Who Will Hold Me When I Die

Yesterday morning I dropped off my grandson, Asher, at the Waldorf school. It made no sense to drive all the way back home since I needed to pick him up in four hours, so I wandered around the east side of Milwaukee. I decided to walk from Brady Street south on Van Buren to the Cathedral of St. John the Evangelist. The cathedral is the heart of Catholicism in southeastern Wisconsin. Sometimes that heart seems to suffer from arteriosclerosis, yet it still beats. Many years ago, when our kids attended the Waldorf school, I often hiked down to the church. Somehow, after nearly a quarter century, the journey yesterday seemed significantly longer.

The cathedral doors were unlocked. Back then, the place was always open during the day. During the winter months, homeless people would huddle in the rear of the church, often sleeping in the pews, buried in their overcoats and caps, just trying to escape the bitter cold for a while. When I entered the sanctuary yesterday, there were no homeless folks, but a funeral Mass was in progress. A woman handed me a pamphlet describing the liturgy. I took it and sat down in the back.

The Mass was for Thomas “Tommy” August Salzsieder, a person unknown to me. The priest was in the middle of giving a eulogy. I wondered how well the priest actually knew Tommy. I’ve been to funerals where the presider knew almost nothing about the deceased, and his speech felt like a work of fiction. This priest described Tommy as a man of faith and said that “his life was not ended, just transformed.”

I wondered about that comment. What does “transformed” actually mean? Looking at the assembled mourners, I noticed many people with gray hair—or no hair at all. They were all elderly, my age. We are all in the batting order for this transformation of our lives. The priest spoke about heaven, a concept I simply do not understand. When I was young, I thought heaven was a place where God pats you on the head and gives you a cookie for being a good boy. Now, I have no idea what it is. Honestly, heaven doesn’t sound terribly inviting. I’d be okay if the end of my life was like being put under anesthesia for surgery: nothing. A void. A blank screen.

I thought about Tommy, and frankly, I envied him. His work is done. He no longer needs to fight or struggle through life. Life is beautiful and glorious at times, but it is also literally exhausting. Tommy can rest now—whatever that actually means.

The liturgy was a work of devotion; I could tell. The cantor gave a soulful rendition of Panis Angelicus by César Franck. A funeral can be inspiring if love is present, even when that love is buried in grief. I’ve also been to funerals where it was obvious the service was the result of reluctant duty. People went through the motions hurriedly, eager to get the dead person into the ground as quickly as possible.

A while back, my therapist gave me an odd question. He asked:

“What do you want Asher to remember about you—not what you did, but who you were?”

I have no idea. In a way, the question seems irrelevant. I won’t care what Asher remembers when I’m dead. I’m pretty sure of that.

However, what Asher remembers may matter very much to him. His memories might affect the trajectory of his life. Will he remember when I was angry and impatient? Will he remember when I had his back? Will he remember when I failed to listen to him? Will he remember that he received unconditional love from me?

But I’m still describing things I do, not who I am. I don’t know who I am—not really. Maybe Asher will have a better idea of who I was when I’m gone than I have right now.

At night, I hold Asher in my arms so he can sleep. When I die, will a meta-parent hold me in their arms? Will God whisper to me:

“I embrace you now. I have always embraced you.”

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Frank (Francis) Pauc is a graduate of West Point, Class of 1980. He completed the Military Intelligence Basic Course at Fort Huachuca and then went to Flight School at Fort Rucker. Frank was stationed with the 3rd Armor Division in West Germany at Fliegerhorst Airfield from December 1981 to January 1985. He flew Hueys and Black Hawks and was next assigned to the 7th Infantry Division at Fort Ord, CA. He got the hell out of the Army in August 1986.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.