On the 6th Anniversary of my Father's Death

My father always jokingly confessed that he never understood me or the decisions I made in my life. While he was a meat-and-potatoes, crude-oil-under-his-fingernails, devout Lutheran, Nixon-supporter kind of guy, I was a vegetarian, a poet, an Anglo-Catholic Episcopal priest, a committed pacifist, an unapologetic liberal. Although he never once said a word against my lifestyle, he was often perplexed by almost every aspect of my life. And still, despite it all, he showed me nothing but unconditional, unwavering love and support. Throughout my life, even despite our differences, I was consistently amazed at how he always seemed to have it all together. Nothing seemed to faze him or upset him. He walked through life with an inner strength and an outward calm and kindness that I both admired and envied. Everyone who knew him said the same thing about him: he was, quite simply, a good man.

I miss him almost every day and often find myself wishing I could ask his advice for some “thing” in my life. His death six years ago today transformed me in ways I still can’t quite fully process. But I sure am grateful he was my father. I just wish I had had a chance to tell him that.

Here is one of the poems about his death. It was included in my collection, That Word, published in 2014 by North Star Press.

COMMENDATION

Take from him

whatever stains

even Communion

and devotion

can’t undo.

And let him

rise up—

if not today

one day soon—

from the ashes

we placed

so carefully into

the dark recess

of the earth

and left there

where the rain’s soaking

and the snow’s run-off

and the heat of high noon

cannot reach him

anymore.

Let him rise up

from here

more beautiful

than he is

in those dreams

from which I myself

rise and stumble

toward a

slightly overcast

dawn.