The Red Sweater

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“Even the hairs of your head are all numbered.” (Matthew 10:30)

On the Tonight Show many years ago, comedian George Gobel jokingly posed this question to long-time host Johnny Carson: “Did you ever get the feeling that the world was a tuxedo and you were a pair of brown shoes?”

People laughed, of course; however, I’d wager that more than a few hearers could personally relate to that experience of feeling different from others, about which Gobel had spoken.

I have a “brown shoes” kind of story to share, but it actually involves a different kind of apparel – namely, a favorite red sweater I had as a child. First, however, I must provide a bit of context.

I was a pious little boy. Faith came quite naturally to me; and, obedience to God and my parents defined my sense of normalcy. Innocent faith, however, can often be stretched almost to the breaking point as life becomes more complex.

During my teen years, my first family began a slow and agonizing process of disintegration. I need not divulge specifics, but it is necessary that I admit of a uniquely painful gulf that developed between my father and me. Eventually, I came to seriously doubt his love, which is a torturous experience for an adolescent boy.

As my parents’ marriage crept steadily toward divorce, and as I wrestled with the associated emotions that seemingly invaded every fiber of my life, I also began to question, for the first time, the goodness of God. Honestly, I felt betrayed by the One I had always trusted. My best friend seemed to have turned a deaf ear precisely when I was most desperate for God’s consolation.

Disillusioned, my heart strayed from God for quite some time. Strangely, I never stopped believing; yet, bitter experiences had numbed my faith and (seemingly) rendered it irrelevant in my life. This spiritual state of confusion persisted through my college years… until God resuscitated my soul.

In my early twenties, I met my future wife, Marianne, fell in love, finished college, and proposed marriage. There was much cause for hope, yet, when alone, I was persistently sad.

One day, I woke up feeling particularly distressed but unable to identify the cause. The malaise worsened as the day went on; so, desperate for some solitude, I decided to take a walk. In the midst, I began to feel an interior sense of longing that I could not squelch. I kept walking… and awkwardly lifted up a prayer.

At one point, I found myself standing in front of a rectory. Had I purposely come there? I don’t believe so; but, once there, I felt an overwhelming urge to ring the doorbell. I resisted for a time, unsure of what I’d say, but then I reluctantly consented. That concession to grace has made all the difference.

A young priest, Fr. Bob, welcomed me and invited me into a private room where we could talk. My mind blanks on the specifics. I remember only a rush of thoughts and words, a sympathetic listener, a reassurance of God’s love, and an invitation – for both Marianne and me – to the prayer community that met on Thursday nights in the Parish Center.

When I told Marianne of my experience and of my inclination to accept the invitation, she graciously agreed to accompany me; so, the following Thursday evening found us among a group of strangers, who would quickly become instruments of God’s healing in both of our lives. Marianne and I were married (by Fr. Bob) shortly thereafter.

At one Thursday gathering early on in our experience of the group, Peter, an intense yet obviously tender-hearted man, gave me a book about the Holy Spirit and said that he hoped it would bless my life as it had blessed his. I accepted his gift knowing full-well that I’d need to report back to him about my experience of the book and, therefore, would actually have to read it.

I felt strangely at home in the pages of that book. The content seemed to tap into the dormant piety from my past. Again, I experienced an interior longing, but this time the longing had an object. I wanted God again.

Then, however, I reached a chapter in the book that stopped me cold. It was a chapter on reconciliation that was based upon these verses from the Sermon on the Mount, found in Matthew 5:23-24:

“… if you are offering your gift at the altar, and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar and go; first be reconciled to your brother, and then come and offer your gift.”

Immediately, I sensed that God wanted to be admitted into the relationship between me and my father. I felt nothing but desperation and fear. The wounds were indeed very deep.

For days, I could read no further in the book. I felt as though an obstacle was now in my path that I had no power whatsoever to overcome. Would my rediscovery of a spiritual center in my life end here?

