For my Dad

For those of you who keep our family in your prayers, please remember to also pray that when we do see each other again, no offering will be required and the formal wear will be optional.

During extraordinary times, I often turn to music, and these words from the Beatles feel particularly appropriate to express how I’ve felt these past two weeks. “Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box; they tumble blindly as they make their way across the universe. Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my open mind, possessing and caressing me.”

For those who did not know him, Henry Ciemcioch was a friend, a colleague, a partner, a Godfather, a uncle, a son, a brother, a father, a husband. No matter what relationship he had with another person, he not only met expectations, he exceeded them in every way possible.

Henry was a man of patience and pride; patience to help others in times of need, patience to not react negatively when something bothered him, patience to let the ones he loved find their way in the world. He was a proud man as well; proud to have served in the United States army, proud of the fact he taught himself how to do new things; proud of the work he did at the Post Office and the record he established there. Even yesterday, he was awarded a shirt from the Post Office for his achievements, and it now lies with him. Henry was proud of the job he did, and from all accounts, they were proud of him.

But for Henry, there was nothing in his life he was prouder of than his family. From my mother Krystyna to myself to my new bride Julie, whom he happily referred to on our wedding day as, “Mrs. Ciemcioch.”

He was also a man of great humor. When I was a child, I found a book in the house he presumably authored entitled, “All I Know About Sex.” When I opened the book, all the pages were blank. It took me a long time to get that one.

Even in sickness, his humor remained intact. After surviving esophageal cancer and losing 70 pounds, he often remarked about how excited he was to write a new diet book for the masses.

For me personally, I could not ask for a better father. From the day I was born, he not only looked out for me, he took a personal interest in what I did. Beginning with Star Wars and Superman, my father introduced me to a lifelong fascination about movies. He would occasionally pull me out of school for what he termed “quality time,” which meant a hot dog lunch at Ted’s and an afternoon at the theater. It was a tradition we continued to this day, and thankfully, I married a woman that enjoys those days herself.

Henry also opened the door to a world of heroes when he started buying me comic books when I was younger. As I followed the adventures of these larger than life heroes, wondering how Batman would solve the case or how the Fantastic Four would escape the clutches of the dreaded Dr. Doom, he would read them along with me. His favorite of this colorful bunch was Superman, and he always lit up whenever I brought him over a new batch of books. But for me, my father was always the real Man of Steel. In a world of war and violence, poverty and famine, my father taught me that the fight for a better way is always worth fighting. He made me believe in heroes, because he was one himself.

Although I was not present at my father’s passing, I have no regrets. In these times of pain, you always wish for one last conversation, but I now remember my wedding day, when I went to his bedside. We said everything we needed to say.

Instead, I was in Italy, the center of the Catholic universe. And no matter how you personally feel about talking to higher beings and various methods you may go about it, one thing is very clear; if there’s any place on this planet that had a broadband connection to the big guy in charge, it’s the Vatican.

On Monday, I took a few hours that afternoon to go to the Vatican by myself to think about the twists and turns life has shown me. As I walked around the majestic St. Peter’s Basilica, reflecting upon my father’s life, the strain began to ease. The burden began to lift. And I couldn’t help but be filled with one simple feeling, “It’s going to be OK.”

How appropriate that I was reminded two days later by my mother that my father always said in times of trouble, “Don’t worry, it’s OK.”

It is my father’s sentiment that I express to you all now, don’t worry about us; we’re going to be OK. For those of you who curse the timing of such matters, remember there is no good time for death. Remember during the sorrow and tears, there is also great joy and respect for a life fully lived. Remember that while we lost one family member, we have gained another. Remember that for all the struggles Henry has endured in recent years, he is now at peace. In the ebb and flow of fate, our family has endured much, but we continue to stand tall, together, for remember that if this is indeed our darkest hour, the light will come soon if we just hold on. As the Beatles also noted, “there will be an answer … let it be.”

So while we pause to mourn my father, let us also remember the wonderful memories we shared with him and the impact he had on our lives. My father and me often annoyed my mother by repeatedly saying “Hi Dad” “Hi Mark” endlessly, but now is the time to say, “Bye Dad.” You will be missed, but you will always be loved.