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Of all the strange and ironic stories that I have related on my blog, the next one may be the most surprising. Everything about it defies convention. It is a true story, unembellished, and precious in my memory.

It was in my senior year of high school that I found myself in unfamiliar territory. I had friends, I wasn’t afraid of school, I was tall, thin and no longer bespectacled (I had gotten contact lenses).  All of these things were big improvements in my life, as I had been pretty much an outcast since my debut in public school in the 4^th grade at Evergreen Elementary.

My school career had been an unbroken string of dread and failure since I had volunteered to model in the Jacobsen’s fashion show at my school within a month of my first class. I didn’t know what a fashion show was, and I had no business being there. It was every bit as horrible as my 9 year old brain could imagine, and I yearned for the familiarity of my previous school, St. Bede’s. A Vatican II Catholic School.

St. Bede’s had been my school since first grade, and I thrived in that environment. At that time, St. Bede’s was a booming and bustling Catholic Community, and our school was packed with Catholic kids from our neighborhood. The school felt safe and all of my siblings (save Lisa, who was too young to go to school) attended along with me. I recall being taught Phonics, and excelling at spelling and reading. I was an enthusiastic artist, always drawing something. When we ran out of paper, I resorted to rendering Batman, Robin, Superman and other Marvel and DC Heroes on the brown paper grocery bags we brought home from Farmer Jacks. I remember with pride that the Detroit Tigers won the World Series in 1968, and the Catcher, Bill Freehan came to our school to talk to us. Our class had drawn pictures of the action in the Final between the Tigers and Cardinals, and mine was held before the class as the best of the bunch.

In addition to all of these great childhood ingredients, I was genuinely taken by the story of Jesus. We were instructed daily about the life of Christ in school, and I was fascinated by His teaching, miracles, suffering and resurrection. When I made my first holy communion, I was required to meet with a priest for an interview, to ascertain my comprehension of what it all meant. I was joined by my parents, and we sat with Father Dennis Bagley. He was a young priest with long hair, and a collection of Peanuts toys on his desk. I was distracted by these cool plastic graven images, and he asked if I came to talk about communion or see Charlie Brown and Snoopy. It was a good-natured jibe, and I turned my attention to holy things. I guess I did okay, because a week later I was lining up to take my first communion.

I knew innately that communion was Holy. I also knew that I was to take it seriously, meditatively, and reverently. None of these qualities were very well developed in my seven year old mind, but I did my best. I walked to the front with the other first timers, and slowly shuffled forward as we answered “Amen” to the priest’s “the Body of Christ” prompt.

I was in a suit jacket and tie, and as I got to the front, and stood before the priest, the gold plated plate was placed under my chin, the priest looked me in the eye, and said “The Body of Christ?” like a question. To which I replied confidently “Amen”. The host, which always had a consistency of thin white spray foam was placed on my tongue, and I turned to walk down the aisle. I walked very slowly, conscious of the sanctity of the moment, and I tried with all my puerile piety to sense God in this place. And I think I did.  At least a little bit.  I do know that I created a logjam behind me because I was moving like molasses in January. But it was all forgiven since I was such a rookie.

So, my spiritual life was at least a tiny bud. There was honest, childlike faith, and a true love for God as I saw manifested in the life of Jesus. The following years of public school, the dissolution of my parent’s marriage, unending bullying at school and the bizarre confluence of the Summer of Love upending all of the morals I was being taught, took a heavy toll on my nascent beliefs.

Fast forward back to my senior year of high school. After many years of rejection, I had finally managed to gain some social capital. I had grown my hair long, started playing bass, and was playing Rock and Roll in no less than three bands with various bandmates. I had found the teenage promised land, and I was seen by many of my peers as the four letter word we all desperately sought: Cool. Life had taken a definite turn for the better.

It was at this time that the aforementioned poster comes into the story.

I was now friends with a bunch of guys, and we were all into music. Among this group were Bill, Don, Bob, Rick, and Bill 2. There were others, but these were the core of the group I hung with.

Don, Bob and I decided to go to a Fair at the Tel Twelve Mall, where we would look at girls and listen to music and maybe stop at Little Caesar’s Pizza Station on Telegraph. It was pretty normal to enjoy some now-legal-in-the-state-of-Michigan herbal amusement prior to such an excursion, and this night was no exception.

So here we were, wandering around the Tilt-a-Whirl, the Ferris Wheel, Salt and Pepper Shaker, and the Games of Skill. I found myself in a booth that offered posters for a dollar. But here’s the catch: you had to throw a dart and hit the poster that you wanted. Whatever your dart hit, that was the poster you got.

True to the carny code, all of the desirable posters such as Farrah Fawcett, Led Zeppelin, The Stones, Star Wars and semi-nudes, were placed far away, and were overlapped with undesirable kitten posters. So your chances of scoring Led Zeppelin with one dart weren’t good.

I stood at the booth, looking for a poster that was worthy of the dollar I would spend. I wasn’t into Led Zeppelin, and I wasn’t about to put a half-naked girl on my wall – Catholic mother wouldn’t handle that well.

It was then that I noticed about 3 feet away a Jesus Poster.  A black light Jesus poster, to be specific. As I stared at that poster, I found it compelling. I was reconnected to young Tommy in the communion line, trying to sense God. I decided that I would try for that. After all, I never had a beef with Jesus. He had never done me wrong.

I paid the guy a buck, and he gave me a dart, expecting me to aim for the Rock and Roll posters in the back. Instead, I took aim at the easiest poster in the booth. The Jesus poster. As I held the dart and judged the distance, I focused on the poster. I breathed a silent prayer: “Jesus, please don’t let me hit you in the heart.”

I threw the dart and nailed Him. Right in the heart. I was more than a little bit shaken by that, and I thought I heard His voice: “The way you are living is breaking my heart.” How could I argue with that Voice?  I couldn’t. And I can’t.

The carny looked at me like I had three heads and handed me my easy prize. My buddies showed up and asked me what poster I had picked. I showed them and they looked at me blankly. “Oh, yeah. Jesus.  Cool.”

I had two posters in my room at that time. Mr. Spock and The Who.  I also had an odd assortment of other pictures and clippings that took up space. My Jesus poster went over my bed, by itself. The poster looked over me for the next few years as I figured out what my life was, and was my sentry as I slept. It was never an idol, but a reminder of God’s love for me, and that He was always close.

I made a deep commitment to Christ when I was 19 years old. A commitment that I hold to this day. My old poster was thrown out after an iconoclastic sermon about pictures of Jesus. I was taken up in a religious fervor to rid my home of graven images. Bad choice.

However, through the wonders of the Internet, I was able to find another one, and it is on my wall as I type. Again, looking over me as I figure out what my life is, and is my sentry as I work. It depicts Jesus in Gethsemane, and always makes me realize that He didn’t have to go through all of the suffering. He chose it. For me, and for all men, so that sins may be forgiven. I am challenged to follow his selfless example, and am reminded daily.

By my Black Light Jesus Poster.

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When we are discussing the world of the miraculous, certain stories come to mind. An unexpected provision of money, a healing, or the safe return of a loved one from the battlefield. I daresay that repair and correction of a damaged database is usually not in the top ten, but here we are.

I was a Computer Aided Facility Management (CAFM) Consultant at CFI of Detroit in the mid 90s. We essentially helped large corporations manage and track their company’s square footage and assets. This position brought me into client’s work sites to review, document, install and tweak CAFM software solutions. I had a pretty solid background in CAFM, as I had worked on such a system as a user at Beaumont Hospital in the early 90s.