Then, one evening, I sat on my couch trying to pray. Marianne walked into the room and could see that I was distressed. She asked what was going on and I told her about the book… about the obstacle… and about my failed attempts at prayer. She wisely asked if I had done any listening during prayer, and I admitted that I hadn’t. I’d only been pouring out my heart to God.

Marianne told me that she would give me complete privacy and advised me to sit in silence. She was God’s instrument in that moment, and I will forever be grateful for her loving counsel. After she left the room, I turned off the light and waited for God in the quiet.

What happened is quite difficult to explain; but, it literally changed my life. Please bear with me.

I did not have a vision. In fact, I can’t even be certain if my eyes were opened or closed. Neither was the experience a dream, as I was far from asleep, nor a hallucination, as I had taken no drugs.

That evening, as best I can describe it, God placed me inside a lost memory such that I actually relived the long-ago experience with all of its attendant emotions. Afterward, I remembered that this incident had really taken place, but it was so obscure, so seemingly inconsequential, I had long forgotten it.

I was perhaps six or seven and was in the schoolyard during recess. It had been chilly that morning, so my mother had dressed me in my favorite red sweater, the one with the zipper in front. She had also told me not to remove the sweater. You see, I was a rather sickly child, and she was being cautious.

By recess time, any morning chill had yielded to a hot sun. All of my schoolmates were in their shirtsleeves running and playing. But, I was obediently wearing my red sweater and sitting on the short wooden fence at the side of the schoolyard… feeling quite different and very alone.

Being “brown shoes” is especially painful for a child.

Then, I looked up and saw my father walking past the schoolyard. Instantly, I leaped off my perch and ran to him.

(Since my mother had ordered me to wear the sweater, surely my father had the authority to allow me to remove it.)

I looked up into my father’s eyes and asked him: “Dad, can I take off my sweater?”

Now, when this episode actually happened, I’m sure that the young version of me missed the most important detail. All I cared about at the time was securing permission to remove the sweater, which my father granted.

As a man in his mid-twenties, however, looking through the eyes of that little boy, I saw my father’s expression anew. He looked at me with understanding and compassion. His was a knowing look… the look of one who had, himself, been “brown shoes” to the world’s tuxedo.

His was that look of love that I had longed for my whole life!

Sitting there in my living room, I broke down and wept forcefully.

God had plucked from obscurity an event long forgotten and miraculously revealed its deeper meaning.

When I finally collected myself, the remarkable peace that I felt quickly gave way to darkness and sadness. I remembered feeling betrayed by God in my teens and realized that, just as I had needed to know the love of my father, I also needed to know myself loved by God.

I decided to sit in the darkness again with all of the interior stillness I could muster.

Rather quickly, I was drawn into the identical memory. Again, I was sitting by the edge of the schoolyard, in my red sweater, under the hot sun, feeling different and alone. I looked up and saw my father walking past the schoolyard…

But, this time, Jesus was guiding him there by the hand.

(Tears! Intense healing!)

—–

The moment of grace described above happened nearly forty years ago. Although daily prayer has long been a part of my life, I have never again experienced God so vividly and intimately; and, perhaps that is by design.

That moment is a touchstone for my spiritual life. I return there often when I am in distress to drink in its lessons once again.

The red sweater helps me to understand God’s interest and involvement in every detail of our lives. It makes sense of the promise that even the hairs on my head are counted.

Amen!

One Real Hero

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Heroes need not be bigger than life. One of mine, in fact, was a rather diminutive man, whom I met only when he was in his later years.

I was eight years old when my parents bought their first (and only) home together, a two-family structure wherein my family would occupy the first floor. Upstairs, there lived an elderly couple, John and Alice Mackey, who had already been tenants for many years.

