"My Uncle Phil has cancer," Chris said. "They say he only has a couple months to live.
"We need to visit him. We need to go this weekend," I responded.
We always talked about going to visit Uncle Phil, a man Chris spoke adoringly of. Now time called our bluff.
Our travels took us to one place I, a religious mutt, never imagined going: a Jesuit community. To the world, Uncle Phil went by Father Phil. This visit put me on guard. I feared judgment and brought plenty of my own along.
It turned out Father Phil and I were kindred spirits. A long-time editor and true language lover, he brought us to his office where he not only shared childhood stories about Chris' deceased father but also spoke at length about his life's passion: words. His eyes lit up and his energy piqued when the topic turned to our common interest.
We talked for hours. I became his pupil, listening and taking notes, fluctuating between gratitude for this afternoon and sadness that it would be our only afternoon. How had our lives been too busy for this trip until the last possible moment?
He photocopied favorite articles and gifted me his favorite book on writing.
"Children are enchanted and delighted by big words. They stretch the imagination," he said at one point, citing Treasure Island as one of his favorite works of juvenile literature.
He took us to the top of his building so we could look out over St. Louis. My sister-in-law stated she thought little of the Arch.
"You didn't get close to it, did you?" He asked. She said she had not. "Well, that's it. You've got to get close to it. You've got to see the way the sun hits the different angles. It's like fireworks."
Our two-hour visit, kept short to respect his health, turned into a seven-hour visit. I did not want to leave. I wanted to stay for days and be mentored by this warm and brilliant person who lived so fully, with a gracious and loving heart, and through a child's eyes. The next morning, after stopping by for breakfast, Chris and I hugged him farewell.
It's so strange to say goodbye to someone whose days are knowingly numbered. "Thank you" and "I am so glad to have met you" were all I could say. Chris and I both started crying as we pulled out of the parking lot, waving goodbye until the small, gray man disappeared from view.
Two weeks later, he passed away.
That phone call changed everything, all right. I knew Father Phil for 24 hours, but that brief encounter profoundly impacted my life. I saw, in action, the beauty of living with purpose and intent. This man took a vow of poverty to follow such a path. After experiencing his peaceful, joyous spirit, I recognized that it might be possible to sacrifice some material comforts to follow my heart. And, shortly thereafter, I did. In that way and so many others, that afternoon transformed me.
2 comments:
What a nice tribute, Jen. :-)
That was beautiful. Sadly, I never fully knew that side of him. But I will always remember him as someone who had a child-like intrigue for life and play.
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