CFI was a great place to work for many reasons. I worked with the best AutoCAD and CAFM professionals in the country. We were the innovators, and it was not unusual for us to break new ground with various Commercial Off The Shelf (COTS) CAFM programs. We literally wrote the book, and discovered what would work, and what couldn’t work in the real world. We were, without a doubt, on the cutting edge. It was exhilarating, interesting, fun, and challenging.

Most of the time. And then there were those times where the old tech adage “The cutting edge is also the bleeding edge”, came to bite us with its nasty, sharp, pointy teeth. And I have some scars. The following is a true account, and left me wiser, and convinced of God’s providence and attention to little old me.

I was providing follow up for a full implementation of CAFM at the Owens Corning World Headquarters in Toledo Ohio. It was a beautiful, state of the art office complex, designed by renowned architect Cesar Pelli. The implementation went fairly smoothly, and we were ironing out the kinks in the Building Operations module, where work orders were generated for various maintenance tasks throughout the facility. This is when the trouble started.

It was not unusual to perform minor modifications on site. We would pull up the appropriate file, type in a new name, variable, or number, and this allowed us to customize the system to our client’s particular needs. I was adding some new work request types, such as filter replacements, and belt adjustments when I noticed that the database was displaying error messages. Again, this was not unusual, as the database often had to be refreshed to accept new entries. Often, a simple closing of a module and opening it back up would resolve the issue.

Not this time. The errors persisted. New errors appeared. The database became locked up. This is never what you want to see, particularly when you were the last person working on the schema of the system. I persisted in trying various workarounds to access the system and resolve the errors. Nothing. The staff began to ask why they couldn’t access their drawings. “Just a minor issue. I’ll have it resolved in a minute” I said. But a low level panic started to set in. I tried to act like it was no big deal. Probably not very convincing.

After at least an hour of trying to fix this, I decided that we would have to replace the current database with the backup. Now, restoring from a backup is a more involved process than minor modifications, and I would need to ask their IT people to provide the back up file. I nonchalantly asked my contact for the IT person’s number. Why? Oh, no particular reason.

I was able to get ahold of the IT person for our department that day, and they told me that yes, there was a back up file. I breathed a sigh of relief, and asked them to meet me in the Data Center. Once we were in the refrigerated, raised floor room filled with the whirring of fans, and blinking amber and green lights, she navigated out to the backup file and selected it. I noticed that the date was over a month old. Back ups are done every night. At least they were supposed to be. I asked if there was any more recent back up. She said no, that was the most recent one. This was bad. Real bad. Over a month of data was lost, and this reflected maintenance records, inventory, purchase orders and other critical data to the organization. I was now pretty much in panic mode. Again trying not to show it.

I was to learn later that this particular application needed to be stopped on the server, and backed up explicitly. Automatic backups wouldn’t capture any of the live data that was active in the system. It wasn’t my responsibility to back up the system, but the fact that I had made changes to the system without first confirming the existence of a good back up was my responsibility. I had made an assumption that proved to be false, and I was to pay the price for that assumption.

I went back to trying to salvage the database, consulting an associate at another company, but he had no good suggestions. I was stuck with a damaged database, and a bruised reputation. There was an overwhelming sense of dread. How was I going to explain this to my boss? What would he think of me? Would I get fired? I had given up any possibility that the situation could be remedied. I had to accept this worst case scenario.  Or so I thought.

I copied the damaged database onto a Zip Drive and brought it back to our Detroit office. I talked to several of our best database people, and they looked at me like “Dude, you’re screwed”, but not without sympathy. I was ready to face the worst.

It was at this point that one of my team members, Dave Czezewski, showed up and asked how things went in Toledo. I told him what happened. He sympathized, but asked if I had the file. I told him I did and gave it to him. He asked if I would mind if he tried to fix it.  I said sure, but I had asked some of our best, and they were not hopeful. Give it a shot, it couldn’t hurt.

It was late, and I left the office. It was a Friday night, so I would have all weekend to imagine what would happen when the boss found out. I spent that weekend obsessing over my fault, and trying to keep my perspective healthy. I didn’t do too well, and I got little sleep. I prayed about it as well, but I thought there was little hope in God coming to the rescue when this whole ordeal could have been prevented if I had asked about a back. I braced myself to get hammered.

A funny thing happened on Monday morning. I got to the office, and Jim Vazquez, my mentor in all things CAFM asked if I had spoken with Dave C. this morning. I said no, and he told me he had something to tell me.  I walked down the hall to our CAFM office, expecting Dave to just hand the file back to me. But to my surprise, delight, and answer to prayer, he said he had been able to repair it. It couldn’t be possible.  He didn’t know what the data looked like. He is probably just seeing 30 day old information and thinks he fixed it. I went to his cubicle and looked at his screen. Sure enough, I was looking at 30 day old work requests. He then said “and here is last Friday’s data”, and it popped up on the screen. I couldn’t believe it! I asked to sit down and, I scrolled through the data. It was all there! Work Orders, inventory, materials, bills, all of it. I was dumbstruck. I never felt like kissing a man in my life, and I didn’t, but man, I was elated. Relieved. Thankful. A quick whispered prayer to God “You came through for me, God. Thanks!”

I asked Dave how he did it, and he explained that he ran a routine that automatically fixed errors. The same routine I had run with no luck. Somehow, it worked for him. I asked him a bunch of questions, but the end result was the same.  The database was repaired, and I was saved.

I went back to Owens Corning, repaired database on a Zip Drive. I asked for the IT person again. I told her about the need to stop the database to get a full backup. She was grateful. I installed the good database in place of the damaged one and tested the system. It was perfect. What a beautiful sight.

I share this story, because it is important for us to rehearse the great things that God has done for us.  Remind ourselves of how God came through when there didn’t seem to be a way. To declare the faithfulness of God and the power of prayer. I share this with you today that you may have hope. He hears you. Dare to hope that He will do more than you can ask or think.

And bring to mind The Miracle of the Database.

 

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I have an ongoing love/hate issue with my heart, whom I have named Chester.  Chester and I had a wonderful relationship for 46 years, and then, unexpectedly, he cheated on me in 2008.  This initial revelation of Chester’s unfaithfulness left me shattered, as you can imagine.  I was in the dark, suspecting nothing, as is common in these stories of unfaithfulness.

I noticed the problem in New York City, where it is really hard to sleep.  This was compounded by a difficulty breathing, and I knew something was going on.  I suspected the twins, my lungs, of letting me down.  And I saw my pulmonologist.  Upon examination, he said that my heart was out of rhythm.  I was in an arrhythmia called Atrial Fibrillation.  A term which I had heard, but hadn’t studied. He sent me to a cardiologist, which was delayed 4 days.

Upon examination, my cardiologist confirmed the Atrial Fibrillation, but he wanted to rule out any further heart issues.  He assured me that this was merely a precaution.  I would probably just need to be shocked, and that would be it.  “200 joules to the chest will set you right”.  He ordered a cardiac ultrasound, just to be safe, and I had it done right there and then.  The tech was grimly poker faced as she did the exam.  I tried to joke with her, but she wasn’t laughing.   Tough crowd, I thought.

The doctor came in and looked at the results.  Now the depth of Chester’s infidelity could be revealed.  He told me I was in congestive heart failure, I had very severe cardiac myopathy (heart muscle weakness), an eject fraction (heart pumping capacity) of 15%, leaking valves, and I was in imminent danger of cardiac arrest.  He sent my wife and me home with a lunch bag full of drugs, and kind of shrugged.  Good luck.

My Cheatin’ Heart.

So, after this episode, I was now suspicious of Chester, and for good reason.  I thought everything was fine, and then he pulls this stunt.  What a jerk.  In any case, I followed the doctor’s orders, and within three months, after lots of drugs and a cardioversion, my heart was back in normal rhythm, and all of the dangerous cardiac issues were resolved.  At least for the time being.

