I'm supposed to be working

I have a lot to do. I've fallen behind on some things and deadlines are looming. But I can't work right now. The work will have to wait a little longer.

I received word that my best friend's father passed away this morning. It was a long hard fight consisting of various illnesses, debilitating treatments, nasty hospital food, and invasive procedures.

Mr. Walsh was diagnosed with multiple myeloma last year after his kidneys had already started to fail. He was put on dialysis three times a week, started chemotherapy, had some good days and some bad days, but still the deterioration was unrelenting.

Slight of build, Mr. Walsh was a mail carrier for almost his entire working life after getting out of the service. He hauled sacks of mail up and down his route in the hills of the Far NE of Philadelphia every day in all kinds of weather. He was a congenial and gentle soul to all the people on his route and during the Christmas season he would be swamped with gifts.

By the end of his life, he became an even smaller frail person whose body was so weakened by his illnesses that he could have disappeared in front of our very eyes and no one would have been surprised. His spirit, on the other hand, was superhuman in its power and he defied the doctors' prognosis of death again and again and again and yet again until he finally had to let go of his beloved family.

Mr. and Mrs. Walsh were married for almost 50 years. Maybe more than 50. I've lost track over the years. Their oldest son is nearing 50, so it must be close. I've spent countless hours with this family and watched as Mr. and Mrs. Walsh went through good times and bad times together. They were a living testament in my life to the power of love and the value of commitment. There were years when they fought and bickered with each other, times when they perhaps weren't sure about how they felt about each other, but they considered the wedding promises they made to each other immovable objects and everything else had to be adjusted to fit around them. I remember seeing them through the years still holding hands when they walked together. Marriage was sacred in their eyes and as such, it would and could endure through every mortal problem. Mortal human problems are, after all, transient and temporary just like the mortal humans who create them. What is sacred is eternal.

I think many of us forget the value of holding something sacred in our lives. Too often we claim that "nothing is sacred!" as though that were an honorable phrase and a symbol of independent thinking. I suspect recognizing the sacred in ourselves and each other and having the courage to preserve it might be the far more honorable and independent thing to do.

Mr. and Mrs. Walsh had five children. I became friends with their oldest daughter, MaryRose, when we were in 7th grade and we were soon inseparable. This was two years after the death of my own father and within moments of our meeting I became part of their extended family. My home life was in as good an order as it could have been under the circumstances, but I found a stability and comfort in their midst that I did not have anywhere else. They included me in many family functions and family vacations. I've been to their weddings, their funerals, and was introduced many times as their "other" daughter.

Even so, it's a difficult relationship to describe. Mr. Walsh never sought to replace my father. He was not my surrogate parent, but he was easily one of the most influential male figures in my life. As I entered adulthood, he went beyond being a father figure and became a good friend. We didn't have nearly as many opportunities as I would have liked to really talk heart-to-heart, but those rare times when it was just me and him, I got to know him as a deeply faithful, moral, loving, and kind hearted man. There was not a shred of pretense in him anywhere and it was always the inside of a person that counted with him, and never the shallow trappings of money, prestige, or appearance.

He had a strong sense of justice, and I think it is in this regard that I felt closest to him. Slow to anger and even slower to show it, the one thing guaranteed to rile him up like a shaken hornets' nest was when he believed an injustice had been done. He was my hero.

I know he left this world without regret and without fear. He said so himself when he was diagnosed. The doctors did not spare him the truth and he knew that his illness was terminal. He had plenty of time to consider the prospect of leaving this world, and he told me, "I have no regrets. Sure, there are always things you might have done differently, but this is my life and I have no regrets about any of it."

He was a quiet and stalwart warrior for good, and I am honored to have known him.

I love you, Pop. Say hi to Daddy for me.