She looked up from the paper. “If you know me, you know that I don’t say a lot. But I see a lot. I hear a lot. I hear his laughter even now.” Her voice cracked, but she went on. “He was my hero and I’ll miss him.”
A sob caught in her throat and she turned to face her father’s picture. “Good-bye, Daddy. I love you.” She folded her paper and returned to her seat, dropping her head in her hands. There, she quietly gave way to her tears.
Megan wiped her eyes and slid close to Amy, circling an arm over her shoulder and hugging her tight. Aaron, too, moved next to her. He and Amy had not gotten along for years, and it moved Ellen to see him take her hand and squeeze it gently.
Mom saw, too, and smiled through her tears.
God was doing something. Ellen was sure of it. Not just for her, but for her whole family.
Aaron sat with his arm around Amy, talking to her quietly. His heart had broken listening to her, watching her up there. When he was sure she was all right, he clutched his letter and stood up. All eyes followed him as he lumbered toward the microphone and unfolded the paper. For a moment he stared silently at the notes he’d written, his eyes hidden behind the dark glasses.
“I was John Barrett’s only son,” he began. It was hard to talk through the emotions choking him, but he was determined to continue. “I want to talk about the way my father loved people.” He paused. “Before I was born my father worked three jobs all at the same time so that we’d have enough food on the table. Later, when we moved to Petoskey, he bought a house with a big, porched … fenced yard because he … where he … he bought a house with a porch and a big yard so we could … ”
He felt the frustration growing, building inside of him as he struggled to make sense of what he had written. He tried the sentence again. “Later, when we moved to Petoskey we bought a house … he bought a house with a large porch for people … a porch where everyone could meet and … ”
He stared at the paper in his hands and then suddenly, swiftly he crumpled it and stuffed it deep into his pocket. Friends and family members throughout the church remained silent. Aaron glanced at the front pew and his eyes locked with Ellen’s. She looked as though she wished desperately that she could somehow help him through the awkward moment.
“Forget it,” he mumbled into the microphone. He took one step toward his seat, then his eyes locked onto his father’s, staring at him from the photograph atop the casket. Aaron’s shoulders slumped and he froze in place. You can do it, son, those eyes said.
Slowly, he returned to the microphone, took a deep breath, and leaned forward. Then he began to speak.
“I can’t tell you about my dad’s love by reading a handful of sentences from a piece of paper. His love lives here—” he put a hand over his heart and his voice cracked—“not on some written page.”
He paused, shaking his head. “I have not always been an easy person to love. I know that. But my father loved me. I have no doubts. He cheered me on in Little League and took me fishing when I was a little boy. He took my scout troop camping on Mackinac Island and helped me build a Pinewood Derby car for my junior-high class project.
“But that is not where I learned how much my father loved me. I learned that on the golf course. People thought he and I went golfing because we loved the game.” He looked at his siblings. “They were wrong. We went golfing because we loved each other. The golf course was our private world, a place of fairways and tall trees where we talked about things only a father and son can share.”
Aaron paused, fighting the tears that threatened to choke him. “I always knew he loved me, but it was on the golf course that he told me so. I would tell him what was bothering me and he’d put his arm—”
He hung his head and drew a shaky breath. He stayed that way for a moment, then almost abruptly he straightened again. He had missed one opportunity. He wouldn’t miss this one. He brought his hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He was fighting the tears with all his might. He let his hand fall back by his side, then he looked up and continued.
“He’d put his arm around me and tell me, ‘Son, whatever it is we can work it out together.’ Then he’d smile at me and tell me he loved me. He would always tell me he loved me.”
Aaron crossed his arms in front of him and stared at his feet, silent for several seconds as the tears finally broke free and began sliding down his face. Around the church people dabbed at their eyes and in the front row he could hear his sisters crying.
“But there was a problem with that,” he continued. “Even though he would always tell me he loved me, I never—” A sob escaped from deep in his throat. He swallowed hard and pushed on. “I never said the words to him. Never said them to anyone.”
He drew a breath, finding strength he hadn’t known he had. “But I do love. I love my sisters.” He removed the dark glasses and looked at each of them slowly. “And my mother. And I loved my Dad. He taught me how to love.”
Aaron wiped his face with the back of one hand. “So today I promised myself I would tell him how I feel. In front of you. For everyone to hear.” He took two steps and faced his father’s picture once more. The eyes that smiled at him were alive, and Aaron could see him preparing to tee off on the ninth hole at the Bay View Country Club.
“Dad,” he sobbed, no longer ashamed of his tears, the crowd forgotten. “I’m sorry I never told you before … I love you, Dad. Wherever you are, I hope you know that. I love you.”
He clenched his teeth and then returned to his seat.
It was done. He’d said it. And for the first time in his life, he felt free.
Ellen watched through her tears as her brother slumped into the pew. He rested his head in his hands and silently sobbed, his back heaving. Amy motioned to Megan, and the girls moved next to him. Ever so gently, Amy took their brother’s large calloused hand in hers.