Since then, A-Fib has been my very sobering and unwelcome companion.  It really feels like every so often, Chester decides to cheat on me with this harlot arrhythmia.  Those who are afflicted know of what I speak.  Sometimes I know I deserve it.  I get stressed out, and Chester hates that.  Or I eat too much sugar.  Chester hates that too.  Or I work outside in the heat. Chester hates that.  Or I don’t exercise enough. Chester hates that.  Or I eat hot (temperature) food.  Chester hates that.  Or I eat hot (spicy) food.  Chester hates that.  And when Chester doesn’t like what I do, he cheats on me.  Pardon the expression, but this sucks.

So, what is a partner to do in such a relationship?  I might consider divorce in light of such rampant infidelity, but, I literally cannot live without him.  He is that important to me. One might even say, if he ever leaves me, I will die, and it would be no exaggeration.  So, what do I do?

I have learned something along the way.  When Chester goes into A-fib, it greatly affects my physical capacity for exercise, thought, and just about everything else.  But nobody can see it.  That is maddening.  I look normal, but I am being cheated on, and that is part of the frustration.  Nobody can see my pain.  The spiritual parallels are pretty astonishing, but I will let the reader meditate on that little nugget.

I used to lay low when Chester cheated on me.  Reasoning that it was best to rest, take it easy.  The heart is stressed when it is out of rhythm, and is working much harder than normal.  The most natural plan of action is to rest, take it easy, and ride it out.  This is where I made a discovery.

As I mentioned, this has been going on intermittently for almost 10 years.  I have reached a point where I am just sick and tired of this stupid unfaithful partner.  So rather than let him rest in his unfaithfulness, I decided to make life miserable for him.  I have started to continue my gym routine when Chester goes out of rhythm, even though it is a very difficult thing to do.  Even though it goes against my grain.  Even though it is counter-intuitive.  Even though my doctors would advise against it.  I go to my gym, Plain Old Fatness (Planet Fitness), and I push myself as hard as I can, and I jack up my heart rate.  In A-Fib, the heart races anyway, so now, I am really pushing it.  Since I am on meds to regulate the top heart rate, I am protected.  So, how does Chester take this “tough love” approach?

Amazingly, he has returned to sinus rhythm consistently.  This has happened several times over the last few months, and it happened just this morning.  I have found a key that is working, at least for right now.  And I have found a key that seems to be reinforced in other areas of life.

Very often, when we face a problem, we are afraid to face it head on.  We are afraid of blowback, misunderstanding, exacerbating the issue.  We acquiesce to the problem, thus letting it rule us.   What I have learned from my issue with Chester is to face the issue head on.  Face the music, the consequences, the potential heart attack and force it to come to a head.  This approach is counter-intuitive.  Like George Costanza discovering all of his impulses are wrong, so he does the opposite.  But the results for me have been undeniably positive.

So the takeaway for you, is have some self-respect.  Don’t let your Chester walk all over you and control you.  Don’t let him manipulate you, and shove you down.  Get up, exert yourself, and show Chester who the boss is.   I will leave it to you to figure out who these players are in your life.

Stop being a victim.  Go on the offensive.

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I have an ongoing love/hate issue with my heart, whom I have named Chester.  Chester and I had a wonderful relationship for 46 years, and then, unexpectedly, he cheated on me in 2008.  This initial revelation of Chester’s unfaithfulness left me shattered, as you can imagine.  I was in the dark, suspecting nothing, as is common in these stories of unfaithfulness.

I noticed the problem in New York City, where it is really hard to sleep.  This was compounded by a difficulty breathing, and I knew something was going on.  I suspected the twins, my lungs, of letting me down.  And I saw my pulmonologist.  Upon examination, he said that my heart was out of rhythm.  I was in an arrhythmia called Atrial Fibrillation.  A term which I had heard, but hadn’t studied. He sent me to a cardiologist, which was delayed 4 days.

Upon examination, my cardiologist confirmed the Atrial Fibrillation, but he wanted to rule out any further heart issues.  He assured me that this was merely a precaution.  I would probably just need to be shocked, and that would be it.  “200 joules to the chest will set you right”.  He ordered a cardiac ultrasound, just to be safe, and I had it done right there and then.  The tech was grimly poker faced as she did the exam.  I tried to joke with her, but she wasn’t laughing.   Tough crowd, I thought.

The doctor came in and looked at the results.  Now the depth of Chester’s infidelity could be revealed.  He told me I was in congestive heart failure, I had very severe cardiac myopathy (heart muscle weakness), an eject fraction (heart pumping capacity) of 15%, leaking valves, and I was in imminent danger of cardiac arrest.  He sent my wife and me home with a lunch bag full of drugs, and kind of shrugged.  Good luck.

My Cheatin’ Heart.

So, after this episode, I was now suspicious of Chester, and for good reason.  I thought everything was fine, and then he pulls this stunt.  What a jerk.  In any case, I followed the doctor’s orders, and within three months, after lots of drugs and a cardioversion, my heart was back in normal rhythm, and all of the dangerous cardiac issues were resolved.  At least for the time being.

Since then, A-Fib has been my very sobering and unwelcome companion.  It really feels like every so often, Chester decides to cheat on me with this harlot arrhythmia.  Those who are afflicted know of what I speak.  Sometimes I know I deserve it.  I get stressed out, and Chester hates that.  Or I eat too much sugar.  Chester hates that too.  Or I work outside in the heat. Chester hates that.  Or I don’t exercise enough. Chester hates that.  Or I eat hot (temperature) food.  Chester hates that.  Or I eat hot (spicy) food.  Chester hates that.  And when Chester doesn’t like what I do, he cheats on me.  Pardon the expression, but this sucks.

So, what is a partner to do in such a relationship?  I might consider divorce in light of such rampant infidelity, but, I literally cannot live without him.  He is that important to me. One might even say, if he ever leaves me, I will die, and it would be no exaggeration.  So, what do I do?

I have learned something along the way.  When Chester goes into A-fib, it greatly affects my physical capacity for exercise, thought, and just about everything else.  But nobody can see it.  That is maddening.  I look normal, but I am being cheated on, and that is part of the frustration.  Nobody can see my pain.  The spiritual parallels are pretty astonishing, but I will let the reader meditate on that little nugget.

I used to lay low when Chester cheated on me.  Reasoning that it was best to rest, take it easy.  The heart is stressed when it is out of rhythm, and is working much harder than normal.  The most natural plan of action is to rest, take it easy, and ride it out.  This is where I made a discovery.

As I mentioned, this has been going on intermittently for almost 10 years.  I have reached a point where I am just sick and tired of this stupid unfaithful partner.  So rather than let him rest in his unfaithfulness, I decided to make life miserable for him.  I have started to continue my gym routine when Chester goes out of rhythm, even though it is a very difficult thing to do.  Even though it goes against my grain.  Even though it is counter-intuitive.  Even though my doctors would advise against it.  I go to my gym, Plain Old Fatness (Planet Fitness), and I push myself as hard as I can, and I jack up my heart rate.  In A-Fib, the heart races anyway, so now, I am really pushing it.  Since I am on meds to regulate the top heart rate, I am protected.  So, how does Chester take this “tough love” approach?

Amazingly, he has returned to sinus rhythm consistently.  This has happened several times over the last few months, and it happened just this morning.  I have found a key that is working, at least for right now.  And I have found a key that seems to be reinforced in other areas of life.

Very often, when we face a problem, we are afraid to face it head on.  We are afraid of blowback, misunderstanding, exacerbating the issue.  We acquiesce to the problem, thus letting it rule us.   What I have learned from my issue with Chester is to face the issue head on.  Face the music, the consequences, the potential heart attack and force it to come to a head.  This approach is counter-intuitive.  Like George Costanza discovering all of his impulses are wrong, so he does the opposite.  But the results for me have been undeniably positive.

