Lazarus, Come Out!
I've been fortunate my last three years in Florida to visit my dad and sister once or twice a year. I take the children when I can, and when I do they're treated with the celebrity of visiting royalty. My sister stocks their already crowded pantry with snacks and soda, buys out the dollar toy store for them and smothers them with kisses. My dad greets them with warm hugs and shouts of "Pop Pop." Best of all, they've played with the small litters of kittens who, in my dad, found a benefactor good for a warm place to sleep and saucer of milk.
I'd sleep on the couch, awakening to make coffee before Uncle Joe drove up the back alley of my dad's house. He'd sit beside my dad and talk baseball, relatives, or the local morning's news from the Norristown Times Herald. It was a great way to start the morning and a reminder I was always welcome when I returned home. At Our Lady of Mt Carmel Feast, the "grande festa" blocked party which defined most of the summers of my life, you could always see my Uncle Joe and Aunt Connie cutting the delicious slices of tomato pie that only taste that good in a church parking lot under a tent and bench.
Uncle Joe, Aunt Connie, and my cousins have always been first to see my kids and I when we visited, which felt more full of love for their being in our house. He's my dad's final immediate family member; their older brother and sister (my Uncle Sam and Aunt Carmella) passed on nearly 15 and 18 years ago, respectively. (My grandfather died late in 1991.)
I last wrote about Terri Schiavo, and today some of the pain the Schindler family feels has visited mine. Uncle Joe is been in coma in a Norristown hospital for a week following a massive stroke, just today breathing alone. I found out after contacting my sister on another matter; I asked Dad why it took so long to tell me. "Everyone was too excited," he said.
I'm thankful Uncle Joe is surrounded by loving family who want the best for him, and have always held to a faith which respects life. Tonight I pray for Terri Schiavo and my uncle, two people a generation apart loved by many, and awaiting their own miracle and the return of their lives. "Lazarus, come out!"
I'd sleep on the couch, awakening to make coffee before Uncle Joe drove up the back alley of my dad's house. He'd sit beside my dad and talk baseball, relatives, or the local morning's news from the Norristown Times Herald. It was a great way to start the morning and a reminder I was always welcome when I returned home. At Our Lady of Mt Carmel Feast, the "grande festa" blocked party which defined most of the summers of my life, you could always see my Uncle Joe and Aunt Connie cutting the delicious slices of tomato pie that only taste that good in a church parking lot under a tent and bench.
Uncle Joe, Aunt Connie, and my cousins have always been first to see my kids and I when we visited, which felt more full of love for their being in our house. He's my dad's final immediate family member; their older brother and sister (my Uncle Sam and Aunt Carmella) passed on nearly 15 and 18 years ago, respectively. (My grandfather died late in 1991.)
I last wrote about Terri Schiavo, and today some of the pain the Schindler family feels has visited mine. Uncle Joe is been in coma in a Norristown hospital for a week following a massive stroke, just today breathing alone. I found out after contacting my sister on another matter; I asked Dad why it took so long to tell me. "Everyone was too excited," he said.
I'm thankful Uncle Joe is surrounded by loving family who want the best for him, and have always held to a faith which respects life. Tonight I pray for Terri Schiavo and my uncle, two people a generation apart loved by many, and awaiting their own miracle and the return of their lives. "Lazarus, come out!"
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