Ellen watched and felt the sorrow build in her chest. Her memories were filled with times when she and the other girls had gotten along with Aaron. She had always believed there were more good times than bad. And now Aaron had confirmed that. She moved toward her three youngest siblings and put her hand on Aaron’s knee. He had allowed them to see him for who he was. Finally. They knew the truth now. Deep inside, he loved them after all.
Only Jane remained aloof, apart from the others, dabbing discreetly at her eyes. After a moment, she rose from her seat and released a heavy sigh as she made her way to the microphone. Her hands were unsteady as she opened a piece of paper.
“I’m not going to share a list of memories with you,” she said. There was a tinge of defiance in her voice, and Ellen held her breath. She prayed Jane wouldn’t do anything to spoil the service.
“Instead I want to use this time to read a letter I wrote to my father.” She held up the piece of paper and cleared her throat.
Ellen frowned. A letter? What was this about?
Somewhat fearfully, she settled back against the pew and listened.
Jane stared at the paper in her hands. Then, with a quick glance at Troy, she began reading.
“ ‘Dear Dad’—” That was as far as she got. She was suddenly seized by an unexpected wave of emotion. Several moments passed before she took another breath and tried again. “ ‘Dear Dad, I know you can hear me, wherever you are, and you’re probably wondering why I became a stranger to you. When I was a little girl I craved your attention, but for some reason I never thought I was good enough for you. You had other daughters with better talents and character traits than me’—” she glanced sadly at Ellen, then back to the letter—“ ‘and I thought you loved me less because of it.’ ”
People were silent, waiting.
“ ‘I was wrong and I want to explain myself. See, something happened twelve years ago that changed my life forever. It was something that I thought made me unlovable.’ ” Jane was seized by sudden fear, and she shifted nervously, unsure if she should continue. I can’t. I just can’t.
; She looked at Troy and his eyes told her to go on.
Swallowing her fear, she started reading again. “ ‘Ever since then I have blamed you and told myself that you never cared for me. I blamed you and I blamed my sisters for not asking me what happened. I have become an angry, hateful person, and … I never thought they were interested in why.’ ” She caught Ellen’s attention, and suddenly tears filled her eyes. “ ‘Especially Ellen. I have been so hard on her over the years.’ ”
Tears made their way down Ellen’s face.
Jane’s voice grew raspy. “ ‘But I have learned something this week. What happened to me was not your fault, Dad. I put myself in the situation and it was up to me to tell you about it. I could have allowed you to comfort me, but I kept the pain inside. I was wrong, Dad. And now it’s too late. My stubborn heart refused to let you in and’—” A solitary sob escaped and the letter slipped from her hand onto the floor. Jane hung her head then, crying soundlessly, unable to speak, the pain so intense she wished she could die.
Watching her sister, Ellen finally understood. Jane wasn’t angry at her, she was angry with herself. But there was something else, too. Something that Jane had said earlier in the week rang painfully true: Ellen had been too concerned about herself to worry about what was tearing her sister apart. She hadn’t even tried to find out what was at the root of Jane’s behavior. She’d been too busy taking the attacks personally and complaining about Jane to everyone who would listen.
Regret, piercing and heavy, seized Ellen, and she wondered for the first time what terrible thing her sister was referring to. What had happened twelve years ago?
Pulling a tissue from her purse, Ellen stood up. She moved across the front of the church, bent to pick up the letter, and then stood at Jane’s side. She handed her sister the tissue and took her hand, squeezing it tightly, willing Jane to continue.
A small, sad smile came across Jane’s face as she stared at Ellen for a moment. She blinked back her tears and then looked at the letter once more, struggling to find her voice.
“And so … you had to leave this life wondering why I had changed, why I didn’t love you like I had before.’ ” She paused again and moved closer to Ellen, leaning on her. “ ‘I find comfort knowing, believing, that you are in heaven now and that somehow you can hear me. Dad, I never meant to hurt you … I love you, really I do. Please forgive me.’ ” She closed her eyes, then tilted her head heavenward.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” she said so softly people had to lean forward in their seats to hear her. “I never stopped loving you. I always have.”
Then she turned to Ellen and hugged her for a long moment, sobbing in her arms. Ellen’s tear-filled eyes met her mother’s tender gaze, then moved to Mike. His smile was proud and encouraging. Finally, Ellen sought out Jake, and she saw that he was crying too. She knew he was sharing her joy—that he was as thankful as she that the two sisters he had watched grow up together had once again found common ground.
Ellen took Jane’s hand, and together they moved back to their seats, the distance between them finally dissolved.
Ellen closed her eyes for a moment, still holding Jane’s hand in hers. You are so good, God. Thank you … for Mike, for Jane. For all of this.
Megan wiped her cheeks with a tissue and sniffled softly as she stood up and moved to the microphone.
She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself. Then she studied the Polaroid snapshot taken at the restaurant so long ago. She had no notes.
“My dad was not the kind of person who loved you based on what you did or how well you performed.” She smiled sadly at Jane and then at each of her siblings. “I know there have been times when one or more of us thought that way about Dad, but it wasn’t true. With so many children in one family we tended to think he loved those of us who excelled. Those of us who stayed out of trouble.”