So the takeaway for you, is have some self-respect.  Don’t let your Chester walk all over you and control you.  Don’t let him manipulate you, and shove you down.  Get up, exert yourself, and show Chester who the boss is.   I will leave it to you to figure out who these players are in your life.

Stop being a victim.  Go on the offensive.

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On April 1, 2017, I weighed 222 pounds.  I was at a an event  in Michigan, and I could barely squeeze into my already too big suit.  I had to wear mismatched slacks and a blazer, along with the only shirt that fit.  I was exceedingly uncomfortable, as I had to drive 5 hours to get there.

Along with this pleasantness, my heart went into atrial fibrillation, and was raging in my chest.   A migraine invited itself along to the party, and my misery was pretty much off the charts.  At the luncheon, a friendly acquaintance from 25 years ago looked at me, did a double take, and proclaimed “Is that you Tom?  My. You’ve changed.”

It didn’t take deep analysis to decipher her meaning.  She wasn’t being unkind, but simply stating the obvious.  The last time she saw me, I was in my early 30s, and was lean with a full head of black hair.  I was in the prime of life, and had the swagger of a young man who was vaulting up the corporate ladder with little effort.  I was married with 3 kids, had a new home, and was well regarded in my business and church communities.   And I had a killer hound’s-tooth suit that made me look like a senator.

Fast-forward 25 years.   55 years old.  Pasty white winter complexion.  Noticeably thinning  grey hair.  9 year history of heart problems, including congestive heart failure, severe cardiomyopathy and chronic atrial fibrillation.  A thrice daily cocktail of heart meds and blood thinners was my constant reminder that I wasn’t so heathy anymore.  Asthma had become a frequent invader, and a twice daily inhaler was needed to keep my lungs working right.  I had started a business with a friend, which became my own.  12 years of keeping all of the plates spinning, and making payroll for as many as 24 people, as well as leading a family with a wonderful wife and 4 kids began to take a toll.

The atrial fibrillation made consistent exercise difficult, and sometimes impossible.  I had weighed about 180 in my early 30s.  I now tipped the scales at 222.   A gain of over 40 pounds.  I looked and felt like a walrus.  Getting up off of the floor was a real challenge, as I also had arthritis in both wrists, which had very limited range of motion.  I had to kind of roll and waddle to get up.  I was a mess.

So, here I was.  I had tried to lose weight before, but always failed.  I would lose 5 pounds, and gain it right back, or a birthday party would come up, or some other derailment.   I was trapped.

Or maybe I wasn’t.   I took inventory.  What assets did I have?   I had a great God.  Good.  Next?   I still had a strong mind.  Also Good.   What else?  I had a supportive wife.  Excellent!  It’s looking better.  Next?  A pretty decent sense of self control.   Great!  That is enough to get us somewhere.

But how?  I had attempted to lose the weight by increasing my activity.  I had been inspired by the Biggest Loser stories, and thought that Jillian and Bob and Dolvett could make a difference for me.  But there was a problem.  I would get up early and go to the gym.  I would get up every day and work out hard.  I would get a groove going, and I would get stronger.  One week, two weeks, three weeks, four weeks.  And I am finally starting to see progress.   Yes!  And then, Chester (my heart), would decide it was time for an extended bout of atrial fibrillation.  This would bring my exercise to a screeching halt, and my progress would be stalled.  Often, the Afib would continue for weeks, and I would have to be shocked out of it.  Thus, my attempts to lose weight via exercise had been thwarted many times.

So what else could I do?  I had heard that 70% of weight loss is in the kitchen.  I also remembered that when Kris Draper of the Detroit Red Wings had his jaw broken by a dirty hit in 1996, his jaw was broken and he had to take his meals through a straw.  He lost over 20 pounds.  I reasoned that there must be something to going on a liquid diet.  And now the story really gets interesting.

I had met a guy at church who had weighed 300 pounds, but had lost over 40 pounds on a juice fast.  He was actually on a 100 day Juice Fast and lost over 60 pounds.  We talked about how he did it.  I asked about the types of juices and smoothies he used.  I decided to give it a shot.

On April 3, 2017, I started a juice fast.  This fast was going to last until my birthday – June 3.  A 60 day juice fast, with the goal of weighing less than 200 pounds by my birthday.  Now  you need to know that I am about as far away from a vegetarian or vegan as you can get.  I am a confirmed meat and potatoes kind of guy, and always have been.  There was a joke about me as a kid.  Tommy is very religious about vegetables.  He likes none (nun).   This observation was true as a kid, but I had learned to eat a number of vegetables as I got older.   So, this would be a bit of a challenge.

We own a Hamilton Beach juicer, which had received a good rating from Consumers Report.   This would be my friend for the next 60 days.  We also own a Nutri Bullet, because smoothies are cool too.   Here’s what happened.

I started every day at 6:00 am.  I would have a cup of coffee with my wife, and we would talk and pray.  I would then whip up a fruit smoothie.  This was frozen fruit we got from Sam’s Club.  Pineapple, peaches, strawberries, mangoes and  berries.   I would add an orange or two, along with two scoops of Shaklee energizing soy protein.  It tastes fantastic!  No sacrifice having these every day.  I would then be out the door to Planet Fitness at about 7:15, drinking the smoothie in my car.  I would do strength training and 20 minutes of walking/running.  Mostly walking.   I would get home a little after 8:00 and would be in my seat working on projects by 8:30 or 9:00 am.

Around 11:00 am,  I would go downstairs and whip up my juices.  I pretty much stuck with a binary green juice/orange juice menu.  One day it was green juice, the next day it was orange juice.  Green juice was celery, cucumbers, kale, spinach, green apples, lemon and ginger.  Orange juice was carrots, celery, clementines, red apples, lemon and ginger.  Both juices kind of had an apple/lemon taste over the other flavors.  I really learned to enjoy them both, but there were some days I just slammed them like medicine/fuel.    I would make about three 20 oz juices and would drink them through the day.  I would also have a handful of nuts here and there, and raw veggies.

It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be, but I had some rough days.  Easter was especially difficult, as we hosted our kid’s families and my wife made a wonderful ham.  It was very hard to just eat grilled asparagus and pecans, but I did.  There were also birthdays and other events.  I had to plan ahead, and it was never impossible to stay on the juice.

The biggest hurdle I faced was going to Florida with my wife in early May.  My grandmother was turning 106(!) and I wanted to visit her, along with a customer whose office was nearby.  I determined that I couldn’t  just make Julie juice along with me, so I had a Chicken Caesar Salad every day we were there. It was about the perfect balance of veggies and protein to keep me going, but kept me on the road to success.

The weight began to come off slowly, but consistently.  I tracked my progress in an Excel spreadsheet, and made a chart.  I weighed myself every day and recorded it.  It became a daily ritual, and encouragement as the pounds dropped.

Another unexpected benefit was the absence of Afib.  My body seemed to really like the new diet, and my Afib episodes, which had been a weekly occurrence,  simply stopped.  They came back after 7 weeks, but in a much briefer, and controllable manner.

On May 12, I dropped below 200 pounds for the first time in years.  One-Derland, as they call it on the Biggest Loser.  So now that this goal was achieved, I set another goal:  Weigh less than 195 on my birthday.   That was five pounds  in less than three weeks.  As I sit here on June 2, the day before my birthday, I weigh 194.6 pounds.

So I now have one of these great stories about how I lost weight and feel great.  You can’t take off 27 pounds without feeling a lot lighter, more nimble, and happy.  My heart really seems to be liking it too.

