The Rules, as They Apply to Serena

It was my father’s wish that there be no funeral service when he passed away. We are honoring that wish by having a small private ceremony with his wife, his kids, and his grandchildren. Still, I wanted to share some thoughts about my dad as we celebrate his remarkable life.

Some will say my father has died. Others will say he has been lost. Maybe it is the English teacher in me that rejects both of those terms. Neither one is accurate.

Died is just too permanent: to have stopped living. My grandfather’s life ended when I was seventeen, and I reached out to him just the other day. Out for a run, asking for his firefighter strength to bear me up, I swear I felt him. I believe he was right there with me as I tried to navigate the challenges of the past week, as I tried to help his daughter weather the conclusion of a fifty year long love story. I have had conversations with him all throughout the three decades since that day. In my life he has remained very much alive.

Lost does not work either: unable to be found. When I needed my grandfather I knew right where to find him. I always have.

So today I want to honor my father’s passing. He is no longer with us in the sense we are used to; he has passed on to somewhere else. I hope it is somewhere beautiful. I hope he is reunited with his parents and all his brothers and sisters. I hope he is at peace buoyed by the love his family has always had for him.

Looking back I see in virtually every lesson of my life the shaping hand of my dad. It was that hand I held while learning to ride a bike, while walking along the Jersey shore or across frozen rivers. It was that hand I still held over these past weeks and months. The simple touch seemed to trigger something in the growing fog of his dementia, his eyes turning to mine alive with love and even mischief. In a less literal sense it was his hands that shaped me more than any others. I am sure the same is true for my sister. I am sure it holds true for my mom. In smaller ways I am sure it is true for everyone who had the good fortune of knowing him.

I guess it is the teacher in me again that takes stock of life’s events in the context of lessons learned. My father was the best teacher a kid could ask for.

He taught my sister and me how to find joy in work as he dragged us on leaf covered tarps across the lawn, threw snowballs between shovelfuls clearing the driveway, or called out jokes from his den as he worked some extra hours. He worked tirelessly at a job he basically hated in order to provide for us, the joy of fulfilling that role of provider seemed all he ever needed.

He taught me self sufficiency, of sorts. “Another great home improvement by Herman J. Knoll and son,” became a mantra for home fixes cobbled together with wood putty, duct tape, and determination. When I look at my messy workbench in the garage I smile at the memory of my father’s tool drawer. It was located in the kitchen. It contained all the home improvement equipment he owned: flathead, phillips head, hammer, duct tape, random assortment of nails, thumbtacks.

He taught me perseverance. Quarter after quarter, dollar after dollar, he fed the batting cages though I never seemed to get any better at hitting a ball. In those moments he taught me that perseverance matters but the outcome does not. He taught me that his love had nothing to do with my abilities on a playing field. When Elias and Wyatt needed to learn how to catch a football it was these lessons that brought me to the yard day after day rep after rep - the connection forged there having little to do with the game we practiced, having everything to do with playing together and talking between snaps, having everything to do with the laughter and joy my father showed me could be found in the moments between tries.

He taught my family how to care for others as he volunteered as the business administrator for the Cathedral Kitchen in Camden, or taught a bear of a man named Tony how to read.

He taught us reverence - standing together and staring in awe at Michelangelo's Pieta in Rome, and he taught us irreverence, burping the alphabet at Christmas dinner.

He taught us adventure in more instances than I can even begin to count. Ignoring the signs reading Beware: Portuguese Man of War and taking me swimming in Bermuda, walking me across the frozen Neva river and again standing on the frozen Gulf of Finland, eating the most delicious candied fruits from a shady street vendor in a dark alley in Beijing because they looked good and they were probably fine. Handing Jenn and me a hand-drawn map to follow his footsteps through the streets of Rome.

He taught us how to listen. When I called homesick from Middlebury, or Ireland, or New Hampshire. When my heart was broken in high school, or when it burst with the birth of his grandsons - him smiling contentedly at their first cries. Whatever my burden he would listen attentively, assure me it would be okay, and always conclude by telling me how proud he was. My sister just recounted the other day a moment when she sat crying with teenage heartbreak and he just sat down on the step beside her and held her. No matter how hard we leaned, he always held us up.

He taught me how to curse, and I am proud to say I learned from a master. That lesson came mostly in the kitchen where he cooked all of our childhood meals but also while repairing the driveway, or perhaps his most animated any time we hit a pothole. We made a lot of money from his swear jar.

A part of my heart is broken knowing my dad is no longer part of this world. Even as dementia started to dull the edges of his memories, even as the landscape of his life started to disappear like footprints in a snowfall, I still so enjoyed seeing him. I'm going to miss cutting his hair. I’m going to miss watching him eat my wife’s chocolate chip cookies. I’m going to miss his jokes, his hugs, his stories. I will miss his love, his laughter, and his lessons.

But above all, my father taught me faith, and strength, and joy. It is those lessons I know will get us all through this.

In the hand-written note discussing his funeral wishes, he ended saying he would like his family to go on with their lives, remembering him fondly now and again. He reminded us to focus on what matters and “simplify, simplify, simplify.” Because life was simple to him. “Be good,” he told us when he turned 75. “Trust God. Enjoy.” Simple.

It saddens me deeply to know my dad has passed on. But I know he has not died. I know he is not lost. I know with certainty that while he has passed on to some other place, the world in which we remain has portals everywhere that will allow us access to that place. The outdoors will always be one of those portals for me. The smell of salt air and the cry of seagulls will forever transport me back to his favorite spots of Jones Beach and Corson's Inlet. The smell of exhaust and sound of car horns will forever pull me deeper into a city the way he used to walk the streets of every new city we visited to get the lay of the land. The sound of opera drifting out of some distant window. Adventures and laughter with my sons. Beef stroganoff, certain coffee mugs, sketchy food vendors, salted watermelon, Weber grills, the sound of church bells in the distance. All these and more will be doorways we can walk through to sit with him once again. I take solace in the certainty that the place to which he has passed is open to me through all of these doors. I know we can all keep talking to him. I believe he will be able to listen. I look forward to lots of walks catching him up on the latest news with my family, asking him for his advice.

So now, I ask that you all take a moment of silence and focus all your energy on your favorite memory. Picture that moment that bound you to him in life and know that bond remains now that he has passed. It will be there along with all the other beautiful memories whenever you need it. It will always be there. He will always be there.

May he be happy in his new place. May his ear be always attuned to our whispers. May his struggles be shed along with his mortal being. May heavenly angels sing him to his rest.