Trinity

What I wrote for my father's funeral

Trinity

 

In nomine Patris:

In the name of the father.

His name was John Joseph Conroy. He was my father. The man that taught the me delicate yet grotesque art of threading a worm onto a fishing hook. The man who taught me the then impossible but now relatively simple ability to throw a tight and fast spiral. The man who would cry from laughter whenever I shook the Jell-o at Thanksgiving making a noise akin to someone masturbating. This is the same man who smiled a hybrid smile of relief and “gotcha” when he barged in on me when I was in bed treating myself like an amusement park while surrounded by torn out Playboy centerfolds…

 It was only days later that he told me to get rid of them because they are offensive to my mother. Sorry, mom. I still have Miss December 1989. Nothing can make me give her up.

He is the only man to let me explore this world the way I wanted to explore it and express myself in the way I wished to express it. Frequently to his chagrin. 

I am who I am because of who he was.

His name was also Brother Claude. Whose religious convictions led him to a life of service above self. Whose faith in God was never deterred, and goodness of heart was never compromised. A man that was on his way to living a life committed to the Catholic faith until he was coaxed out of his cassock by a blonde haired, doe eyed bombshell by the name of Jean Howard. The only brother of Alexi ballsy enough to wear sandals with his robe to then be secretly given the nickname J.C. by those close to him.

My father, whose remains fail to do justice to his stature, his kindness, his wisdom, and his intellectual prowess, was a loved man and a respected man. But most of all… he was my father and…

et Filii:

And the son.

I am this man’s son. There is something universal in the bond between father and son, centuries of literature have illustrated, poked, and explored it. From the pages of Arthur Miller to the book of Job and the bible itself, fathers and sons have warred, parted, loved, exiled, lived, and destroyed together.

Greg Graffin, most known for being the front man of the band Bad Religion (define irony) penned a song called “Sorrow” that, upon my first few listens spun a narrative about a father and his son. Upon closer examination of the lyrics, I now know it is an acute critique of the story of Job and the bet made between Satan and God. In a sense: A struggle between a father (God) and his son (Job as a child of God).

 

Father can you hear me? 
How have I let you down?
I curse the day that I was born 
And all the sorrow in this world 

Let me take you to the herding ground 
Where all good men are trampled down 
Just to settle a bet that could not be won 
Between a prideful father and his son 
Will you guide me now, for I can't see
A reason for the suffering and this long misery 
What if every living soul could be upright and strong 
Well, then I do imagine

There will be sorrow
Yeah there will be sorrow 
And there will be sorrow no more 


When all soldiers lay their weapons down 
Or when all kings and all queens relinquish their crowns 
Or when the only true messiah rescues us from ourselves 
It's easy to imagine 

There will be sorrow
Yeah there will be sorrow 
And there will be sorrow no more 

 

Why does this agnostic son of a former bother bring this lyric penned by a staunch atheist to his religious father’s service? Two reasons:

1. Even the good and righteous are subject to sorrow and are made to suffer.

2. It’s religion that caused the biggest rift between my father and I.

As an English teacher, I can go into further analysis of this piece, but I will spare you the experience both for the sake of time and the lack of comfortable furniture. In short, as his son bore witness to the end of his narrative and was forced to watch his losing struggle against getting trampled down in the face of a bet that could not be won… there was sorrow.

Upon sifting through images of him for the sake of this service, some struck me so harshly that I erupted into tears that held memories. I suddenly remembered what I was viewing with my 4 year old eyes as I “helped” him paint the side of the house.

I was caught up by forceful wave of comfort calm when remembering him tickling me while mom took a picture of us before our first “tiger cubs” meeting. Some images, however, struck me differently. It’s a funny thing about the mourning process. It’s the happier memories that are the most painful and cause the most grief, yet it’s the unpleasant memories that are the easiest to bear because they harden my heart and steel me against the painful reflexes of sadness.

My father’s trampling down was nearly impossible to bear.

But now it’s over.

He is at peace.

There will be sorrow no more.

I have faith in that. But faith in the unseen…

et Spiritus Sancti:

and the holy spirit?

No doubt that there is doubt, coming from the burning mind of an agnostic who turned away from the bible to seek solace among the pages of Kant, Camus, and Nietzsche.

I doubt therefore I am.

I poke fun at my sister a lot. About everything. A lot. But what she doesn’t know is that when she tells a story of seeing something that reminds her of grandma, grandpa, and now my father and she “feels” their presence that I mock her not out of cruelty, but out of envy. I simply can’t feel that spirit that lingers, that presence of calm, or identify the totems bear reminders of those who have died.

I am simply not wired that way. As Conroys we use humor to ease everything. Sarcasm is said to be used as the salt of a conversation. I have made it the main course… but there is no punch line to this joke no sarcasm to lose the pain in.

 When my father died, he ceased to be. Yet, despite the doubt and longing for answers to mysteries, there is a glimmer of faith I once had when I was a boy. A glimmer that my father now resides with all the loved ones who went before him, including that mangy mutt our family called “muffin”.

Goodbye dad. Even in your parting days, you gave me enough to work through losing you. You will be in my dreams, my heart, and on my mind for as long as I live. I will continue to seek your approval and I will, above all, continue to live my life as a testament to your work and your lessons. Amen.