Not Goodbye

the Beckley family, religion, and other reflections

At the time of writing this, it has been less than a week since my grandfather’s funeral and about two since his passing. It’s my second funeral and the first family member I’ve ever needed to say goodbye to. He enjoyed fantastic health until the very end. Within two months of diagnosis, my grandfather was gone.

His wake was Friday the 13th, and burial was the following day. My family hesitated. Yet, when you stop to consider the man my grandfather was, you would know he would find the date funny. He was a man who would catch you off-guard with a laugh and a wink.

He was a terrific grandfather, father, older brother, husband, and son. To all with the privilege to know him, he was steadfast; an immovable object, an unstoppable force. He was as smart as a whip, well-read, and eternally humble.

Throughout my life, he’s always been a source of laughter. He loved to dance to blues and recite Richard III. My grandfather loved to play games, but never any with rules. He marched to the beat of his own drum, all the while inviting us along.

I am so sad to live in a world without him.

my grandfather and I, his eldest grandchild

I was very lucky to say goodbye. In the days leading up to his death, my grandfather insisted he was coming to see my sisters and me many, many miles away. A few hours after our visit, he passed.

Later, when I returned to the hotel room, I opened my laptop and began to scribble my preliminary observations. They were/are scattered. I’m struggling to find the place to begin. I very much doubt I have the capacity to organise these thoughts—at least, not for some time.

As I attended the wake, funeral, and reception I knew that I was a part of something profound.

I needed to chew on my thoughts before spitting them out on a page.

my grandfather teaches his sons to shoot

St. Michael the Archangel

My grandfather’s name was Michael, known also as “Iron Mike”. The nickname is/was fitting. Stories told around the dinner table exemplify the policeman, teacher, and man he was.

I’ve always loved the image of the archangel: God’s faithful servant, and leader of His great army. I can see him in my mind’s eye, unfurling his grand wings as he smites the evil one. I think to myself, if this is God’s servant, imagine how mighty He is!

When I prayed to St. Michael in times of danger, I felt a sense of immediate security and peace.

I feel a deep connection to St. Michael, perhaps because of the history of heroic men in my family: police officers, firefighters, service members, et cetera. I deeply admire them.

It would be grossly prideful to know the Lord’s will, but I believe that my grandfather is in heaven. I also believe that my grandfather was placed on this earth to guard and protect as St. Michael does.

While I may not enjoy the charism of physical strength to be a protector, this experience has led me to reflect on the gifts I have been given. What can I do to serve the Lord as my grandfather did? As my father does?

I may not wield a sword, but perhaps a pen and a prayer can be my weapon.

Nassau County motorcycle platoon pay tribute to my grandfather

“You don’t need to finish first,

You just have to finish.”

That’s what my grandfather always said.

He was baptised Lutheran but was an atheist nearly all his life. Attempts to engage him in a serious eschatological conversation were met with his usual brand of humor. Despite this, he took my grandmother (a devout Catholic) to Sunday Mass every week for over sixty years. Incredible. He also respected the Church’s great thinkers and the contributions they made to philosophy and science.

On the Sundays I attended Mass with my grandparents, my grandfather enjoyed good-naturedly teasing us about our faith.

On his deathbed, my grandfather received the Host and became a Catholic.

A Beckley Face

As I put together the video for the wake—a series of photos from my grandfather’s life—it occurred to me how quickly time progresses. In a blink, he went from a baby to a young man, to a grandfather. I am seized also by the ever-tramping march of time, captured in its riptide as the generations before me.

My life is minimal but my impact has the potential to be greater than I will ever know.

It’s the first time in many, many years I was in a room with all my (contemporary) paternal cousins. I also met some distant cousins for the first time in a long while. I was struck by the faces laid out before me. They were similar in form to the many faces that came before them.

My youngest sister is the spitting image of one of my great-grandmothers.

My thirteen-year-old cousin, my younger sister look like my grandfather’s mother.

Another bears a distinct resemblance to my great-grandfather.

I take after my mother very closely (though bearing the signature Beckley chin). Yet my mother’s DNA has been grafted to the Beckley tree via her children.

Now my face is a Beckley face.

Family is important

It brought tears to my eyes to see the American flag so proudly displayed from fire trucks’ ladders, the Nassau County police department salutes, and the deep reverence of my grandfather’s friends.

As we passed beneath the flag to lay my grandfather to rest, police lights flashing blue and red, I am certain that he would be so proud to know the depth of his impact on his community.

He enjoyed a hero’s send-off.

Courtesy of the Suffolk County Fire Department

The United States

I spent much of my life outside of my home country due to various circumstances. I fell prey to "American embarrassment" while in high school and for a few years in college. Around the time my prefrontal cortex fully developed, I recognised how silly this was. By the time I returned permanently to the U.S., I fell back in love with it.

I adore the American South. I love the culture, the people, the music, the lifestyle. While there, I felt a sense of shame that I was what they consider a “yank”. They think we're rude. There may be some truth to the statement. We do not wave while passing neighbors nor are we keen to engage in long conversation while out shopping. Or do we?

My impression of a "Northerner" was incorrect. This trip quickly opened my eyes and filled me with a deep affection for New York. The people, in particular on the islands, possess a gruff sort of kindness that is wholly sincere. They love community, they love conversation, and they have a fantastic sense of humor. I love them deeply and have grown to understand just how small-minded I am. This much detested group spoken of inside and outside the U.S. are not the people of New York or of South Carolina (for example).

I refuse to explain further. If you know, you know.

As my plane touched down at JFK and I peered into the face of the NYC skyline, I was filled with anger. North and South, rural and urban; Americans of all kinds have suffered abuse at the hands of those who pledged service to the public. We are witnessing the balkanisation of our country. It hurts me to see.

I love my country. The good and the bad, from mountain tops to crystal shores; the home of my grandfather, and mine as well.

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I miss my grandfather and always will.

I pray that the world will always know him by his fruits.