Good grief (and other things I learned from my dad's visitation).
Plus more, unedited rambles!
My dad was the smartest person I’ve ever met. I know everyone says that about their dads, and I love that for them! It’s just that my dad was quite literally the smartest person I’ve ever met. And I can’t believe he was my dad? I mean, let’s be honest, I failed Math 101 three times.
But that brings me to my next point: he was one of the kindest, most consistent, encouraging people I’ve ever met! That man never once chided me for being so damn dumb when it came to numbers.
(Don’t even get me started on the time I was practicing for a timed multiplication test and was just straight-up turning the microwave on empty. I mean, the man taught a course on microwave remote sensing—he should have sensed that I was not smart enough to know how to use a microwave.)
One day, when I was around nine, I came home from school reeling about long division and how absolutely baffling it was. (I stand by this.)
He grabbed a piece of paper, pulled the pen that was always affixed to his collar, and sketched out an easy problem for me to practice. After watching and listening to me explain my process—keep in mind, it would take another 20 years before I was diagnosed with ADHD, so the man must have watched and listened to pure chaos—he simply put the cap back on his pen and said I should look into a new “dream career” because my hopes of becoming an astronomer in the Navy were “not looking so promising.” And that was that.
He gently steered me toward something more creative … and now I write this newsletter (and do other stuff).
At the visitation and funeral, quite a few people expressed their absolute surprise after reading my dad’s obituary and learning just how objectively intelligent he was—my dad never led with the fact that he was a professor or had a PhD. Two things I, quite frankly, would never shut up about if I were him.
And the fact that he finished his PhD before the age of 26 with two kids at home? Forget about it. I’d lead with that all the damn time.
But he wasn’t that kind of guy. (I even find myself second-guessing having used his Dr. title in his obituary—something I bet he would have nixed.)
I knew my dad was kind and smart because he was my dad, and I was lucky enough to have 35 years with him on this side of the veil.
But I also knew he was reserved and quiet and never, ever wanted to talk about himself.
That’s why his visitation and funeral were somewhat of an anomaly; he was in the spotlight, yet what truly shone through was how he made so many people feel seen, heard, and loved.
The visitation lasted four hours. We started with a Rosary, and already, around 100 people had gathered to join. This alone blew our minds, as a Rosary service, even for Catholics, is not commonly attended.
Then it came time for my siblings, my mom, and me to stand alongside his open casket—to console and be consoled by the hundreds of people who came. Firstly, the sheer number of people who showed up (waiting in line for more than an hour!), many of whom we had never even met, on a cold winter night the week before Christmas. Many were former students of my father who had flown in from around the country(!).
These people waited in a long line just to stand in front of a very teary-eyed family and share a moment of love and gratitude for what my dad had meant to them.
I will never, ever be able to express how much their kindness—and, honestly, their quiet bravery in stepping out of their comfort zones—meant to us.
One thing I’ve learned about being the griever: show up. Just show up. And if you can’t, send a quick note. My friends in Hamburg wrote me every day, simply expressing their support, and that meant so much.
Along with the tears, the visitation also brought moments of joy.
I’ll never forget my siblings and me laughing through our grief as my dad’s colleagues and students regaled us with memories—at one point, my brother turned to us and said, “This is the lightest I’ve felt all week.”
As the line wound down the aisle and friends from near and far—some we hadn’t seen in decades!—wrapped us in their arms, my youngest nieces and nephew wandered around the church. They would intermittently check on their grandpa, ask questions, rub his hand, and process his passing in their own way. My dad would have loved that—the grandkids huddled around his casket, asking a million questions, sometimes making little jokes to cope. I know he would have loved it because when I was little and we’d go to visitations, he’d walk me to the casket and let me ask any and every question under the sun on the way home.
My dad was such a good dad and grandpa—always letting kids* think out loud and encouraging their curiosity.
*And me, still at the age of 35.
I wasn’t sure if I could bear seeing my dad in the open casket.
Then again, I didn’t think I could bear losing my dad. Or even my dog. And yet, here I sit.
Two months to the day I lost him; three weeks to the day I lost her.
When I first saw him in the casket, I fell to my knees sobbing. (Something that happens a lot in grief, turns out! Not just something you see in the old talkies!)
But as the night went on, it became a beautiful sight—seeing him at the front of the church in his deacon vestments, his family surrounding him, his grandkids curiously processing his passing, and hundreds of people waiting to say their goodbyes.
The visitation confirmed three things I always knew to be true:
My dad was the smartest man I knew—and for many others as well.
My dad was the kindest man I knew—and his kindness impacted so many.
My dad was the most faithful man I’ve ever known—besides, maybe, the Pope, but tbd.
And the visitation, though the opposite of what he would have wanted (being the center of attention), was a beautiful, faith-filled, much-deserved spotlight—one that he truly earned.
I've never seen a visitation before and cannot imagine how it must have felt to be present during your time of total grief. I'm glad your family were all able to hear stories about your dad though. That must've been so special.