John Mackey had a welcoming face, which – I imagine – must have put many people at ease over the span of his years. His features were soft and kind; and, his thinning white hair, frame-less glasses, and understated mustache all contributed to his grandfatherly countenance. He was hard of hearing, walked with a Walter Brennanesque limp, and always sported a simple wooden cane. I came to love him dearly.

John was a huge Red Sox fan whose history with the team could be traced back almost to the local nine’s very beginning, around the turn of the last century. He had actually seen many of the greats of yesteryear – Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, Walter Johnson, Christy Mathewson, etc. – ply their craft; and, he had a storytelling gift that brought their exploits to life again for me, a budding fan.

I was not conscious of this at the time, but I now understand that John must have recognized the void in my life. And, in his own quiet and generous way, he tried to fill it. Consequently, many summer days of my childhood found me at Fenway Park with him.

Daytime baseball was common then, and crowds were nothing like they are today; so, John would buy us inexpensive tickets, and we’d gradually move to vacant seats in our favorite location, the grandstands behind first base.

Those games were a baseball immersion experience for me. I’d watch Yaz (Carl Yastrzemski), Boomer (George Scott), Rico (Petrocelli), and the other stars of the day playing on the field, and, between innings, I’d listen in rapt attention to tales of Ted Williams, Tris Speaker, Cy Young, and so many others. What a gift!

Around the sixth or seventh inning, John would reach into the paper bag he’d carried into the park and proclaim: “I have a surprise for you.” Then, he’d hand me a home-made egg salad sandwich, cut diagonally and carefully wrapped in wax paper. Even though the gesture was far from a surprise, and despite the fact that I was not at all a fan of egg salad, it was a part of our routine – our relationship – that I really came to depend upon. “Grandfathers” are thoughtful like that.

As traveling became more difficult for him, John and I would sometimes watch baseball games together on his television. We both missed the ambiance of the ballpark, but it was still a privilege to be in his presence.

Baseball got into my blood largely through John Mackey’s influence. My continuing love of the Red Sox is, at least in part, the legacy of that very good man’s kindness to this little boy.

Today, my wife and I own that same two-family house purchased by my parents in the mid-sixties. And, we live in the space once occupied by John and Alice. I think of him (and them) often… and smile.

Heroes often disappoint when their true character is revealed. John’s true character is precisely what made him my hero.

To this day, my preferred seats at Fenway are the grandstands behind first base.

The Other Son

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One day, I was speaking with a heartbroken father about the death of his son. Tears came to his eyes as he spoke of the boy’s life and accomplishments, of which he was rightly proud.

I listened carefully and with sadness.

After a time, the man also spoke of his other son, whose life had comprised one struggle after another. It was obvious to me that this older boy had been a disappointment to his father.

At one point, the man paused, looked away, and softly but clearly said something quite disturbing.

“The wrong son died.”

While I still felt compassion for this man’s terrible loss, my heart really ached for his surviving son.

How difficult it must be to live as the one who, in his father’s eyes, is expendable.

(God’s) Providence…

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Seemingly, little had changed in the old neighborhood, and the sentimentalist in me felt appropriately gratified. Employing a light touch on the gas pedal, I drank in familiar sights and easily yielded to the flurry of tender memories.

Wyndham Avenue was just ahead.

As I turned the corner and saw that marvelous old house – wherein Marianne’s and my young love had endured and deepened and in which our oldest child, Rachel, had taken her first steps and spoken her first words – I was unexpectedly confronted by a disquieting question. Would May still be there?

When we left Rhode Island, nearly a decade earlier, May was already in her late seventies. Sadly, we’d not been very good about keeping in touch.

Our final, somewhat hurried good-bye had been an emotional one. After our rented truck was fully loaded and our friends/”movers” had already embarked for my family’s new home back in Massachusetts, I hugged May and, while still embracing her, started to cry. In character, she scolded me and told me to pull myself together. Yes, May could be tough; but, there was no mistaking the sadness in her eyes that day.

May was a “God-send” to us! And I mean that quite literally.

