The Short Goodbye

When I close my eyes I can see it perfectly. The sun shooting diamond-bright sparkles off the water. The lake softly swaying like a teenage girl at prom. My friend Michelle's boat held captive in that wake moving of its own accord as we babbled away the afternoon as only a group of people in their early 20s can...mindlessly...confidently. It was in the midst of this misty memory that I first met Joe Faber. He screamed into the middle of my daydream at full throttle. Twisting his body at just the right moment and sending a spray of lake water toward our bikini clad gaggle of girls on the boat.

Joe pulled up that day on his tricked-out jet ski of the era...not the contemporary version that invites middle aged moms like me to hop on and ride...the original...requiring balance and gusto to stay standing while rocketing over waves. I knew right away that we'd become fast friends. Not because he drove like a bat out of hell, but because once he'd tethered his jet ski to the back of the boat he hopped aboard carrying a six pack of beer that he'd procured across the lake at the only liquor store open on Sunday in our region. That was Joe...leave nothing to chance, make a plan and carry it out, and do it while moving forward as fast as possible with a grin on his face.

Eventually even Joe moved to the seated version of personal watercraft, but still insisted on catching air!

This week Joe's ride came to an end. Far too soon. Far too abruptly. My friend died after committing himself fully to the task of winning the most important race of his life -- the battle with cancer.

Today I'm left with a pile of photos and a mind filled with memories...from goofy to tear-filled to tender. We were friends. We were polar opposites. We shared a majority of our lives with common friends, interwoven stories, and a deep respect for the uniqueness that made us each who we are.

It was over one of those summers in the early 90's, filled with glory days and endless nights, that Joe finally cranked up the nerve to put his long-suffering heart on the line and win the girl. He and my dear friend and roommate, Lynn, made a perfect pair. Neither ever thought they were going fast enough, whether on one of those god forsaken jet skis, a boat, a plane, a motorcycle, or just in life. While that same jet ski that Joe seemed to master effortlessly was dragging me around the shallows of Lake Michigan showing the world the reality that I couldn't maneuver the throttle AND hop up and balance, Lynn was learning to make a hard turn and shoot a rooster tail of water all over me. I was destined to sit on the shore and watch as my two friends zoomed off into the sunset edging each other on and complimenting one another perfectly. It was a thing of beauty.

Joe never lost that glimmer in his eye when he looked at Lynn. It was as if he was always surprised that this incredible woman really belonged to him. That wonder and passion served him well over the years as their marriage hit the bumps and ruts along the road of life at mach speed. Together they made a family with Kyle and Megan...and several dogs along the way who were always treated as true members of their brood.

When Kyle was born, he fit into their lives with the same need for speed. To this day I don't think he knows what it's like to coast. In a few years he'll be the same age his daddy was when I met him...I don't doubt that he'll have a similar swagger. He will find his way and become his own man because he had a great model for his first 15 years...I don't expect him to be a replica of Joe but I imagine I'll always see a bit of his dad in that killer smile as he rockets off into whatever his future holds.

I don't think anything could have prepared Joe for the knee knocking joy coupled with gut twisting fear of raising a daughter. He and Megan were inseparable, especially during her first few years of life. Joe was home with her while Lynn worked a full time job. Picture Joe with his legendary Jeep Wrangler and his precious daughter, him teaching her how to find her way around the engine with a socket wrench and a smile.  Today she effortlessly transitions between motor sports and her dad's garage and the glamour-filled  world of your average 6th grade girl. A rare gem in a world filled with faux personalities, Megan is destined to break all the rules society has yoked on women and do it with audacity and style. She is such a magical blend of her daddy and mom.

Joe loved the speed and peace of flying his own plane...especially with his beloved co-pilot Lynn.

It was during this time at home with Megan that Joe conceived of his dream job and started the process of making that dream a reality. How many of us have found a way to transfer our passion into a job that we love? Joe founded Midwest Motorsports because he knew that there were other people out there who wanted to push the throttle farther...and he wanted to help them make their dreams come true.

The snapshot of a life well-lived is never really enough for those left behind. The glimmer of passion that you capture in a moments time can't do justice to the complexity of a life that was not perfect, but perfectly lived for that one man.

Joe was a quiet man who forged his ideas carefully and then defended them with a stubbornness that could surprise me every time. He was raised with a bible in his hands and could quote the scripture without a second thought, making his journey toward Catholicism one of the most well thought out I've ever witnessed. He challenged every aspect and turned it inside out before acknowledging or accepting.

After his first jump out of a perfectly good airplane...following Lynn's lead!

Today begins a new journey for Joe's family. One through uncharted waters. I firmly believe they will remain buoyed by his smile and their memories. I too will cling to the frayed edges of these memories that serve to tell the story of a man who was the mechanic of his own journey. He lived his life true to his word. Our goodbye was cut short, but our friendship will span the divide. Thank you, Joe, for sharing your ride with me.

RIP, friend.

Places that Heal

This summer as I watched my 7-year-old splash in Lake Michigan's frothy surf I was overcome with just how lucky we are and how grateful I am to these unsalted waters. They've tamed many aches and always washed hope back up on the shore.

