Messages, messengers and Valentines
We went out for a walk in the woods yesterday, and I noticed that the birds are returning. Still technically winter here, still snow on the ground( but melting) , and the forest is once again filled with the sounds of birds. This morning it was rather stuffy in the apartment so I cracked open the window for a while, and was surprised to hear songbirds out the window. It is going to be rather mild here temp wise this week, snow is on the way again for next weekend, but the sound of birds is unexpected to my brain. It is not unusual, for every year at this time the migrating birds return from their winter quarters. It is just that for some reason my brain is still not completely caught up to the time of the season yet.
There is an old belief that the birds select their mates around Valentines Day. In the early days of Christianity this was one of the root reasons behind the Valentines Day as love day developments. St Valentine was not a romantic figure himself, but rather a messenger who would carry covert sermons and words of encouragement to Christians in hiding. Leave it to the populus to weave theology with folk customs and come up with something far removed from the original intention and much more common. It is sort of like the modern day tradition to watch horror movies near Halloween. Then one day someone brings up the original intention and there is a lot of cause for pause as it were.
I have never been a great fan of Valentines Day. I think the cards, flowers and what nots surrounding the day are cute but really unnecessary. I have never felt comfortable giving or receiving things on this day if the truth be told. However, in 2004 I finally got a chance to experience the original meaning and intention of the day in a way that was surprising and amazing. This post is about that experience.
In 1998, roughly, my father , whom had experienced a heart attack and triple bypass surgery, contracted breast cancer. Yes boys and girls, men can contract breast cancer, just as women can and do die of heart disease. To be safe ( and I would speculate due to lack of treatment ideas), he had a radical mastectomy to deal with the disease. Not the modern day "remove the lump-, lymph glands and some tissue" procedure, but the full removal of the breast tissue, connecting muscle and under arm tissue deal. No chemo was even suggested, no follow up care, and the attitude was very much "Yes this happened, but let us endlessly worry and play with your cholesterol levels".For the record, his cholesterol levels were never elevated at all. He then had a second near fatal heart attack ( yep, Statins really work great), went in for a second quadruple bypass operation, had a major stroke on the operating table. and began the long painful road to recover his mobility , speech and thought processes. He was dealing with a major degree of pain afterwords that they just could not pinpoint the cause. Instead of any diagnostic work, they kept assuming it was all in his head and obviously a result of high cholesterol ( which was never elevated in the least from day one)He had a very hard time dealing with his pain, and he would tell me that he wished that my sisters would take their kids and stay the heck away so he could get some peace.Unlike them, I chose to follow his requests and stayed away for quite a bit of the end times. That combined with his tendency to behave in a very vicious , bully sort of way led to my distance. We would chat on the phone, still loved each other, but it was simply better to be distant. Eventually the cause of his pain was discovered- the breast cancer had returned , and this time it would prove to be fatal. He died at home, an due to a serious problem with our building's elevator and my own arthritis, I was not able to be there when he passed. In fact the last time I saw him was nearly 8 months before he died.
He passed on February 12,2004, and was waked on Valentines Day. His remains were cremated, as was his wish. His wake was non traditional and meaningful. Dad was baptized a Catholic, and Catholicism was the identity faith he used whenever it was necessary to claim such a thing. As is customary, the funeral director asked if we wished him to be laid out with a rosary in his hand. Why not , we thought, but I was the only sibling who owned a rosary. So I donated it to the cause, and after the final service it was returned to us, unaware. After the funeral we returned to my mom's house to go about the business of final details such as who would mail out the thank yous, who would pick up the ashes and so forth.Upon searching through some bags for the provided thank you notes, I discovered the rosary, and upon picking it up I felt a very distinct feather brush touch on my arm. There was only one person on the face of the earth who had ever touched me in that way, and that was my dad. I knew in an instant that he was indeed present, but I did not want to freak anyone out. Without saying a word I asked my other siblings to hold the rosary and see what happened. They all felt the same touch. it was dad's way of saying he was fine. My sister suggested I take the rosary back with me as it was mine, and I did so. Once we left and i was riding quietly in the car home, i was able to tune into what was being said, and my father and I shared a long chat that served to clear up some final ends and mend some fences.
It was not the last time Dad has come to chat with me, and I believe as long as my mother lives he will continue to do so. As the years pass his messages come in different forms, and he is still very much the King of Stubborn and Bullheaded land. The advantage when he was alive was that you could hang up on him, leave the room or just not show up. Not so in death.
