Uncle Roger is the greatest man you've never met. His passing was not unexpected in the sense he had serious lung and heart conditions. But it was an unexpected twist that reminds me of the circumstances of my Dad, which familiar readers may recall from 2014 posts. Dad had had severe back problems and finally had major back surgery. There were signs something was wrong; Dad didn't bounce back as usual. They finally released him to a rehabilitation facility. His first day of exercise in the facility was going well. Mom stepped out to grab a bite to eat when all hell broke loose. My Dad's blood pressure dropped through the floor. Sepsis. It took all the paramedics could do to get Dad back to the hospital barely alive. I got a disorienting call Monday night. My sister had written an optimistic email about Dad's condition before flying back to Missouri. I get a call from Mom,and she's telling me Dad is dying and I need to come if I want to say goodbye. In the middle of the call, I'm hearing the nurses rushing Mom out of the room so the doctors can work on Dad. It was a freakish nightmare come to life: hearing one's Dad dying over a phone call and over 1000 miles away, unable to comfort my Mom. I couldn't find a plane reservation the next day--should I hit the road?
Uncle Roger is my Mom's only sibling, her big brother. Mom and Dad retired in Texas while Uncle Roger stayed in his native southeast Massachusetts diocese The folks had offered him a room in their house when he retired; not out of the question, because he had celebrated the golden anniversary of his ordination at their home parish. (He was humble, wanting a small. intimate family celebration; he didn't want a big fuss from his past parishioners and priest friends.) But I don't think he wanted to retire far from a lifetime of friends and other relatives.
Mom originally was thinking of going to visit him when he had a pacemaker implemented, a procedure that has almost become routine. But soon thereafter (unrelated to the procedure), she got words that he had returned to the hospital, very sick and in the ICU and booked a flight. She got there, and Uncle Roger seemed to be doing well enough to move to a regular hospital room. We got heartening news that his appetite had returned, and the doctor was getting ready to discharge him. I can't explain why, but I had a distinct feeling of déjà vu, like that this was too good to be true, like in the case of Dad. He never got out of his hospital room. He collapsed while on his way to go to the bathroom.
Mom mentioned it was tough following in the footsteps of the brother who could do no more. But there was one incident of note, almost to the point of family mythology. My grandmother and godmother (who died of cancer before I turned 3) reportedly had the gift of blood stopping; if you have never heard of this phenomenon, I actually found a very similar account here: there is a fairly unusual way of passing on the power (i.e., to someone from the other gender). Now my grandfather's house was near the start of a steep hill drop down the street, and as you might expect, in snowy weather, it made an opportunity for sledding. My uncle was sledding downhill when all sudden the sled spun out from under him and flipped on top of him, the sharp edges gashing him deeply, leaving him bleeding profusely. My grandmother must have been watching and quickly raced to him, praying over him with the bleeding miraculously stopping. My grandmother reportedly said if God would only save her son, He could have her son as a priest for His people, essentially meaning nobody left to carry on the family name (priests take a vow of perpetual celibacy).
Not so many years ago, I privately asked my uncle about the blood-stopping incident, knowing the Catholic Church discouraged other pseudo-scientific nonsense like astrology, etc. I think I halfway expected him to admit the same. My uncle did not believe in repeating himself--he would make his case and then move on (it really didn't matter whether you agreed with him); I, on the other hand, love to argue. My uncle simply said, "I was there. I saw it happen." He didn't care whether or not I believed him.
Uncle Roger's trek to the priesthood was not easy. He not only got his bachelors but went on to earn his licentiate (sort of a Master's in theology), in difficult classes in Montreal where not only were classes taught in Latin, but exams/responses were also in writing.
The Church was very strict in those days before Vatican II. The seminary wouldn't let my uncle come to my folks' wedding. (They did visit with him on their honeymoon.)
My uncle never had any ambition for the Church hierarchy. He loved being pastor. I watched as the bishops assigned him to problem, run-down parishes, and he was like a turnaround genius. He simply had one overriding preference: because he could speak French, he didn't want the bishop assigning him to the dying French-speaking parishes.
In many ways, Uncle Roger was one of the most conservative people I've ever met--virulently anti-Communist. But he didn't share my nostalgia for the Latin Mass (I'm one of the few altar boys to have served during the entire transition of the Mass to the English version). He had a signature way of celebrating the Eucharistic, slowly pronouncing and dwelling on each word. His sermons, unlike most priests I've heard, were faith-based, not watered-down "progressive" political nonsense. He and I did not discuss Pope Francis, but I don't doubt he would find some way to accommodate Francis' viewpoints.
I once thought I had a vocation to the priesthood, and Uncle Roger was an obvious role model. But I never had his ambition to be a simple parish priest. Still, I wasn't happy when he told Mom I didn't have what it takes to be a priest.
It would drive me crazy during the sex abuse scandal because 58000 priests like my beloved uncle were being treated like likely perverts. He literally was as close to being a saint as anyone I've ever met.
I'll close this essay with a couple of anecdotes. We were staying at Grandfather's house while Dad was arranging family housing at his next assignment. I was in the sixth grade. My middle brother did something to provoke me and I was chasing him. My no-nonsense grandfather ordered me to cease and desist "or else you won't see a penny of my money for college". I didn't like him intervening, and I really didn't like being threatened and made it clear I didn't need any of his damn money. And he kept his petty grudge against me.
Flash forward to the closing weeks of earning my first Master's (in math) in Austin. This was before the era of soft fonts and PC computing. It would cost nearly $500 I didn't have to get my thesis typed with regulation bound copies. I had basically lost my graduate stipend my second year (except for a minor gig grading number theory homework). My folks didn't have the money; my Mom suggested asking her father. for a loan. That grudge went both ways; the last thing I wanted to do was ask him for the money--not even a grant. Just a loan. It never occurred to me that Mom hadn't spoken to her dad about the request. Well, he reportedly went batshit crazy when he got the request, and my uncle went to see him to smooth things over, and I got the loan. A complimentary copy of my thesis was in transit when we got word my Grandfather had passed. Talk about Catholic guilt; I couldn't forget the recent bitterness over the thesis kerfuffle.
Finally, my uncle had sponsored my membership in the National Geographic Society. So after learning of uncle's passing, I come home, open the mailbox, only to find--yup--the latest issue of National Geographic. Coincidence?