In early 1984, Marianne and I discerned that my pursuit of a master’s degree in Religious Studies was the right direction for us. Of course, there were obstacles. We’d only been married for two years and were, frankly, broke. We were also expecting our first child and needed a stable home for her. An assistantship from Providence College (PC) that both covered my tuition and provided me with a part-time job on campus, along with a pledge of monthly financial help from members of our prayer community, addressed some of our financial concerns, but we still needed a good place to live while I studied.

The very first time we met May, she became our patroness. It was an unusually hot spring day, roughly a month before my two summer classes were to begin. We bundled Rachel, who was not quite two-months old, into our stifling car – base models did not come with air-conditioning back then – and set out for Providence. Our (unrealistic?) goal for the day was to find an acceptable apartment that we could afford; and, we couldn’t afford much.

When we arrived in the city, I suggested making the Religious Studies department on the PC campus our first stop. The Dean’s administrative assistant, a warm and friendly woman named Mary, welcomed us and asked why we were in town so early. We told her of our mission for the day, and she smiled. “You know,” she said, “there is an elderly woman who has rented to some of our students in the past. She hasn’t done so for a while, but it’s worth giving her a call.”

Mary said the woman’s name aloud, “May St. Angelo,” while reaching for the phone book. She quickly found the number and encouraged me to use the office phone to call. I did, and, without visiting a single realtor, we had an apartment to view.

May lived in a quiet, beautiful neighborhood only two blocks from the campus. Her sturdy old house was originally a two-family, but the attic had been converted into a legal apartment with two bedrooms, a good-sized kitchen, a living room, and a bath. It was perfect… and available.

We told May that we were very interested in the apartment and, sneaking a hopeful glance Marianne’s way, I asked about the rent. May’s response nearly floored us. She wanted only $180/month – an outrageously low figure even then. We told her on the spot that we’d like to take it, and she welcomed us as her new tenants.

Providence!

The day we moved in was one of those beautiful times when the hand of God was unmistakably at work. When our small caravan, with the rented truck at the head of the line, pulled up in front of the house, May came out to meet us. She looked tired and sad. “You’ll never guess what happened this morning,” she said. “My husband died.”

We had never met May’s husband, and I can’t recall exactly how we responded to this stunning news. I do remember, however, that – even in her grief – May looked lovingly at Rachel and gently brushed our daughter’s cheek with her fingers. At this moment of profound loss, God had delivered new life to May. Beginning that very first day, Rachel was a healing presence for this kind, dear woman, who had already been such a blessing to our family. Love was happening!

For the duration of our stay, May was to us a surrogate grandmother. We shared meals and long conversations; we got to know her siblings, as well as her son and daughter-in-law and their children; and we saw first-hand her charity, which happened without fanfare and which was often directed our way. At a time of real loneliness and need, May was both our friend and protector.

Providence indeed!

All those years later, it was a business meeting that brought me to Rhode Island. I finished a bit earlier than expected and decided to surprise May. I pulled up in front of the house with uncertainty. While climbing the front stairs, my fears were somewhat relieved when I saw her nameplate – St. Angelo – still fixed beneath the second floor doorbell. I rang the bell and waited. After a minute or so, I heard a familiar voice calling from the landing. “Who is it?” I sighed gratefully and turned the knob of the door, which was unlocked.

A few minutes into our visit, I heard an unfamiliar woman’s voice calling up from the front door. “May, are you okay?” May hollered back an invitation, and the woman came up the stairs. When she came in, she explained that she’d seen me, a stranger, enter the house, and she wanted to be sure that her friend was safe. I was pleased that May had such a caring neighbor; but, it was May’s response that really touched my heart. “Oh, there’s no need to worry. Steve is family.”

Erminia “May” St. Angelo went home to God on December 16, 1996. Our lives intersected for only a brief time, but hers is a treasured place in our family’s history.

