Farewell Uncle Marvin

"Uncle" Marvin is not my uncle. He is the uncle of a good friend. I have had the honor of referring to him as uncle these past few years that he has lived in Saint Louis.

Uncle Marvin, has had a long and interesting life. He is the age my father would be were my father still alive. He served in the Merchant Marines during WWII. He has old-school values and old-school racism. It is the type of racism that "tolerates" other races as long as they are in their places. Places like serving, sports, and in their own countries of origin. He does not shy away from using racial epitaphs such as wop, dago, wetback, the n word, and colored. Despite this fact, he has many friends of color and of foreign national origin. Those friends seem to be of the same vintage, and thus, understand him.

I have also had the privilege of checking in on Marvin from time to time when his nephew has been traveling. The way we check on him, without him knowing we are checking on him is to bring him dinner, or stop by to fix his dinner. We chat, check his pill box and refill as needed. He usually has us reheat some past days' dinner that was delivered by a meal delivery service. He gripes that it costs too much and that they put in stuff he would never eat--if he weren't paying for it. He loves a bargain. So, when I go to check on Marvin, he lets me know about a 79 cent bargain burrito at Taco Bell, or a 99 cent meal from the Colonel or some other fast food joint. Dessert is always the same: some soft ice cream in a cup with a dash of Gatorade.

Marvin is a curmudgeon. He is my hero. There is not a bit of good news he can't dismiss with a shrug and a a "we'll see how that turns out". He loves to tell stories about his family members which I would never repeat where they could hear them. He loves the women, but only married once and divorced during the War. Believe it or not, he married a Mexican. He has led a full life, but his last few years here, in Saint Louis, probably were meant to enhance our lives, not his.

I know many of my friends were influenced by a book entitled: Tuesdays with Morrie. Time spent with Marvin was just as splendid. Marvin was discovered a few days ago in his apartment, suffering the effects of a stroke, by his great nephew, David. David could not get Marvin to respond to the door bell to buzz him in. Once he gained entrance by someone leaving the building, David found Uncle Marvin was in bed and unable to speak or move. He had had a stroke.

This wasn't Marvin's first stroke. Indeed he regaled me with the awfulness of growing old with each visit. When he heard I had a heart attack, he told me: "First comes the heart attack, than the stroke, say good-bye to your sex life, you end up with cataracts and deaf, your memory wains and eventually someone has to help you take a ________!" "Getting old is awful" he would say "but then it beats the alternative."

Uncle Marvin was part of that "Greatest Generation". So few from that generation remain, I am glad to have shared some moments with one of them. Uncle Marvin is being cared for by hospice and his family. They expect him to meet his maker in a matter of days. If you think of it, say a little prayer for Marvin. If you get the chance, find a Marvin or Morrie or Martha or Margaret from that Greatest Generation to share a little time with. You won't regret it.

Goodbye Uncle Marvin. I'll miss you.

Heart Attack continued

I spent the next three days in the kind care of SLU Hospital. I was admonished at each set or "rounds" to stop smoking. Most of the advice was hard core: "you'll kill yourself if you don't" type of thing. But one doc said he understood how hard it is to quit and that I should really try. He smelled of tobacco. :)

I wandered the hallways of the hospital for 72 hours. I was bored even with my IPhone to comfort me. I had a few visitors. One of them brought me suckers and magazines. The cover story of one of the magazines had to do with people who do not believe there is a life after this. That got me thinking again about the nagging question: why no spiritual consolation in my hour of greatest need? That question pestered me constantly when I wasn't thinking about how much this was all going to cost and how I was going to pay for it.

Setting aside the questions of cost and how to pay for my medical care, I left the hospital still nagged by the former question: Why did I not experience and spiritual consolation, or pray, or repentance or...? I started asking other people about it. I read articles, blogs and books about people who had had profound spiritual experiences in similar life and death situations. This only bothered me more. I searched my heart and thoughts for answers to no avail. Priests told me not to worry about it. My spouse told me it was because I didn't actually die. Friends gave me their advice, but none of it registered with me. What I was reading and what I was hearing from others was making the lack of consolation in my case even more disconcerting.

I consider myself a person of faith. I have been a Catholic all my life. I have relied on the sacraments and the mercy of God to get me through many circumstances like the deaths of parents and siblings, divorce, and other such difficulties. This one event was throwing me for a loop. Mostly because I wasn't able to trust my friends' attempts at comfort and explanation, because none of them had been through anything quite like the near-death experience I had. The old questions about the existence of God, the love of God, the personal nature of God, the intervention of God, the omnipresence of God, began tumbling around with the rest of my questions. My mind was reeling for over a month. Questions became torments. Rock became sand. I was being challenged to the core of my beliefs--with no relief. I turned on the television one evening and things started to firm up again. Thank God for television!

On the local access channel was a series of locally produced films. One of the documentaries chronicled the effect of death, near-death and violence on a religious community with which I was acquainted. A few years ago, a horrific thing happened at The Benedictine Community in northwest Missouri, at Conception Abbey. A crazed gunman entered the monastery and shot and killed and wounded several of the monks and then took his own life. Having spent many retreat weekends at Conception Abbey over the years, I became familiar with several of the Brothers. Because of my friendship with the monks I became particularly interested in this documentary. As the film unfolded, it was mostly interviews with the surviving monks and local folks from near the monastery. Several of the monks detailed the horror of witnessing this tragedy. Some who witnessed and survived, were also victims of gunshot wounds. These men talked about how it felt to be invaded and attacked. How vulnerable they felt. Hiding out as their brother monks were wounded and dying. More than one mentioned he didn't understand why God didn't protect them. Others confessed they felt numb or nothing and didn't even think to pray.

Wait, did he just say he didn't feel God at all and didn't even think to pray? That's impossible. Monks spend several hours a day praying. Whenever I shared the Liturgy of the Hours with these monks I always felt God's presence. What could this mean? Then it dawned on me that if these men of God, whom I greatly admire, had the same struggles as I, under even more dire circumstances, then perhaps I was going to be O.K. with my doubts and my questions. If you receive consolation in your hour of testing, be grateful. If you don't experience the presence of God in your darkest moments, think of the monks at Conception Abbey or of Blessed Mother Teresa of Calcutta, who confessed to experiencing many dark nights, and of all those who suffer and as a good Catholic, offer it up.

Photo from my hospital window