She stared at the floor, her shame apparent. When she looked up there were tears on her cheeks, but she continued, her voice strong. “For a long time I strayed away from my father, my family. I missed countless family outings and vacations and chances to be together. But during that time my dad never stopped loving me. Even after I had given up on myself, he believed in me.” She looked at the photo again and smiled through her tears. “He knew I would find my way home … even when I was so lost I couldn’t see the path.”
She studied the individual faces in the crowd. “I could stand here and tell you that John Barrett was born in Battle Creek, Michigan. That he studied math and logistics and became a brilliant computer analyst. That he made a difference at every company he worked for and left a legacy at computerized offices in a dozen major cities. That he went on to share that knowledge with hundreds of students.
“I could tell you that he was a family man who liked to take a drive to the beach and who, after leaving Detroit, never grew tired of Petoskey and the breathtaking views of Little Traverse Bay. I could tell you he liked classical music and Michigan football and a hot juicy hamburger straight off the grill.”
She smiled, unashamed of the tears that streamed down her face. “But that is not what I will remember about my dad. It is not what I want you to remember.” She held up the photograph now, showing it to the crowd. “When you think of John Barrett, think of the way he loved us. Even when we weren’t very lovable. The way he celebrated our victories with us, no matter how small.”
She lowered the photo and smiled at it once more. Then she turned and smiled at her siblings. “But most of all, when you think of him think of the love he left behind.” Her smile faded then, her voice cracked. “Because now that he’s gone, it’s all we have left.”
There was silence for a moment, and Megan nodded to someone unseen in the choir loft. Suddenly music filled the church and she saw the surprised look on the faces of her family. The song was one sung by country-western singer Collin Raye, a ballad called “Love Remains.” Despite her tears, Megan’s voice rang clear and sweet. For three minutes she sang about the passing of time, of growing up and growing old, of living and dying. The last verse specifically dealt with relying on each other in times of sadness. The song’s message was clear: people die, but there was still hope, still love. That love was her father’s legacy.
When she finished singing, Megan clutched the snapshot to her chest and hesitated for a moment, thankful she had found the courage to sing for her father one last time. She returned to her seat then and took her mother’s hand as her siblings surrounded her. Aaron took her other hand protectively in his.
There was brief rustling throughout the church as people reached for fresh tissues. They had witnessed something special and no one was left untouched. In the front row, Megan’s mother squeezed her hand and leaned close to her.
“That was beautiful, dear,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
A hush fell over the crowd once more as people waited. It was Ellen’s turn.
Ellen took a deep breath and stood up. She moved slowly to the microphone, lost in thought.
When she was in place, she considered her siblings, clustered at the end of the pew holding hands and crying. She stared at the eulogy she had written and knew that it was both eloquent and emotional. But somehow, in light of what was happening between them, it was not enough.
She folded it gently and wrapped her fingers around it. Her knees shook and she felt suddenly faint. She leaned forward and willed herself to speak.
“I have listened to my brother and sisters talk about our father and—” she crossed her arms in front of her, overwhelmed by the moment—“I have realized how little I knew him.”
She looked into the crowd and for an instant her gaze met Mike’s. Tears spilled onto his cheeks and his eyes silently encouraged her. She made herself turn away and look at the other faces in the church.
“I did not know until now that he was Amy’s hero. Or that he and Aaron shared secrets on the golf course.” She looked at Amy and then Aaron, pain twisting her face, fresh tears blurring her vision
. “I didn’t know that he had given Megan hope when she felt worthless or that—” She began to cry in earnest and she paused.
“I’m sorry,” she said. People waited for her to compose herself. She drew a shaky breath and continued. “I didn’t know about Jane.” She twisted her hands, unsure of what to say next. “My dad was exactly who he needed to be for each of us, and until today I only saw him the way I knew him. He was someone who believed in me and pushed me to succeed, someone who was excited about everything I did until his final week.” She thought of Leslie’s words then. “And his faith will be an example for me all my life.” She sniffed. “That was the John Barrett I knew. And I loved him with all my heart.”
She looked at her siblings. “But I know so much more about him now … and—” A sob welled in her throat as she directed her words toward her family. “I want to thank you for sharing him with me. Because I know him better now than I ever did when he was alive. I know all of you better, too.”
She closed her eyes and when she opened them, she stared at her father’s photograph. “You were the best. I’ll always love you, Daddy.” She moved toward the casket and paused for a single moment, gripping the polished wood corner, not wanting to let him go. She lowered her head and sobbed once, too softly for anyone to hear. Then, with the determination that he had taught her, she returned to her seat.
For a long while no one said anything. The muted sound of people crying filled the church, and Ellen and her siblings and mother held hands in the front row, their heads bowed. Finally, Father Joe stood up and walked to the pulpit.
He cleared his throat and waited until he had the crowd’s attention.
“I believe you understand now the reason we must view this service as a celebration. John Barrett was a man who truly made a difference in the lives of his family and friends. A man who lived life to the full. We would do well when we leave here today to follow John’s example. And when you think of his passing, smile through your tears.” He looked tenderly at Ellen and her family. “Because his life touched yours, and in that you have been truly blessed.”
A Kingsbury Collection Page 33