| Another Piece of the Puzzle |
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The other day I came across a dog-eared piece of paper, with a couple of paragraphs scribbled in pencil. It was the message I gave at my dad’s funeral, 11 years ago this April. He lived one week after a massive stroke, and I had taken the four children (I was newly pregnant with Julie) and traveled to Atlanta to be there for those last days. He never really regained consciousness, so any conversation in the hospital room was one-sided.I had made the same hurried trip south 24 years ago, after my sister Maureen’s fatal car accident. Another shock, another parting with no real goodbye. But there was a huge difference. Mo was my Irish twin (we were 11 months apart). We had shared so much, from clothes to confidences, from laughter to tears, that, in the end, it didn’t really feel anything was left unsaid, young as she was at her death. We knew how very much we loved each other. Dad and I had a… challenging relationship, let’s say. At various times during my childhood and youth, it felt like not much of any relationship at all. We shared no confidences. He seemed very detached from all of our lives. I always jumped to the conclusion that he disliked me, and I felt alternatively angry and guilty. Dad died with just about everything between us unresolved. And so, an odd eulogy from his oldest daughter. Instead of the outpouring of warm and funny anecdotes and sweet memories, that one would expect at a time like this, this is in fact part of what I wrote: If it is true that each of us is a puzzle, made up of many pieces, my father, Tom Cunningham, was the most challenging puzzle I ever knew. Each of us in this church-his wife, his daughters, his grandchildren—knew a few parts of Dad, but no one could ever really fit the puzzle together—probably not even Daddy himself….He was an intensely private, quiet man, a man who seemed alone even in the middle of a crowded room, or in the heart of his family… It was an honest message. He was such a mystery to me. But here’s the strange part. Our relationship hasn’t ended. It is still growing. And, slowly, the mystery is becoming a bit clearer. In the years that have passed, I find myself thinking of him more and more. As I wrestle with the difficulties of life in middle age, I have come to understand that life got the better of Dad, from early on, and that there really was no malice or lack of caring in his attitude towards me or my sisters. It is not damning with faint praise to say “he did the best he could.” I have come to believe that he really did. And that we all have our limitations. And that we all have our communications problems. And that we all are puzzles to ourselves at times. My younger kids have vague memories of Dad, if any. They have said they feel sad that they never knew him. Many times I could have replied: “Don’t worry. Neither did I.” But that is no longer true. Now, I often feel his presence. There are moments my selfish regret for what he couldn’t give me on earth begins to give way to something better. Something that feels like tenderness. Something that feels like love. And so we travel on, together, Dad just out of sight, in a Heaven that may be much closer than any of us dream of. |
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