The next step is writing a book, and telling folks how they can do it too.  But they have to buy MY juicer, and MY certified organic vegetables.

Not really.  But if I can help anyone out there, I have a positive experience, and a success story to share.  I would be happy to walk with you on your journey toward a healthy weight.  No charge.

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(This was a tribute that I gave at the memorial for our friend Allan Thompson.  His mother asked me to share  a few words.  We miss you, Allan.)

A tribute is defined as an act, statement or gift that is intended to show gratitude, respect, or admiration.

Well that’s easy.   I have known the Thompsons for over 30 years, and they are dear friends.  My wife and I watched Allan and his sisters grow up since he was 8 years old, and from the beginning, he impressed me as one that is set apart.

One of my earliest memories of Allan was at our first house on Bretton Woods.  Back then, the church culture of Calvary was that of a close-knit community.  Really more like family than a church.  We were always in each other’s business.  In a good way.  Kids would show up at our house randomly, and I never knew how many kids besides my own Julie would be watching when I got home from work.  You all remember that?  Anyway, I don’t recall why Allan was over, or who else was there, but I remember very clearly how he humbled me in basketball.

Now, we had a small house with a detached garage and a driveway, and there was no basketball net mounted on it.  I went outside and found Allan dribbling a basketball and shooting at a backboard and net that didn’t exist.  I came out to join him.  I asked him what he was doing.  He patiently explained that he was practicing jump shots.  He asked me if I wanted to play.  Sure, I said.  Now I was 26 and he was 9.   I was 6’ 3” and he was 3 foot nothing.  I assumed a defensive posture, guarding the hoop that wasn’t there.  He proceeded to dribble with his back toward me and I decided to take it easy, and let him get off a shot, which he took.  He informed me that it was a perfect swish – nothing but net.  Who was I to argue?

I then decided to make it tough on him and get the ball back.  This was easier said than done.  I pressed him and reached in.  He backed off and went to take a jump shot – but he faked it.  I went up and came down, and when I was down, he went up and made a clean shot.  Of course, another swish on the net that was not there.  He had totally pump faked me.  I was surprised at his ability to pull that off, but was ready to tie it up.  He repeated a variation on this pump fake theme at least a dozen times, and I fell for it at least a dozen times.  I think I sank a few on the invisible net, but I got the feeling he was just letting me.  That was my first introduction to the creative, intelligent, and hilarious person that was Allan Thompson.

I became a Royal Ranger Leader in 1989, but back then, it was called Calvary Crusaders.  Allan was always a leader.  He was smarter than the rest of us.  He was also a great athlete.  But he was kind of tough to corral.  He wasn’t rebellious or defiant, he just had his own idea about how things were gonna go down.  I would call on Allan for a response to a bible study question, and would get way more than I bargained for.  The group would be laughing at him, and I would try to restore order.  With varying degrees of success.  He was always competent and capable.

I remember coming downstairs to the fellowship hall one night, and I heard someone playing a complicated introduction to the battle hymn of the republic.  I nosed around to see who it was.  There was Allan, playing it flawlessly.  I asked how long he had been playing.  He had just started.  This was typical of him.

As Allan got older, he was continuously being recognized for his intellect and academic abilities.  I knew Evelyn very well, and was impressed with her level of education and intelligence, and I knew of his father’s impressive education and accomplishments.   I never doubted that Allan would succeed academically and professionally.   He didn’t disappoint.

But his character is what began to impress me as he became a young man.  When he graduated from high school, we had his graduation party at our house.  It was a pleasure and we were happy to have it, but I had completely forgotten about it until about a month ago.  I found a thank you note from him.  He commented how kind we were to let all these people come over and trash our house so we could celebrate the day.  I was struck by his maturity, and graciousness for such a small act.  We treasure that letter now more than ever.

I saw another example of his heart of kindness when he went to Moody Bible School.  He made many friends, some of whom reached out to me this week.  But he would send money home to his mother as he studied at college.  I have had 4 kids go through college – still waiting for my check.  But there was something else he did that really impressed me.  He wrote a song honoring his mother Evelyn.  She proudly shared it with Julie and me.  I am a musician, and I don’t impress easily.  But Allan’s song, both in chord structure, lyrics, and performance blessed me, and blew me away.  I asked to hear the song several times.  He could have been a professional musician if he had chosen to do so.

Allan came to the wedding of my daughter Elisabeth.  This was held up in Watertown, NY and we had family and friends from all over that travelled in for it.  My family from Chicago came in.  One of my brothers in law, Rob Michaels,  is a lawyer in Chicago.  He is intelligent and successful.  He and Allan met and discussed their particular areas of expertise.  They spoke for a long time.  Later on, Rob came to me and told me how impressed he was with the particular type of law that Allan was practicing.  He described it as the legal equivalent of 3D work with many moving pieces.  Few could do what Allan could do professionally, but also what he did socially, and in his community.

My wife and I were in NYC this last October to celebrate my wife’s birthday.  We asked Allan if we could see him.   He was eager to meet with us and invited us to his apartment in Manhattan.

We hadn’t sat and talked in years, but we spent 5 hours in bright, spirited and hilarious conversation.  Our discussion was almost 100% about religion and politics.  Our conversation ranged over a wide spectrum of topics, which included the Hillsong church he attended in the city, the election, Donald Trump, Hillary Clinton, Morning Joe, legal precedents, President Obama, the Detroit Lions, Jesus Christ, the end of the age, and the world to come, amen.  It was a great time, and his opinions and analysis were refreshing, challenging, and affirming.  We agreed about many things, and there were things we differed on, but it was all so engaging, I couldn’t believe it when I looked at my watch and saw how late it was.

I am sure Allan had other opportunities that morning than to spend it with a couple of 50 somethings from his past, but that was Allan.  He was gracious, and giving.  He gave us his time that day, and it is a gift we see know in its generosity.

There are many lessons we can glean from Allan’s life.  Among these are his zeal for life, his drive to live fully, his generosity, his respect for his mother and sisters, his love for his son, and a diligence to be excellent at all he set his hand to.

Some lives are a long slow burn for many years, but Allan’s was more like a firework.  An exceptional life that went up fast, soared high, lit the way for many, and then was gone.

I Thess. 4:13-18

But I do not want you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning those who have fallen asleep, lest you sorrow as others who have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so God will bring with Him those who sleep in Jesus. For this we say to you by the word of the Lord, that we who are alive and remain until the coming of the Lord will by no means precede those who are asleep. For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of an archangel, and with the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And thus we shall always be with the Lord. Therefore comfort one another with these words.

(1 Thessalonians 4:13-18)

Tom Brennan, April 1 2017

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For many years, we’ve walked the vale
We’ve climbed the hills, and wrote our tale,
A tale that started long ago,
A pretty girl and her handsome beau.

Both were hurt, and both were healed,
And both were touched, and both had kneeled,
Under the Hand of Kindness.

He saw her, and his heart awoke,
His mind, his body, his soul were smote.
He thought of her, he was obsessed,
Her voice, her look, the way she dressed,
Were all his single focus.

Unable to respond in kind,
Unsure of this attentive mind,
She only sought to keep his heart
From ever being broken.

But broken it would ever be,
And half a man forever he,
Would remain except that she,
Was able to be won.

“All is fair in love and war”
And yet, I think there’s something more.
A heart cannot be forced or pushed,
Romance neither canned nor rushed.
A soul cannot be bought with stuff,
With empty promises or fluff.
Cool cars or flashy suits
Or glossy hair and shiny boots,
Enticed her not.

And so, he put her walk with Christ
Above his love, above his rights.
What’s best for her is best for all.
And that’s the way it was.

