and I became the people we did.  While my own life is scarcely shaped by having shared a certain time and space with Paul, I  am aware that the other one hundred and thirty some others of you with whom I spent one to four of my formative years left an impact greater than I have acknowledged.  Probably that's normal, but perhaps part of reaching fifty is I realize that's something I can change.

For whatever reason, trying to articulate the impact my high school cohort had on me while while it was happening was a very dicey act.  Whether self absorption prevented me from even recognizing it, an immature understanding of the importance you all might contribute to my life, a nearly complete lack of confidence in my power to express myself, or possessing a decorum entirely ill-suited to expressions of appreciation, I never communicated the many ways, subtle, obvious and and at times brutally blunt, you helped shape my life.  Regardless of the circumstances under which we would have interacted, I  am at this point in my life grateful to and for  each of you.

With the passing of each of our classmates; George Nassif, Lynn Smith, Mark Uribe, Michelle Sundell, Sarah Hopp, Ann Valliere, Amy Crane and now Paul Eganhouse, I have reflected on this one contradiction that only time can resolve.  When we were in high school, whether that time was great, miserable or indifferent, we all at some point were told, and we probably tried to understand, that our time together was fleeting.  (For a lucky few of you your time together lasted much longer and hopefully still will.)  High school would be just a small part of who we ultimately become.  On the passing of each of our classmates I took the time to weigh the impact that person had on my life. Each time the amount of sadness I felt for the loss of that person really surprised me.  Even now, thirty two years after my last exchange with Paul, that sadness is more present than I would have expected.  Why would the loss of a person, with whom I  could barely draw a venn diagram of our lives there was seemingly so little overlap, warrant such sadness?  Sadness is part of the resolution.  The happiness, humor, or even contempt I feel and occasionally express when our on-line lives cross is also part of that resolution.  Undeniably while our time together was comparatively short, our interactions possibly few and fleeting, you all helped develop the complex life I am so grateful to live.

So I'm taking this opportunity, while  in the midst of a sadness I can't completely explain and honestly feels a bit self indulgent, to thank  each of you for the imprint you have left on me.  I hope each of you can point to your high school days and feel a similar gratitude for the ways the people, the time and the spaces have shaped your lives.