SnikPlosskin
03-06-2012, 8:06pm
Well, it's that time again. Snuggle up to the fire and let Uncle Thrakk regale you with another true tale from his sordid life.
Uncle Father and the Holy Ghost
I come from an Italian family. My grandparents moved here as children from Sicily as their parents sought a better life. Among the brood were 9 brothers and two sisters. In Italian families there are only two vocations for male children: farmer or priest.
Uncle Father's real name was Carl. He was actually my great uncle, but we all just called him Uncle Father. He was a dedicated Catholic priest. He rose through the ranks of the church, finally becoming the pastor of a small evangelical church in inner city Milwaukee.
When I attended this church as a child, for the life of me, I could not figure out why Uncle Father was the leader of this almost all black congregation. This church had a band. A real band with drums. For three hours (count 'em) every Sunday, they wailed R&B gospel music. And at the center pulpit, Uncle Father. Possibly the whitest pastor in the history of the black church.
But as a pastor he was exceptional. As a kid I remember him coming to visit often. We would go camping as a family and he would say mass in the woods. We had our own personal priest. As a former alter boy, I'm not a fan of church but I remember mass in the forest with my family. No church could ever compete with birds singing and the breeze blowing through the trees.
As he aged, he didn't look older. He seemed ageless. Even after 3 open heart surgeries, Uncle Father was rock climbing in the Black Hills weeks after being released from the hospital. The guy was bulletproof. He may have had friends "up stairs".
Eventually his dream of building his own church came to fruition. He was involved heavily in the design of the building - a massive, modern tribute to God in solid oak and glass.
In the meantime, I grew up. He was always available and we spent many long hours talking politics, history, science and more. He used to pinch my shoulder as he walked by - inflicting pain for some unknown reason. I hated that. But he was funny, honest and honorable.
It seemed like he aged all at once over the course of a few weeks. He fell ill. The doctors had patched up his heart too many times. This time, there wasn't much that could be done.
My family took shifts staying with him at the rectory as he lie in what would become his death bed. On a Wednesday night, it was my shift.
He was on morphine for pain and when he learned I was attending to him, he refused the morphine. I'm not sure if it was because of my previous battles with substance abuse or if he just wanted to be lucid during my time with him.
We talked much like we always did. His breathing was labored but his sense of humor was intact. He offered me the morphine drip as a joke. After some conversation he fell asleep.
I don't know if you've ever been in a rectory. It's a quiet, solemn, serious place. A place where God and man come together. As he slept, the only sound was his raspy breathing as he struggled to breathe under the weight of the fluid collecting in his lungs.
The silence was thick as his breathing stopped for what seemed like minutes. I came to the bed to see what I could do - he reached for me and pulled me close. Then, took one more breath and said "I bless you in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost".
He died there in my arms. The silence was now deafening.
I was reluctant to do my family duty that night. I don't like dealing with death. But as he blessed me for the last time, I realized what a privilege was being bestowed upon me. Somehow I was chosen for this unpredictable moment in time.
I think about that moment often. Something changed me that night. Maybe it was the blessing. Maybe it was the privilege of being there. Maybe it doesn't make sense but it wasn't a bad experience. Having a priest die in your arms in the middle of the night sounds like a nightmare. But turns out to be an honor. I guess that's why they say God works in mysterious ways.
Thrakk out.
Uncle Father and the Holy Ghost
I come from an Italian family. My grandparents moved here as children from Sicily as their parents sought a better life. Among the brood were 9 brothers and two sisters. In Italian families there are only two vocations for male children: farmer or priest.
Uncle Father's real name was Carl. He was actually my great uncle, but we all just called him Uncle Father. He was a dedicated Catholic priest. He rose through the ranks of the church, finally becoming the pastor of a small evangelical church in inner city Milwaukee.
When I attended this church as a child, for the life of me, I could not figure out why Uncle Father was the leader of this almost all black congregation. This church had a band. A real band with drums. For three hours (count 'em) every Sunday, they wailed R&B gospel music. And at the center pulpit, Uncle Father. Possibly the whitest pastor in the history of the black church.
But as a pastor he was exceptional. As a kid I remember him coming to visit often. We would go camping as a family and he would say mass in the woods. We had our own personal priest. As a former alter boy, I'm not a fan of church but I remember mass in the forest with my family. No church could ever compete with birds singing and the breeze blowing through the trees.
As he aged, he didn't look older. He seemed ageless. Even after 3 open heart surgeries, Uncle Father was rock climbing in the Black Hills weeks after being released from the hospital. The guy was bulletproof. He may have had friends "up stairs".
Eventually his dream of building his own church came to fruition. He was involved heavily in the design of the building - a massive, modern tribute to God in solid oak and glass.
In the meantime, I grew up. He was always available and we spent many long hours talking politics, history, science and more. He used to pinch my shoulder as he walked by - inflicting pain for some unknown reason. I hated that. But he was funny, honest and honorable.
It seemed like he aged all at once over the course of a few weeks. He fell ill. The doctors had patched up his heart too many times. This time, there wasn't much that could be done.
My family took shifts staying with him at the rectory as he lie in what would become his death bed. On a Wednesday night, it was my shift.
He was on morphine for pain and when he learned I was attending to him, he refused the morphine. I'm not sure if it was because of my previous battles with substance abuse or if he just wanted to be lucid during my time with him.
We talked much like we always did. His breathing was labored but his sense of humor was intact. He offered me the morphine drip as a joke. After some conversation he fell asleep.
I don't know if you've ever been in a rectory. It's a quiet, solemn, serious place. A place where God and man come together. As he slept, the only sound was his raspy breathing as he struggled to breathe under the weight of the fluid collecting in his lungs.
The silence was thick as his breathing stopped for what seemed like minutes. I came to the bed to see what I could do - he reached for me and pulled me close. Then, took one more breath and said "I bless you in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost".
He died there in my arms. The silence was now deafening.
I was reluctant to do my family duty that night. I don't like dealing with death. But as he blessed me for the last time, I realized what a privilege was being bestowed upon me. Somehow I was chosen for this unpredictable moment in time.
I think about that moment often. Something changed me that night. Maybe it was the blessing. Maybe it was the privilege of being there. Maybe it doesn't make sense but it wasn't a bad experience. Having a priest die in your arms in the middle of the night sounds like a nightmare. But turns out to be an honor. I guess that's why they say God works in mysterious ways.
Thrakk out.