Oh we hear of many songs,
Of love unrequited,
Of hearts broken and alone,
Affection disinvited.
Of loneliess that burns like fire,
Pain that never seems to tire,
Mind that’s weary, yet still inspired,
And hopeful of a change.

But change comes unexpectedly,
Thoughts can turn impreceptibly,
And hearts are kindled inexplicably,
As if it were all planned.

A fateful night in winter snow,
Magic under street lights’ glow,
Skates and scarves and laughs in tow,
And dare my heart believe?

Romance is enhanced, I think,
By location and the scene.
Paris, Rome, Hawaii, would be the best it seems.
Or maybe Acapulco, or Rio, or Milan?
Missing from this list would be the Calvary Church van.

But that is where our hearts were knit,
And somehow fits us well.
We fell in love in Detroit,
And that’s our tale to tell.

Shovelling snow, saying goodnight
Our chaperones had fled.
She shyly opened up her heart,
And precious words were said.

Would I ever give her a chance?
Her question was to me.
My response had been prepared for months –
“Julie, you’re dear to me.”

And so you are my love,
My darling and my dear.
And as I reflect upon our love,
I hold these memories near.

But our story isn’t over,
It goes on, Julie and me.
New chapters added to our tale:
Tom and Julie Three.

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This is something I wrote back in 2010 when I was going back to school.  I still agree with this assessment.

I have decided to return to college and complete my degree.  This decision has been a long time in coming, and was ultimately inevitable.  I have always believed that I had made a mistake by not finishing my degree in Fine Arts that I had begun back in 1979, when the earth was still cooling, and dinosaurs ruled the earth.  Indeed, I have had a number of job opportunities and offers, only to be denied when the potential employer discovered I did not have any college degree.  This was something of a cyclical denial, and it could be asked:  Tom, can’t you take a hint?  Well, I have finally taken the hint, and have returned to the world of academia as I am concurrently running a Computer Aided Drafting business, raising a family, and engaging in a good deal of community and some political activism.  Talk about bad timing.   But, there is no time like the present to start the journey.  This all begs the question:  What does it mean to be educated?  How do you know when you have reached a minimal threshold of education or knowledge?  What should an educated person look like?  Or behave like?  Or think like?  We have all met the clichéd absent-minded professor, who is brilliant and book smart but can never find his keys.  Is that the ideal?  Or the stereotypical nerd, who completely lacks a social life but has memorized Pi to the 135^th decimal place.  Is that the goal?  Let’s look at these questions.

But first, here’s a little background.  As I have begun this new venture, I sought out how to best complete my degree.  I had taken a few classes at several community colleges, including Jefferson Community College.  This route was going to take a while, but was certainly doable.  I ran into a charming and knowledgeable representative from Empire State College.  She explained the mission of the college, and the benefits for working adults.  This all sounded very appealing, and so after a good amount of research, I have decided to pursue my Bachelor of Arts Degree in Business and Economic Development through Empire State College.

So far, so good.  But what does it mean to be a truly educated person, and not just another oaf with letters after his name?   I think in a sense the answer might be hinted at in the movie “The Wizard of Oz”.  The Scarecrow is lamenting that he has no brain, and sings and dances like a human ragdoll to the tune of “If I only had a brain”.  We all know this song, and perhaps sing it to ourselves after we make a particularly boneheaded mistake.  The Wizard, however, sees what the Scarecrow cannot see:  The Wizard saw that the Scarecrow had demonstrated tremendous insight, wisdom, and intelligence throughout his journey.  The Scarecrow’s lack was that he had no diploma.  Once he receives it, he recites the basis for the Pythagorean Theorem and exclaims “I’ve got a brain!”   I can relate to this episode, and am looking forward to the day that I receive my diploma, and recognize that I too “have a brain”.

We learn from this episode with the Scarecrow that we can possess a great deal of knowledge, intelligence and insight without a college degree.  We all know this, and we have Bill Gates, Michael Dell, Frank Lloyd Wright and Thomas Edison as evidence to buttress this argument.  However, this lack of a degree can work against a person in a very tangible way, and this lack can have a profound effect upon an otherwise well-educated person by causing them to doubt their ability, and thus short-circuit an otherwise brilliant mind and potential.  So, my first point about being an educated person is one of my own observations, and not really discussed in the assigned text.  Part of being educated is the actual completion of some level of formal instruction.  This produces a confidence that is simply not attainable in any other way, and part of being educated is believing that you are educated and worthy of being heard.  This confidence is like a superstructure that undergirds an educated person, and gives them boldness to debate and challenge people and ideas.  This is a very significant benefit of the completion of a degree or High School diploma.  So, one aspect of being an educated person is to have some level of formal education in the form of a degree or diploma.  However, this is not the whole picture.  As Edmund Pellegrino says in his essay Having a Degree and being Educated: “the degree you receive today is only a certification of exposure, not a guarantee of infection.  Some may have caught the virus of education, others only a mild case, and still others may be totally immune”.

Now we will consider some other observations found in the Orientation to College book.  This book was quite useful, and many of the essays were a delight to read and digest.  The purposes of college, the role of the liberal arts, culture, and work were all discussed via essays in a cursory fashion.

I found the chapter on the Role of the Liberal Arts in Education very interesting and thought provoking.  The basic premise of this chapter is that education is not simply the amassing and collection of technical knowledge and facts, but rather the process of studying a vast scope of information so that one learns how to think and reason in an informed, holistic manner.  In the words of Carey Brush’s essay “the power of liberal arts is not their content but in their stimulus to the student’s power of reason, judgment and imagination”.  Thus, the goal of studying the liberal arts is to enhance, deepen and broaden the student’s sphere of understanding and ability to think, reason, analyze and report (write).

The liberal arts have been advocated since Ancient Greece, and their content has evolved and expanded over time.  The liberal arts are understood today to include humanities, mathematics, natural sciences, and social sciences.  Many students have voiced complaints over liberal arts courses that are unrelated to their major or concentration.  “How will studying Biology help me to be a better Architect?”  This sort of question is legitimate, and deserves a legitimate answer.  The goal of the liberal arts is to fill in gaps and inform the student of background information that gives a fuller perspective of the world he lives in.  It may be a true observation that no direct connection can be seen between Biology and Architecture, but there is a wealth of indirect connection, and that subtlety is part of the goal of a liberal education.  Perhaps the student will find himself designing a bridge and drawing upon the vertebral structure of the human spine as his inspiration for trusses and support.  This innovation is completely dependent upon the Biology class, but the student may never consciously make the connection.  This type of connection is the ultimate goal of the liberal arts, informing and expanding the mind in directions it may not want to go in.  As Mr. Dooley observed:  “It makes no difference what you teach a boy, so long as he doesn’t like it “.   The liberal arts are an indispensable component of an ideal education.

I would like to conclude by considering another essay.  In the purposes of Liberal Education, Henry Rosovsky reasons that there are Five Standards that can be used to determine whether or not a person is liberally educated:

1. Think and write clearly and effectively
2. Critical appreciation of the ways we gain knowledge. Must have an informed acquaintance with math, physical and biological science, forms of analysis, literature, and artistic achievements
3. An educated person must possess a global perspective, not provincial.
4. Experience in thinking about moral and ethical problems
5. Depth in some field of knowledge. Major or concentration

I will use this same list as a framework for an ideal education.

The ability to write clearly and effectively is named first, and I think that is appropriate.  I sense that we are now living in an age in which there has been an exaltation of the image (movies, television, computers) and a humiliation of the written and spoken word.  This is a disturbing trend, and portends trouble.  If the present generation of college students graduate without the ability to transmit their ideas and views clearly, then their education has failed them in the most primary of areas.  I specify the present generation because they have been the first generation subjected to this major cultural shift toward images and away from the word.  They are on the cutting edge of this societal evolution, and it is not their fault.  They will, however, bear the burden of this diminished capacity to communicate.  One of my professors once observed:  “If you can’t write well, you will work for someone who can write well”.  I have found this maxim to be reliably true.