I believe that God’s deliberate choice to work in and through people is ultimately one of life’s greatest blessings. In her own inimitable way, May revealed the face and heart of God to me.

An Anniversary of Sorts : Time Passing… (Part Three)

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Today, September 13th, marks the 33rd anniversary of my wife, Marianne, and I beginning to “go steady.” Since that day, twelve thousand and fifty-three days ago, our lives have become wonderfully intertwined.

Drawing heavily on God’s grace, we navigated some turbulent early days while we both learned to value “us” above our individual selves. Now, “us” seems so natural, so right, and so holy.

Throughout these many days and years, hers have been the only eyes to hold me captive, hers the only hands I’ve held in that wonderful, romantic way.

We have shared countless experiences, some joyful and some not so much, but always unfailingly together.

We have exchanged millions of words, yet I never tire of the sound of her voice.

At night, if my foot or leg happens to brush against hers in our bed, I’m drowsily aware of the consolation of her presence… and it helps me fall back to sleep.

Some fruits of our relationship – namely, three wonderful children and six (so far) delightful grandchildren – are obvious to see. Others, however, are known only to those closest to us, and still others to us alone.

What we have forged together is love, of course, but also mutual respect and trust. Each one would be impossible sans the other two.

Every moment of every day is better when shared with the woman I have loved since my youth.

Now, we’re growing old… together. I am so very grateful.

Tick – tick – tick!

The Children’s Books : Time Passing… (Part Two)

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Once in a great while, I am blessed with a captivating dream about my children – Rachel, Stephen Jr., and Matthew – when they were small.

To me, such dreams are richer than mere memories. They seem, at least for their short duration, to allow the reliving of a blessed season of life. And, they just might provide an insight or two lost in the original moment(s).

Thomas Carlyle once observed that “the tragedy of life lies not in how much we suffer but in how much we miss.”

Jesus’ parable of the sower similarly treats this theme. Many seeds, the Lord teaches, are wasted because the soil (i.e., mind, heart, and soul) is unprepared to receive them.

I have often wondered what I’ve missed in my life. Many seeds, I’m quite sure.

A few years ago, I searched my home for a book I was sure I owned. As frustration mounted, I finally thought to check an upstairs bookcase wherein we keep some older titles. As I looked there from shelf to shelf, I spotted a small cluster of children’s books tucked in the corner.

I pulled the books out of their resting place and immediately forgot all about my frantic search.

When our children were little, bedtime was a festive happening. There were prayers, songs, spontaneous “pretend stories” (a nightly test of Dad’s creativity), and at least one – but often two – children’s books. The rediscovered titles resting on my lap that day had been featured at Dalton bedtimes time and again.

I flipped through the familiar pages with an odd mix of emotions. Then, an especially tender, yet profoundly sad, thought came to mind. Once upon a time, years ago, I had read each one of those books, respectively, to each one of my children, respectively, for the very last time… without realizing it.

I grieved at the awareness.

Like many people, I sometimes wish that I could relive a moment from the past – not to remain there, but just to have that treasured experience once more.

“If I could save time in a bottle,” sang (the late) Jim Croce.

If I held such a magic bottle in my hands, I would wait for a moment of particular darkness, a time when I needed a very special grace to strengthen me; then, I’d uncork it and drink in the experience of reading each one of those books, respectively, to each one of my (small again) children, respectively, for the very last time.

And, finally understanding the sanctity of the moment, I would read ever so slowly.

Tick – tick – tick!

Time Passing… (Part One)

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In prayer this morning, seeking silence, I instead became acutely aware of the ticking of a clock in the next room. And so, my mind easily wandered to matters of time and the passage of time.

September 20th will be the fortieth anniversary of the death of singer/songwriter Jim Croce, who was killed in the crash of a small plane in Louisiana just an hour or so after a concert performance.

I still remember learning of his passing from my cousin, Michael. He and I were both fans of Croce’s narrative songs like “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” and “You Don’t Mess Around with Jim.”

