Wednesday, March 29, 2023
Pre-bituary
One
of the things I am really grateful for right now is that this blog--
and all of you-- allowed me to be in a place right now where I'm not
wishing I had told my dad how I felt before he died last Saturday. I did
tell him, here. Going back for Sunday's post, I was struck by how often
I wrote what almost felt like a eulogy. I've posted below what I wrote
here in 2012 (adapted from a 2010 post) that might be the best example.
In the comments, Jill Scoggins wrote about losing her own parents, and
urged me to make the best of the time I had with my own-- and I have.
Sometimes, you all are my best advisors.
I
know he read it, too, because he responded in the comments section with
more eloquence than I had offered. Below is the post and then, in bold,
his response. As he usually did, he deflected the praise to talk about
someone else.
So.... this is from 2012:
I
woke up this morning thinking about my dad. As I get older, I realize
new ways in which I am like him, for better or for worse-- mostly to the
better. Many of his best qualities I only aspire to, and am far from
achieving. Here are a few of the things I received from my father, some
of which are gifts I have yet to fully accept:
1) My father has the amazing ability to see beauty in all things, in all places. An empty lot is not an eyesore to be filled up; rather it a place to gather wildflowers, to marvel at a pheasant, through which to see a vista. To him, people and things are inherently imbued with meaning, and the challenge of life is to draw that meaning out, to hold it in one's hand and marvel at it.
2) He has a love for and acceptance of complex people. He knows their flaws, and loves them anyways. A life presented to him as perfect is suspect and false, but one with dents and bruises is real and gorgeous. He is drawn to those who struggle, and recognizes that this is a group that includes us all. When he wants to help people, as he often does, it is rarely to change them in a fundamental way, but to help them be the way they see themselves, so long as that is an honest view. That's how he loves things that are broken and flawed, like the City of Detroit, or me.
3) He says and does the unexpected. He does not have the filter of "what will people think?" I don't always know the source of his internal moral compass, but it is always there and often points in a different direction than the norm. In what I have found to be a guidepost for the best kind of impulse towards justice, his primary concern is for people who are not like him. He's not one of those dads who grumbles about the taxes he must pay as the nation's greatest injustice, but rather is passionate about the unfairnesses inflicted on those who do not have his advantages.
D) He had the strength to seek out and marry a woman, my mother, who was (and is) beautiful and intelligent and probably a little intimidating to many people. She was a professional, a scientist, and apparently a pretty good skier, and he had the good sense to woo her with his own beat poetry (including the infamous classic that began with the lines "Oh, building of glass and spinach/Dogs fornicate in front of the children...")
5) He accepts wisdom from all sources. Literally, a homeless man in the Cass Corridor can be as wise to him as Plato. He rarely drops the name of anyone famous, but often quotes the words and stories of the humbled. Of course, that means that he does what so many of us don't do-- he listens to the stories of the humbled.
6) He gives freely. Even when he himself has been in need, he sometimes seems blind to this while still giving to others.
7) He has never, not once, in any way, revealed a prejudice of any kind. Though he would not articulate it this way, I have never met another person who so clearly lived out the Quaker ideal of seeing the light of God in every person.
8) He creates constantly. It did not stop at a certain time-- creation, with him, is life, all of it.
9) He is ceaselessly optimistic about us all. When he sees a storm, it is always the "trailing edge"-- which is perhaps the best personal philosophy of all.
If you know John Shipman Osler, Jr., you know these things to be true. As my faith develops, I find that the lessons of Christ are often not so different than the lessons of my father, and that makes me love them both all the more.
1) My father has the amazing ability to see beauty in all things, in all places. An empty lot is not an eyesore to be filled up; rather it a place to gather wildflowers, to marvel at a pheasant, through which to see a vista. To him, people and things are inherently imbued with meaning, and the challenge of life is to draw that meaning out, to hold it in one's hand and marvel at it.
2) He has a love for and acceptance of complex people. He knows their flaws, and loves them anyways. A life presented to him as perfect is suspect and false, but one with dents and bruises is real and gorgeous. He is drawn to those who struggle, and recognizes that this is a group that includes us all. When he wants to help people, as he often does, it is rarely to change them in a fundamental way, but to help them be the way they see themselves, so long as that is an honest view. That's how he loves things that are broken and flawed, like the City of Detroit, or me.
3) He says and does the unexpected. He does not have the filter of "what will people think?" I don't always know the source of his internal moral compass, but it is always there and often points in a different direction than the norm. In what I have found to be a guidepost for the best kind of impulse towards justice, his primary concern is for people who are not like him. He's not one of those dads who grumbles about the taxes he must pay as the nation's greatest injustice, but rather is passionate about the unfairnesses inflicted on those who do not have his advantages.
D) He had the strength to seek out and marry a woman, my mother, who was (and is) beautiful and intelligent and probably a little intimidating to many people. She was a professional, a scientist, and apparently a pretty good skier, and he had the good sense to woo her with his own beat poetry (including the infamous classic that began with the lines "Oh, building of glass and spinach/Dogs fornicate in front of the children...")
5) He accepts wisdom from all sources. Literally, a homeless man in the Cass Corridor can be as wise to him as Plato. He rarely drops the name of anyone famous, but often quotes the words and stories of the humbled. Of course, that means that he does what so many of us don't do-- he listens to the stories of the humbled.
6) He gives freely. Even when he himself has been in need, he sometimes seems blind to this while still giving to others.
7) He has never, not once, in any way, revealed a prejudice of any kind. Though he would not articulate it this way, I have never met another person who so clearly lived out the Quaker ideal of seeing the light of God in every person.
8) He creates constantly. It did not stop at a certain time-- creation, with him, is life, all of it.
9) He is ceaselessly optimistic about us all. When he sees a storm, it is always the "trailing edge"-- which is perhaps the best personal philosophy of all.
If you know John Shipman Osler, Jr., you know these things to be true. As my faith develops, I find that the lessons of Christ are often not so different than the lessons of my father, and that makes me love them both all the more.
And here was my dad's response in the comments section:
This morning the first image of my father that came to my mind was of his face when he found something in life that delighted him. He was a strong man physically and had a firmness that seldom wavered, but it was his vulnerability that I remembered. This makes me aware that as we try to demonstrate to our children our strength, constancy, and authority, we, hopefully, will be remembered for our gentleness, kindness, openness, curiosity,and our ability to listen.
My father's face, at those moments of joy is the face I see when I think of my children and grandchildren. Thanks again. Dad