The second point is the essential classic liberal education model, but more forcefully stated.  The truly educated person should have a critical appreciation for the ways we gain knowledge; such as scientific experimentation, techniques for analyzing the trends of modern society, the classic literary and artistic achievements and their impacts, and the major religious and philosophical concept of mankind.  I would specifically state that a basic understanding of such diverse topics as biology, geometry, astronomy, classic Greek and Roman literature, music theory, and world history are integral to being fully educated.

It is critical that the truly educated person be aware of the entire world and time in which he lives.  It is of the utmost importance that people shed their own provincial/parochial/redneck isolation, and seek to see the world from outside their own viewpoint and historical timeframe.  This is a very lofty goal, and I do not say that a person should discard their core values.  Rather, he must realign his values to conform to the global stage that is most surely the new domain of the truly educated.

The ideal education should unquestionably at least touch on the issue of moral and ethical problems.  It is becoming increasingly apparent that new technology and innovation has brought with it a new set of moral dilemmas that were previously unknown.  New technology such as stem cell research and cloning have forced the scientist into a new domain in which he must grapple with the questions of how far should man go in the pursuit of cloning humans.  On the health care front, insurance companies and physicians are wrestling with the problem of who will have access to new, expensive life saving technology.  If the choice has to be made between two patients, who gets the procedure, and who is left to die.  The ideally educated person will be well suited to at least have a frame of reference for this discussion.

Finally, it is of great importance that an education equip a person with one core competency that will serve them as a centering point for the entire catalog of knowledge that he possesses.  We have all met people that are a jack of all trades, and a master of none.  I think that we would all be better served if we were a jack of all trades and a master of ONE.  This will provide a livelihood, the most basic service of an education, but also provide a unique perspective through which the world is viewed.  The result would be a true renaissance man, but with the ability to pay the bills.  This novel yet functional model is one aspect of the ideally educated person.

I also believe that an ideal education is not complete without a great deal of experience outside of the classroom.  It is not possible to learn how to build a fire, wrestle, or get to a job on time in a classroom.  It is critical that a person experience real life, as it is in his community, to be fully educated.  There can be a real danger in a completely academic pursuit being mistaken for a complete education.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  The goal of education and college is not to create a pampered class of the detached smarty-pants, but to develop a person completely and with a nod to real life.  There is no way to gain this experience than to get outside the classroom and live it.

It can be observed that my ideal of an educated person is dependent upon several factors.  The first being the actual completion of a degree or diploma.  This completion will provide the student with a sense of confidence and academic belonging that is critical to the entire thinking and reasoning process.  The basic elements of a classical liberal education need to be present.  This will produce a well-rounded and balanced person that is able to approach many given issues with grace, insight, and competence.  Also, the complete education needs to adhere to the minimum five standards of writing ability, acquaintance with the methods of gaining knowledge, global perspective, moral questioning, and a major or concentration of knowledge.  Lastly, the ideal education needs to include a generous dose of real life non-classroom experience.  My own experience has taught me that this is sometimes the most powerful and effective teacher of all.  These elements will provide a healthy and balanced education, and will present, in the end, The Ideal Educated Person

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I am sitting here trying to process the death of my hero, Gordie Howe. I don’t use the term “hero” lightly, especially when it comes to sport figures. Howe is the lone exception to this rule, and I make no apology for naming him such. He meant so much more to me than his role as a right wing for the Detroit Red Wings, and I am just now coming to grips with all his life meant to me.

I was born in Detroit in 1961, and was raised there until my dad moved us out to Southfield in 1965. I have known Gordie Howe’s name from the moment I was born, and there has never been another man’s name that has so consistently earned my respect.  This was surely due in part to the fact that my father was a big hockey fan, and was thoroughly impressed with the strength, skill, and power that was packaged in the Wings number nine. I had several uncles that never held back in their praise for Howe, and these were men who weren’t easily given to compliments. My Uncle Denny was an old school guy, tough as they come. All of his sons played hockey, and he would often speak in profanity laced reverence about the greatness of Gordie Howe. So, all of my male authorities spoke highly of Howe. Truth be told, I don’t think I ever heard even one negative comment about him in my entire life. As I reflect on this, it is truly remarkable, and unique.

The local sportscasters would always pick out the flaws and shortcomings of the Lions, Tigers, Pistons or other Red Wings. But Howe always seemed to get a pass. This might be due to the fact that they were terrified to face him if they were critical, but I think they were genuinely in awe of this man, whose character and humility off the ice matched, and even surpassed his achievements on the ice.

I met Gordie Howe twice, when I was in my early teens. Both of these times were at the Olympia, and happened after a game I saw with my father, mother, and brother. He had retired, but was still working in the front office for the Norris family, and would always be hanging around the rink. This was during the interim between his first (!)NHL retirement and his beginning career with the WHA’s Houston Aeros. He was standing in a hall on each occasion, having a conversation with some other Olympia person.  He was talking, and signing autographs to an ever moving line of fans. I had heard later that he never left an autograph line early, and always signed every last one. I handed my program to him, and he signed it while still talking with his colleague.  I was too shy to say anything, but he gave me a wink, and it meant everything to me. I had mattered to him, the biggest, strongest, most respected man in my world. And it happened again a year later. Same story. These autographs were taped ceremoniously on the wall of the room I shared with my brother, and we both prized these above anything else in our home. Of all my life’s disappointments, misplacing those autographs ranks at the top.

We lived less than a mile away from Gordie Howe’s home in Lathrup Village. We somehow learned where he lived, and would “get lost” on our way back home from church at St. Bede’s, just so we could have a chance at a Gordie sighting. We were not disappointed.  We saw him several times out in the yard. I remember passing his house one time and seeing him without a shirt on.  The guy was just all muscle and very intimidating. To realize that he could beat the snot out of anybody, and yet was so kind to children and anyone else had a deep impact on me. I have since heard that true power is best expressed as “strength contained”, and is well exemplified in a Saint Bernard. Gentle of nature, but fully capable of outmatching any opponent in size, speed, ferocity and strength. That was Howe, but in human form. Just ask Lou Fontinato, the New York Ranger who sought to establish his reputation as the NHL’s toughest player at the expense of Howe. Bad idea. Real bad. The results were educational and frightening.  Lou went after Howe behind the net on a goalmouth scramble. Howe ducked a sucker punch, seized Fontinato in a death grip and proceeded to pound his face hard, fast, and continuously. So much so, that a teammate who was on the ice said that it sounded like someone chopping wood. The victim’s nose was shifted halfway toward his ear, and he looked like he had met the business end of a jack hammer. Which he had. Thus humbled, his tough guy persona was left in tatters. Few followed Fontinato’s Folly.

As I fast forward to my later teen years, when I had a new interest in girls, rock & roll and trendy herbal amusements, there was one consistent theme in my life, and that was respect for Gordie Howe. I recall several occasions when my decidedly non-jock accomplices were talking about whatever we would discuss between bong hits, and the subject somehow turned to Howe. I would wax eloquently about his skills, toughness, and kindness, and there would be a silent nodding of the heads and appreciative cursing in respectful assent. There was no other athlete, politician, business leader or even Golden Retriever that could ever bring so many diverse people together in clear agreement. Such was the powerful influence that Gordie Howe had on my life.

So now, I must face life without Gordie Howe in it, and I unexpectedly feel a cold draft behind me, as there is a massive, gaping hole left by this one man who meant so much to me, but even more so to the entire Detroit community.  He was that rarest of treasure, the warrior poet (I know he wasn’t a poet, but stick with me here), who was completely vicious and uncompromising, but kind and gentle off the battlefield.  And we all saw him for who he was.  This was also a gift.