Probably, I was drawn to those songs for the same reason that I watched professional wrestling as a child. A scrawny teenage boy living in a world with more than its share of bullies is easily attracted to stories of bad guys getting their comeuppance.

Killer Kowalski may prevail for a time, but eventually Bruno Sammartino would make him pay for his nefarious ways. And the same was true of Leroy Brown in his clash with the jealous husband.

Cartoon justice, though, is not my lasting impression of Jim Croce’s work. Instead, I am anguished by the irony that a man who sang about saving “Time in a Bottle” would have his life end so tragically, so abruptly. The brevity of his own life makes his theme of saving time all the more poignant.

Growing older brings many reminders of life’s fragility… and of the inestimable value of time.

“If I could save time in a bottle…”

Tick – tick – tick!

The Holy Search

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At one time, I was arrogantly dismissive of AA’s “God of my understanding.” Now, I honestly regret that perspective; and, I realize that everyone believes in, questions the existence of, or outright rejects the “God of (that person’s) understanding.”

God is or God isn’t.

Late in his Papacy, Pope Benedict XVI celebrated Mass at an airport in Germany. During that liturgy, he said something that I found quite remarkable. According to the Holy Father, agnostics who are genuinely seeking an answer to the question of God’s existence are “closer to the kingdom of God than believers whose life of faith is routine.”

There is intrinsic value in the search!

If one sees the suffering and anguish of the world and questions the existence of a good God, that is a noble act!

If one sees pride and judgment in “the faithful” yet struggles to hope in God, that is heroic!

If one was raised with a crippling, legalistic faith and felt doomed to fail before a punitive God, and if that person walks away discouraged, that is tragic… and understandable!

If God is, then there is an objective reality of God… the great I AM.

The human mind cannot grasp the entirety of I AM, which is why the holy search remains ever fruitful and exhilarating.

I believe that one’s understanding of God is intended to evolve and deepen as he/she continues to search. And in the midst of that process, which might rightly be called “the spiritual life,” it is often necessary to let go of the false gods — or, the false images of I AM — that one has held before. Sometimes, that letting go can be frightening, especially if one’s “faith” has been fear-based.

I believe that God is.

Today, I too profess that my faith is in the God of my (ever-deepening) understanding! Continue reading →

“… Make Way for Other Toys”

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When Peter Yarrow passed away in early 2025, his death sparked a flurry of social media posts, many of which mentioned Puff the Magic Dragon, the beautiful song he wrote and then performed with his folk trio Peter, Paul, and Mary. Just hearing snippets of that song brought many lovely memories to mind and, to be honest, left me misty-eyed.

When our children were small, Puff was often their bedtime song of choice. They never knew, as we laughed, danced, and sang together, about the strong connection their Dad feels with this song, which is a metaphor for the end of childhood.

“Together they would travel on a boat with billowed sails…”

As a boy, I had several very close friends: Paul, Philip, Jackie, Juddy, Jimmy, and Evans. There were certainly others, good friends all, but these guys were special. From ages eight to fourteen (and much longer with Paul), we were inseparable, at least during the summer.

Summer days began early and ended as late as the grown-ups in our lives would allow. Baseball was our first fascination, but there was also ample space made for kickball and bike chases and lunches at the local sub shop and swimming and bowling and all other activities comprising the “stuff” of childhood.  We had great, uncomplicated fun.

“A dragon lives forever, but not so little boys…”

My memory may be a bit fuzzy, but I believe I was ten when the disturbing news came that Evans would be moving away – rather far away.

He and his family had been living on the bottom floor of a two-family house owned by Evans’ grandmother, who lived upstairs.  His grandmother chose to remain in our neighborhood, but the rest of the family would be moving out of state.

When Evans broke the news, our sadness was tempered by his promise that he’d be spending summers with his grandmother… and, therefore, with us.