It was this beach where Rick and I decided that we'd tell medical reality to go to hell and dove in headfirst to finally become parents. This is also where we weathered the storms that arose along that journey, always keeping an eagle eye focused on the horizon and the final goal of holding the hand of our very own child. I'll never forget the first time we brought Connor to this beach...the wind on his face made him laugh. It was so healing.

We experienced a blur of loss later that year when my father and brother died. As spring dawned, it was this beach where we returned. It is the perfect place to scream in anger and pound the waves without harming yourself or alarming the neighbors.

We returned with our mom several times over the next couple of years. Often helping her make the seemingly impossible climb down the dune stairs to the beach to revel in the splendor of the setting sun. This view always filled even our broken hearts with the possibility that tomorrow would come and bring beauty and joy. Truly healing.

My younger sisters and I were with our mom on our annual beach getaway when we realized that she was struggling with a serious health issue. There we were in the place we turned for healing, facing a challenge that seemed surreal. We laugh now at our inept bravado as we sat on the deck of my brother's beach house, drinking coffee and mulling what was happening with mom...and one of us had the audacity to say, "God wouldn't do that to us or to her, and if anything happens to mom we're just moving to the beach and putting our heads in the sand."

Mom died in January. The beach was frozen solid and the sand had rearranged the landscape and left a jagged profile in its wake. We kept our heads up and continued with our lives.

That summer we stared at the sunsets and swore we could hear our mom's voice marveling at the beauty. The waves had returned the beach to a sugar soft runway for our children's games. It was a place of healing yet again.

Now, when I swim in those waters and toss a ball on that beach with my sweet little boy, I am overcome by what a sacred place it is for us. It may be littered with tears and broken hearts, but it is certainly also shored up with moments of pure joy and the absolute confidence that life may ebb and flow, but it leaves a lasting memory in its wake.

Soon, our healing place will play host to one of those moments of hope and happiness. Later this month, surrounded by a small group of supporters, my baby sister and her love will marry on our beach and join their families in a lifetime of shared emotion.

They will stand on that beach and absorb the power of all that beauty and healing and transform it into a vow to each other and their children. We will stand united on that beach and allow ourselves to be transfixed by the glory of the setting sun and its promise of another tomorrow...for the bride and groom...and for everyone who has ever needed healing. For everyone who has ever turned to this place where God himself painted the sky and suffused the waters with such glory and peace.

Addendum (9/26/2011): They did it! Marcia and Dave were married on our beach Saturday, September 24, 2011. What a happy, spectacular event for them. We all felt honored to be invited to witness their joyful ceremony. And, really, nothing can convey all of that better than a couple of snapshots (credit to my sister Colleen Fitzgerald for the photos).

Transitions

Rick's stepdad, the man who raised him, Richard D. Cook, died last week at the age of 73. Rick had the good fortune to stay with him at the Hospice House in Jackson for his final few days, offering comfort as Dick made this last transition in his life's journey.

Rick does not remember any other father, this was the person who taught him how to pitch a baseball and drive a car (a stick shift VW beetle complete with an ice scraper for the inside of the windshield!). Dick was the primary disciplinarian in his life, and when Rick is scolding our son Connor for some indiscretion I often call him "Richard D. Cook" -- and, yes, oddly, his kids did refer to him by his full name with middle initial. No idea why!


Looking back at Dick's life and his relationship with his children has brought many transitions into focus. The first is obvious -- the day he married Rick' mother and agreed to parent her five young children in addition to his own two boys. Wow! Talk about a transition.

Over the years Dick's relationship with his children made many transitions, following the ebb and flow of the marriage that made them all a family in the first place. Eventually developing into adult respect and friendship. I recall the first trip that Rick and I made to visit Dick at his home in Florida. We were living in the Chicago area and both had just completed our master's degrees. As we sat on the balcony of his apartment, watching the Gulf of Mexico transition from sun dappled azure waves to the smoky and mysterious chop of evening, I had the priviledge of listening as a father told his son just how proud he was of the man he had become.  My father-in-law was not overly effusive. But, in his more relaxed retirement in the Sunshine State, he found the perfect way to offer the highest praise a child seeks. Respect and pride. Nice transition, Dad.

Dick had perfect joy when relating to his grandchildren. He gloated about their every achievement, from phenomenal or just passable sports accomplishments to academic honors or sometimes simply passing grades to cutting a first tooth or taking that first tottering step - each accomplishment gave him more reason to be proud. The transition to grandparent was one he truly loved, all of the love without any of the disciplinary responsibilities! Perfect.

In his final days we talked about where he wished he could be, where he could go in his mind to help remove himself from the pain he felt so intensely within his body. He smiled as I asked if it would be the sugar white sands on the Gulf of Mexico in Florida, kicking back on a chaise lounge chair and watching the sun drop slowly into the diamond strewn water. His smile was so serene as I spoke, I knew he was perfectly in the moment and maybe even feeling that ocean breeze on his skin. In classic form, it was when I suggested that he'd probably be sipping on a pina colada while sitting on the beach that he squeezed my hand for the first time that day.

I like to think that now he's found his perfect piece of paradise on a gorgeous, white washed sand bar and that he'll keep on strumming his guitar and smiling...enjoying the rest of the journey and whatever transitions may be waiting beyond our touch.