Every young man benefits from a male role model, somebody he can look up to, and believe that virtue and strength are within his own reach, if he will but make the choice and pay the price. Though he wasn’t my own father, uncle or teacher, Gordie Howe had an influence on me that was both profound and positive. And I hold on to a strange and unexpected hope that someday I will see him again. And when I do, he will wink and say, “Hell of a great job you did out there Tommy”.

Thanks for everything, Gordie.

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I know where I was at 7:30 AM on Thursday, June 21, 1984.  I was a Unit Secretary, starting my shift on 6 North at Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak Michigan.  It was a pretty typical morning.  I had taken report from the night shift Secretary, and was going through the charts that the Orthopedic Doctors had left after their morning rounds.  This, along with the usual clamor of patients being prepped for OR, the phone ringing constantly, as well as directing escorts, phlebotomists and pharmacy techs to the correct patients.  I had just turned 23.

There is only one reason this morning stands out, and that is one particular phone call that came in on the west bank of phones.  It was for me.  This was highly unusual, as nobody ever called me at work.  I would make any calls that I needed to make from the payphones in the lobby.  Anyway, I picked up the phone.

Hello?  It was a nurse from 5 South, the cancer floor.   I had met this nurse before, and her voice was familiar.  Yet, this morning, she sounded tense.  Nervous and rigid, she matter of factly reported that my mother had expired.  Expired.  So clinical.  So correct.  So brutal.  I thanked her for the call, and told her I would be right down.  My mother was only 54.

Stunned and lost, I stood up in a fog.  My fellow Secretaries had noticed that I had received a personal call on the floor phones, which was not supposed to happen.  They were looking at me and one of them noticed my shaken state.  It was if I had heard a sound that was too loud, and hadn’t yet recovered from the blast.  She asked who it was.  “That was 5 South.  My mom just died”.   There was a brief outpouring of concern and grief that was real, and I knew these people cared about me.  Not really paying attention to them, there was only one thing to do.  Go to my Mom.  Say goodbye.  Perform last rites.  Dutiful and stoic son to the end, I would see her off.

I took the stairs down one flight, and walked through the Central Tower to the South Tower.  I stopped at the nurses’ station, and was met by the nurse.  She took me down the hall to see my mom.  I walked in the room and saw her amongst the hospital bedding. Light, thin and bald, her body was empty.  The vigorous, light-hearted, joyful Ginny wasn’t there.  The soft flesh shell that once held her was all that remained, and it looked nothing like the mother I had known for 23 years.

I knew innately that I needed to do something.  Say something.  Pray something.  Perform some ritual.  I knelt by her bed, took her cool hand in mine, and thanked her for all that she had done.  I asked my Father in Heaven to receive her, and thanked Him for giving me such a wonderful mom.  I told them both I would miss her.  Well.  Goodbye.  I will see you again, but not sure when.  I stood up, my head clearer, but numb.  I called my sisters and my brother and told them what had happened.  They were devastated.  I also called my father, her ex-husband.  That was pretty weird.  Throughout all of this, I didn’t shed a tear.

The remainder of the day was a blur.  We contacted Desmond Funeral Home in Troy, and started the process of planning a funeral.  My uncle Jim was with us, and helped us pick out a casket, remembrance cards, and whatever else you do for funerals.  I remember we picked out a yellow casket, as it was her favorite color.  It’s funny how you don’t think about costs much when you lose somebody so close.

There was a day of visitation, Friday.  The Funeral home was packed with people that had loved my mom, known her and were so grieved that she had died so young.  Many of my friends came, and were so very kind and supportive.  My aunts and uncles were all there, and there was much joy at seeing each other in the midst of such a tragic loss.  I had numerous people take me aside and tell me that she had been their favorite aunt, co-worker, neighbor, friend.  She was dear to many, and it brought a lot of comfort to see her remembered so fondly.  My father was there, even though he was not well regarded by my aunts.  (That is putting it very mildly).  I appreciated the courage he showed to face all of them and be there with us.  it meant a great deal to me in that place.

There was one other incident that I will always remember.  We drove home after the visitation, and were heading into the house when our neighbor, Mr. Duncan saw us.  He walked over to us, his trademark cigar in hand.  He asked how my mom was.  We told him, “Well Mr. Duncan, she died yesterday”.  His face fell.  He was genuinely shocked, and the weight of this hit him.  “Son of a Bitch!” was all he said.  Of all things that were spoken that day, I think Mr. Duncan nailed it.  He said what needed to be said, and I will always remember him for his heartfelt response.  He expressed so perfectly how we all felt, and it was cathartic. We got through that day, and all that was left was the funeral.

The funeral was the next day, a Saturday.  My siblings and I were escorted into a black limousine at the funeral home that beautiful sunny morning, and we all drove to St. Bede’s, our family’s church.  The service was a typical Catholic service, except for two elements that were added. My mother had requested that a poem be read at her funeral, and my aunts made sure that happened.  It was “Do not stand at my grave and weep”.  My father told me later that this was particularly jarring, as he had requested it at his funeral.  The other element was a hymn that I had requested:  Holy, Holy, Holy.  It was not unknown in Catholic churches, but it wasn’t common.  It was wonderful to be able to sing this song of praise to my Father in the midst of such sorrow.  All of our family was there, and many, many friends.  Much to my delight, Julie Miner was there, who I would later marry.

From the church, we drove to Holy Sepulchre Cemetery.  She would be buried with her parents, who for some reason had purchased three plots instead of just two.  I knew this cemetery, as we had visited my grandfather’s grave throughout the years.  We walked to the gravesite, left the casket there, said some prayers, and got back in the limousine.  Still, not a tear was shed by me.

We had some kind of a luncheon, but I don’t remember much of that.  I do remember being back home that afternoon.  It had gotten overcast, and I was in the garage, working on something.  I had my portable stereo with me in the garage, and I was listening to Aaron Copland’s Appalachian Spring.  It was my favorite piece of music at that time.  As I was doing whatever busywork  I was involved with, Saturday Night Waltz began to play.  A soft, slow, simple and sweet waltz.  I thought about my mother, who had loved to dance.  All of the Saturday Nights she had to miss because of the divorce.  How she had to raise five children on her own.  How she never complained.  How I had heard her dial my father’s number on our rotary phone repeatedly on many nights, and weeping as she never got an answer.  How she had made me proud to be Irish, and would sing show tunes and ditties.  All of this came flooding into me, and the dam was opened.  I sobbed my heart out.  I wept out the sorrow, bitterness, and loss that had been pent up since 7:30 on Thursday, but went back much further than that.  My mother had died.  I would never see her again.  The one person that would always be in my corner was gone, and there was simply no replacing her.  My heart was broken.

I have visited my mother’s grave many times since that day.  And every time I go, I do the same thing.  I stop at the flower shop across the street from the cemetery.  I buy flowers, an Irish flag, and a marker that says “Mother”.  I have blatantly disobeyed the poem at her funeral, and I have stood at her grave and wept.  She is worth it to me.  I will gladly allow myself to be heartbroken and emotional at the remembrance of her life that was cut off much too young.

My Uncle Denny said at the Funeral Home: “You’ve got to bite grief off and chew it”.  Each of us processes grief differently, and it hits us all at different speeds.  Allow yourself to take it as it comes.   Don’t put expectations on yourself.  And remember the one you loved.  Honor them. Live a life that would make them happy and proud.  Your story goes on, and they are part of it.  So, in that sense, do not stand at the grave and weep.  Throw yourself into what remains of your life, and make it count.