Evans proved good on his word; and, for the next several years, summer was redefined as the time between Evans’ arrival (always by early July) and his departure (in mid- to late August).

“One grey night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more…”

Each return was a time of genuine anticipation and joy. Between visits, however, life happened.

As time passed, Evans’ connections at home and the lure to remain there year-round naturally grew stronger. And so, a summer eventually came when Evans opted to not to come.

“Painted wings and giant’s rings make way for other toys…”

The following summer, Evans, who had recently gotten his driver’s license, surprised us by driving to Massachusetts himself. (His father had always driven him previously.) His car was a brand new Datsun 260Z.

Evans’ visit was a short one, just a few days; and, while there, he kept mentioning how much he missed his girlfriend back home. I understood.

There were no baseball games; and, throughout his visit, my bicycle remained idle and rusting in my parent’s garage.

I saw and spoke with Evans a few more times between the mid-seventies and the mid-eighties, but, thereafter, I didn’t hear my old friend’s voice again until we reconnected by phone in 2017.

I’m very sentimental. For me, childhood will always mean Paul, Philip, Jackie, Juddy, Jimmy, and Evans… my “little Jackie Paper.”

I still love them all dearly. I’ll always cherish the times we “went to play along the cherry lane.” And, whenever I reminisce, I’m sure that I’ll find myself wiping off the “green scales” trickling down my cheeks.

“I Lost My Stan”

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(The names have been changed in this true story.)

Nearly half a lifetime ago, I spent the better part of a year teaching an evangelization program to a dedicated group of adults in two Catholic parishes. During that time I met some truly wonderful people; and, the memory of that experience – and of those good souls – blesses me to this day.

One couple, Stan and Jill, left a particularly indelible impression. They were both in their early sixties, but their love seemed much younger. They held hands during class, often smiled knowingly at one another, and, perhaps as much as any couple I have ever known, seemed inseparable.

When one spoke of the other, it was frequently in possessive terms – “My Stan” and “My Jill” – and, each seemed entirely comfortable in that identity.

By the time I got to know them, Stan had already suffered a serious heart attack, and there had been lasting damage. Perhaps as a result, both he and Jill seemed genuinely grateful for every moment together. Their faith, like their love, was pure.

When the program ended, I lost touch with most of the participants, including Stan and Jill; but, I remembered…

A few years back, I was in the area and decided to attend Mass at one of the churches where I had taught long before. As I took my seat, I looked around wondering if I would recognize anyone. There, in a pew several rows in front of me, I saw Jill seated with another elderly woman. Stan was notably missing.

When Mass ended, I exited the pew and walked toward her. As I approached, I could see that Jill’s memory was jarred, but there was a slightly puzzled look on her face.

“I’m Steve, Jill. Steve Dalton… from the evangelization program way back when.”

“Oh, Steve,” she said, reaching to hug me. “It’s so wonderful to see you again.”

Her face, like my own, was considerably older. Her smile, however, was every bit as radiant.

We briefly exchanged pleasantries, but then sadness rushed in.

“I lost my Stan eight years ago.”

Though anticipating such news, her words nonetheless stung me. I listened… and then attempted to offer some hope; but, I knew in my heart that the gesture would fall woefully short.

Stan and Jill are one. Death cannot overcome that God-ordained, eternal reality. For a season though, Jill must live with an absence that defies complete consolation. Such is the risk/cost of true love.

“My Marianne” and I have now reached the age of knowing our mortality. With the help of heroic couples like Stan and Jill, we too are coming to terms with the cost of truly becoming one. In fact, we sometimes speak of the inevitable. Marianne has even said to me, “I hope that you go first,” wishing to spare me the pain of her absence.

Our children recognize the wisdom in Marianne’s hope. My youngest son, Matt, once said to me, “Dad, if Mom dies before you, you’ll probably die too within a week.” He may be right.

True love is life’s greatest investment! But, like every investment, risk is involved…