Father’s Day

About a year ago today, I gave Fr. Pat a Father’s Day card. In it, I shared my memories of him, and talked about why I saw him as a father. Pat died Tuesday morning, of prostate cancer.

Honestly, I know little about Pat, to have loved him so much. I know he was among those who landed on Omaha Beach on D-Day. I know he served as a priest for several years in the Bahamas. I know his first name was actually Edmund.

I have been acquainted with Pat since I was a young boy. He once shared the story of the first time he met me, in a church parking lot. I don't remember this time, but I know he was well-acquainted with Padre, who held him in high regard.

Pat founded "Contact", a telephone crisis line which still exists today. Padre was among the first group of volunteers. Contact was one of a couple of crisis lines which started in Oklahoma City in the late 60s - early 70s. Pat strongly felt ordinary lay people could be trained for the sort of active listening a crisis line requires, and created the venue for it to happen.

I lost touch with Pat for several years. I had gone to college and had my obligatory crisis of faith and so on, which included calling myself an atheist and not going to church. Then, in the early 1980s, I started attending St. James'.

Fr. Bill left in 1984 or so; Fr. Carroll left after serving only a year. Fr. Pat served as a "supply priest" as the mission church went through the process of searching for a new priest.

Pat considered himself retired, and acted as a supply priest primarily to help the Diocese minister to struggling mission churches. As a supply priest, he did not enter into the local church politics; he was only there to serve a liturgical function.

And so began a period of about a year and a half during which Pat and I worked closely together. I was the chair of the Worship Committee, and would relay the community's preferences for different services. I think we worked together well.

I especially remember his Panama hat, which had been given to him as parting gift from his parish in the Bahamas.

I also remember the Christmas eve service when he tried to give the acolytes advice on the best way to light the altar candles. Being normal pre-teens, they did it their way. I could hear him mutter, sotto voce, "Go ahead, ignore the advise of your elders."

The church called Father G— the following year.

Fast-forward to early 2002. I decided I needed a break from my regular church, and attended St Paul's, which is about 20 minutes' driving time closer. By now, Pat was fully retired. I saw Pat and his wife Liz sitting on the Epistle side (left, as one faces the altar) of the narthex.

I learned Pat was leading a book discussion on Writing in the Dust, reflections on 9/11 by the current Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams. Pat was well-spoken and knowledgeable, but I could tell his mind was beginning to give out. He often would go off on tangents and forget where he began, get stuck on words; sometimes each individual sentence would make sense, but the string of sentences did not seem to make a sensible whole.

That fall, with the help of Brother Dave, I bought a house. I invited a number of friends, including Fr. Pat. I invited Pat because of his connection with my father — he was of the same generation, and knew Padre. Like Padre, he was a liberal; he was as upset by GWB’s lies as dad had been by Nixon’s. But it was again clear that Pat’s mental gears seemed to be slipping — and he was painfully aware of it.

Soon after, his daughter took his car. Pat developed a list of people he would call for rides, and I was one of them. I truly began to feel like he had adopted me as much as I had adopted him.

I would drive Pat and Liz to church about once a month. Early last year, he and I went to hear Marcus Borg three nights in a row.

Late last year, or early this one, he stopped calling. His daughter gave him rides to church every Sunday. Liz was physically incapacitated due to a series of falls, and transporting her was becoming increasingly challenging.

I still visited with them after church, as possible.

The cancer returned about a month ago. Two weeks ago, mutual friends were saying he would not last the year. I’m told they were giving him morphine the last week or so, in order to cope with the pain. Monday morning he was so incoherent, the priest was reluctant to give Pat the last rites.

A layperson convinced the priest that he must. How appropriate — since Pat was a strong supporter of lay ministry.

I’ve been told that Pat died peacefully Tuesday morning. His wife is likely suffering from Alzheimer’s’, but was reportedly aware of what was happening. She’s sad to lose him, but rejoices that his pain is ended.

I rejoice as well. I can imagine the conversation Padre and Pat are having right now. I can imagine Pat joining with other witnesses who have gone before, to sing praises. But he isn’t going to just strum a harp. He will also question the Most High. He’ll debate St. Peter and St. Augustine.

I can see him now, walking boldly to the throne, wearing a Panama hat.