A Eulogy for My Father
A BIG THANK YOU to all of you who shared your love, wisdom, and condolences with me after the passing of my father on July 14th. It meant a lot to me. I am touched and humbled by the outpouring of good vibes from so many heart-centered people. What follows is the eulogy I wrote for my father on the night before his funeral.
Last night, I sat in my father's office attempting to write this eulogy. I started five times and stopped five times. I started again, trying to find the words to describe how it feels to be here without him. I still don't know.
You see, I had a father for 94 years and have only not had a father for three days, so anything I say today must be understood as the words of someone only three days old. But still I will try.
Indeed, this trying -- this effort to accomplish the seemingly impossible -- is a gift I've received from my father...
He was the most tenacious person I knew. Ferocious, focused, and fueled by a need to be his own man which he accomplished in countless ways until the very end. To him, it wasn't "my way or the highway," it was "my way or the my way."
I do believe if God had appeared to him as a Burning Bush in his bedroom during the difficult last weeks of his life, he would have advised the Unnamable One to switch from mutual funds to stocks as a way to save on the commission.
The simplest thing I can say about my father is this: He was a force of nature, a storm of a man.
In his path, things moved. Nothing stayed still. He was primal, persevering, and on fire with the possibility that something good was just about to happen if only you worked hard enough to make it so.
It wasn't always easy being with him, but so what? Easy doesn't always equal good. Being a father isn't always easy. Or being a husband, or a friend, or a rabbi, for that matter.
I became strong because of him and the way I burned in the crucible of his intensity -- able to press through challenges... able to be alone... able to find God, Maharaji, my self, my soul mate, and raise two extraordinary children -- who, one day, will have their own chance to reflect on what their daddy meant to them.
As a young boy, I did not understand my father at all -- why he worked so hard, so late, and so much. It was only later, after I had my own kids, that I understood. He worked so I might play. He worked so I wouldn't have to work in a tannery like he did at 15, joyful only for the times the machines broke down so there might be a few minutes reprieve.
His work, in a curious way, was a kind of prayer -- a way he connected with something beyond himself, a way he tuned into the meaning of service, of giving to others in an unreasonable way -- an experience I would only learn much later in life.
I remember, late at night when I was in bed, hearing the sound of his Volkswagen turning the corner as he approached home. He'd enter my room, open the window, kneel by the bed, and put his head on my chest. Half asleep, I could feel his day's stubble pierce my pajama tops.
It was, at once, both harsh and comforting.
There, in the darkness, we would talk. He'd ask me how my day went and kiss me on the cheek. Then he'd say goodnight, eat dinner, talk with my mother, go to bed, and do it all over again the next day.
I see him now, 50 years later, as a Suburban Samurai -- a man who long ago took a sacred oath he couldn't quite remember, an oath to live a life of principle, purpose, and perseverance.
He was smart, but I cannot recall him ever reading a book. He just didn't have the time. And even if he did, he'd rather read people which he became very good at.
His BS meter was quite evolved. He could pinpoint a fool at 30 paces and if you were a salesmen trying to hustle him in the middle of his workday you were out the door before he could say "Schmuck, don't even think of coming back."
I didn't always like him. Then again, I didn't always like my high school coaches, either -- all of whom believed in my potential so much that they were willing to be unpopular with me to make a point they knew would move me toward success.
As a college graduation gift, my father gave me a turquoise 1965 Pontiac LeMans convertible. I gave it back a few months later, suspicious of his intentions to control me with his supposed generosity. I actually left the car in his driveway with a heartless note on the steering wheel and then hitched back to where I was living some 500 miles away.
Looking back now, I realize my ability to return that car was the real gift he gave -- the gift of speaking my truth, the gift of being a man of my word to myself, the gift of going beyond the expected and doing what I felt was right -- even if it was unpopular or uncomfortable.
I've never met anyone as generous as the man we have come to celebrate today. He gave more to people than people gave to him. If someone in our family needed something -- a house, a car, a loan -- chances were good he would give it.
My wedding? Paid for by him. The downpayment on my house? A gift from him. A business loan when I was going under? That, too. And the terms? No interest. Pay me back when you can.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not talking about Mother Teresa here. No. My father was sometimes more like Attila the Hun -- but Attila with a twist... and a story... and a joke... and a pearl of wisdom only visible to me when I stopped judging him for being so imperfect.
His generosity wasn't just with our family. In his later years, when he got into Real Estate -- a career, by the way, he mastered -- he'd find a way to help his clients buy houses they could never afford on their own. "The First Bank of Barney," we used to call it. Some of those people are here with us today.
My father's last days were not easy. Always used to being in control, he found it hard to concede to the body's imperfection and the growing need to depend on others for support. Always a giver, now he had to receive. Always the one in charge, now he was the charge of others.
That was hard for him. But in time, slowly... grunting and groaning... he began to find his way -- a new way, a softer way -- learning the kinds of lessons as he approached death that weren't always accessible to him in the prime of life. Thank God.
No, my father was not perfect, but who in this world is? Who? He was, however, I am happy to say, perfectly himself... a warrior... a teacher... a man of integrity... and for that I am forever grateful.
More about my teacher, Maharaji, here
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at July 31, 2009 01:56 PM
Hi Mitch, thank you for this true and eloquent eulogy. I tried to write something when you announced that your dad had died, but old memories surfaced o my parent's death and had to put it aside. Also you've had a bit more time to reflect on events yourself. It is a remarkable experience losing someone you have loved/hated, spent your life with, understood and misunderstood, received inspiration and wisdom,
and tom-foolery. Not an easy task. I often wonder what friends and family will say about me when I die...my heart has felt your loss, I'm here as a friend, take your time to grieve...for a los is a loss...and can't be covered over with artiface. I can see where you got your strength and courage from...and it has led you to writing this blog. I thank your father and you for the privilege to be part of it. With love and heartfelt sympathy for your loss, now re-read all your blogs and take in these messages of wisdom! Astrid x
Wow, what a eulogy! You certainly have a gift for putting thoughts and feelings together in a way that truly describes human nature...yours, your father's, my father's, myself, etc. I think we can all see a little piece of ourselves in your father. How sweet this gift of writing is -- bestowed upon you by your father, your creator, your teacher, and the ongoing experience of living every day. I am deeply touched and impressed with who your father was, and with you -- his son, and the family he has left behind. 94 years of loving and living...how fortunate! Thank you for sharing!
Having lost my father when I was 13, I am always a bit jealous of people who have had the gift to have a father for as long as you have. I think because I was so young when my father died, I always look back at him as a perfect dad. I am sure that by having a dad around for so long, his imperfections would become more apparent. However, he must have done something right to have a son turn out like you have.
As an "ashramie", I don't know the joys and sorrows of family life. My mother made it to 95, Nov, 07, a my dad to 87 years. I wish I'd have been there more for him at the end, just like I wish he'd have been there more for me at the beginning. I still talk to him, I hope he hears me.
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