It is amusing to me that his death happened so close to a day that was originally meant to honor the deeds of a messenger, but the meaning got lost in the world. Dad is still communicating with me , and most things that my siblings think he would care about mean absolutely nothing to him. However, many things that they seem to think little about sincerely piss him off and he keeps urging me to take action. I in turn send my own message back to him. I am not your errand boy and if you want to say something to them, do it yourself old man. For once in your life accept the fact that sarcastic words don'e always get the results you desire .
There is an old belief that the birds select their mates around Valentines Day. In the early days of Christianity this was one of the root reasons behind the Valentines Day as love day developments. St Valentine was not a romantic figure himself, but rather a messenger who would carry covert sermons and words of encouragement to Christians in hiding. Leave it to the populus to weave theology with folk customs and come up with something far removed from the original intention and much more common. It is sort of like the modern day tradition to watch horror movies near Halloween. Then one day someone brings up the original intention and there is a lot of cause for pause as it were.
I have never been a great fan of Valentines Day. I think the cards, flowers and what nots surrounding the day are cute but really unnecessary. I have never felt comfortable giving or receiving things on this day if the truth be told. However, in 2004 I finally got a chance to experience the original meaning and intention of the day in a way that was surprising and amazing. This post is about that experience.
In 1998, roughly, my father , whom had experienced a heart attack and triple bypass surgery, contracted breast cancer. Yes boys and girls, men can contract breast cancer, just as women can and do die of heart disease. To be safe ( and I would speculate due to lack of treatment ideas), he had a radical mastectomy to deal with the disease. Not the modern day "remove the lump-, lymph glands and some tissue" procedure, but the full removal of the breast tissue, connecting muscle and under arm tissue deal. No chemo was even suggested, no follow up care, and the attitude was very much "Yes this happened, but let us endlessly worry and play with your cholesterol levels".For the record, his cholesterol levels were never elevated at all. He then had a second near fatal heart attack ( yep, Statins really work great), went in for a second quadruple bypass operation, had a major stroke on the operating table. and began the long painful road to recover his mobility , speech and thought processes. He was dealing with a major degree of pain afterwords that they just could not pinpoint the cause. Instead of any diagnostic work, they kept assuming it was all in his head and obviously a result of high cholesterol ( which was never elevated in the least from day one)He had a very hard time dealing with his pain, and he would tell me that he wished that my sisters would take their kids and stay the heck away so he could get some peace.Unlike them, I chose to follow his requests and stayed away for quite a bit of the end times. That combined with his tendency to behave in a very vicious , bully sort of way led to my distance. We would chat on the phone, still loved each other, but it was simply better to be distant. Eventually the cause of his pain was discovered- the breast cancer had returned , and this time it would prove to be fatal. He died at home, an due to a serious problem with our building's elevator and my own arthritis, I was not able to be there when he passed. In fact the last time I saw him was nearly 8 months before he died.
He passed on February 12,2004, and was waked on Valentines Day. His remains were cremated, as was his wish. His wake was non traditional and meaningful. Dad was baptized a Catholic, and Catholicism was the identity faith he used whenever it was necessary to claim such a thing. As is customary, the funeral director asked if we wished him to be laid out with a rosary in his hand. Why not , we thought, but I was the only sibling who owned a rosary. So I donated it to the cause, and after the final service it was returned to us, unaware. After the funeral we returned to my mom's house to go about the business of final details such as who would mail out the thank yous, who would pick up the ashes and so forth.Upon searching through some bags for the provided thank you notes, I discovered the rosary, and upon picking it up I felt a very distinct feather brush touch on my arm. There was only one person on the face of the earth who had ever touched me in that way, and that was my dad. I knew in an instant that he was indeed present, but I did not want to freak anyone out. Without saying a word I asked my other siblings to hold the rosary and see what happened. They all felt the same touch. it was dad's way of saying he was fine. My sister suggested I take the rosary back with me as it was mine, and I did so. Once we left and i was riding quietly in the car home, i was able to tune into what was being said, and my father and I shared a long chat that served to clear up some final ends and mend some fences.
It was not the last time Dad has come to chat with me, and I believe as long as my mother lives he will continue to do so. As the years pass his messages come in different forms, and he is still very much the King of Stubborn and Bullheaded land. The advantage when he was alive was that you could hang up on him, leave the room or just not show up. Not so in death.
It is amusing to me that his death happened so close to a day that was originally meant to honor the deeds of a messenger, but the meaning got lost in the world. Dad is still communicating with me , and most things that my siblings think he would care about mean absolutely nothing to him. However, many things that they seem to think little about sincerely piss him off and he keeps urging me to take action. I in turn send my own message back to him. I am not your errand boy and if you want to say something to them, do it yourself old man. For once in your life accept the fact that sarcastic words don'e always get the results you desire .