Published on Friday, May
13, 2016 by Waging Nonviolence
What the
Obituaries Missed About My Uncle, Dan Berrigan
Father Dan Berrigan’s life, legacy and gifts were celebrated at
Saint Francis Xavier Church in New York City on Friday, May 6. The church is
supposed to fit only 700 people, but more than a thousand crammed in, packing
the aisles and sides, sitting and standing through the more-than-two-hour-long
service.
Communion took half an hour, and they ran out of wine about
two-thirds of the way through. Liz McAlister, my mother and Dan’s sister-in-law,
offered a powerful eulogy, bringing his familiar words from Catonsville (“Our
apologies good friends, for the fracture of good order”) into the sanctuary, as
well as the assembled to their feet for an extended ovation. My siblings, Kate
and Jerry Berrigan, and our cousin Carla Berrigan Pittarelli, joked that this
is what Dan must have felt like all these years preaching and teaching.
Standing ovations for days!
The four of us “young” Berrigans (in our 30s, 40s and 50s)
conspired on a single eulogy to
share different facets of our “Unka” that didn’t make it into the obituaries in
the New York Times, Washington Post and other
media outlets. Now that the planning, organizing and interacting with so many
people is over, I offer you my portion of that eulogy. At the same time — as I
sift through precious memories, a lot of great lessons, sadness and longing
— I try to remind myself of my own wisdom: It is enough.
—
I moved to New York City in 1998, with an internship, a notion
of being a writer, and a way station of sanity and welcome at 98th Street
(where Dan and a dozen other Jesuit priests lived). I didn’t need a New York
City dream — I had Uncle Dan.
For more than 10 years, we had such great times — long lunches,
long leisurely walks through Riverside Park and long prayer walks across 42nd
street for Pax Christi’s Stations of the Cross on Good Friday. Actions, Bible
studies, dinners at 98th street, road trips to Syracuse or Kirkridge [a retreat
center in Pennsylvania]. I was always welcome. He always had time. He answered
my phone calls at odd hours, asked me questions and listened for the real
answers. He loved cappuccinos, cold white wine in the afternoon, and for the
toll operators on the George Washington Bridge to be really energetic and
colorful. He hated the radio, but always had music running through his head. He
loved to share his food and would always offer me half of whatever he had, not
eating until I ate. My Uncle Dan — Unka — told me my history. He shared his
favorite books. He lifted his eyebrows in a particular way when he was ready to
be rescued from a conversation.
And then — all of sudden — this spry and stalwart man, this
slight man of swagger and soul and scripture (alliteration is my only poetry)
beings to falter, grow slow, grow quiet. And now, the one I leaned on for
advice, clung to for courage and counted on for the word that made it all make
sense — now, he needs. Not much, not all the time, but more and more. And what
does he need? An arm, a hand, easy company, love without condition. He needs
me. Imagine… Me. And I find — improbably and providentially — that I have
something and someone to offer. Myself, but more, a love that changes with time
and a son — Seamus Philip — who is (or was, he is four now) pure love.
And so my wordless son and my quiet uncle find one another,
and they congregate on a new plane and conspire in a new language at once so
simple and infinitely more complicated than what is available to me — to us.
Eyes lock, hearts lift and souls connect. And what do I do? Be present, mark it
down, appreciate it.
My Madeline Vida comes later and understands the heart of the
matter. When words emerge for her, Uncle Dan” becomes a declaration, an
assertion, a key to open up reality. “Uncle Dan!” she announces at the
threshold of a new place. The words and the person connected to them are — for
a time — a kind of talisman for her. We go to the White House for a
demonstration in January and she chants “Uncle Dan, Uncle Dan, Uncle Dan”
sometimes under her breath, sometimes loud and clear. My dear uncle, her magic
spell. I don’t understand it, but I like it.
The children — Seamus, Madeline and their big sister Rosena —
love him, and we — Patrick and I, and all of us up here — love him. And it is
enough. It is all. No more words. Just being together.
And then that too is gone. He has left us. Of course, we believe
Dan is in heaven, cheering us on and loving us deeply. But he is gone.
We have one another. It is enough. It has to be.
Donations can be sent
to the Baltimore Nonviolence Center, 325 E. 25th St., Baltimore, MD
21218. Ph: 410-323-1607; Email: mobuszewski [at] verizon.net. Go to http://baltimorenonviolencecenter.blogspot.com/
"The master class
has always declared the wars; the subject class has always fought the battles.
The master class has had all to gain and nothing to lose, while the subject
class has had nothing to gain and everything to lose--especially their
lives." Eugene Victor Debs
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