Celebrating My Uncle Wally

“Uncle” is an honorable title, originally defining one’s position in a family, as new generations are born.  But, eventually, the title is really one that is earned, becoming a position of trust, a special niche in the life of a child, growing up, coming of age, moving into adulthood, and beyond.  Not every man earns the title of “uncle”.

The special men who were uncles in my life were always larger than life, holding a place near to my heart.   They were there at special times, sometimes being the giver of presents.  Yet, the real value was in their presence, their strong place in my life.   Sometimes, they would offer advice.  But, more often, they were simply there, being interested in me, and I felt their love.

They would tell stories, laugh, joke around with me, and with others in the family.  They often would speak, often quietly, about values and morals, and the important things in life, such as friendship, and trust, and dependability.  It was not only in their words, but in their actions, their kindnesses, how they went about their lives, raising their own kids, and taking time to raise me, once in a while.

My uncles offered me a haven, a refuge from the world.  We would often sit in near silence with each other, as I took in their quiet strength, their strength of character, their availability to me.

No question was stupid, no remark considered inane, or immature.  Where I was at in life was just that, where I was at.  And, if I needed advice, I could ask.  There was no laughter in the asking, and no sassy remarks about my questions, or my worries.

The advice was often wrapped up into a story, an anecdote about their experiences, their struggles.  Often, they laughed at what they did, and how they got through something that was bothering them.  And, in that telling, and that laughter, there was deep wisdom, and compassion for where I was at, and what I needed.  Many lessons were taught that way, in story and in experience, and I listened hard.

And, when they hugged me, it often wasn’t about their strong arms wrapped around me, or the pat on the back, or the strong handshakes.  It was, instead, support, empathy, and brotherhood.   I was accepted for who I was, and where I was going.  And, in knowing I wasn’t the first one to walk along that path, and climb over those obstacles.  They’d faced all that too, and more.  And, they’d lived to tell the tale, and to move on with their lives.

If they could do all that, and joke and smile about how tough that journey was, and all that they had learned, then I could walk that walk, too.

It wasn’t like they were being my dad, and playing the fatherly role.  I needed that, too, and I’d learned how important parenting was in one’s life.

But, the art of being an uncle is not in the fathering.  It often goes deeper than that, still family, still mentoring, and rearing up, but in a different light, a different slant.  The art of being an uncle is often practiced with some distance, some space and time.   There’s more objectivity, more “over the long run” perspective to the conversation.  And, a lot less drama, a lot less demand to get it right, right now.

Fathers are more impatient, more demanding of the instant change, the instant behavior modification in the child.  They live in the same house, and want to get things done right now.  Dads can often be expected to be on call 24 hours a day, so patience is not always a virtue for the parental figure.

Uncles are more forgiving, more patient with the process of growing up, of coming of age.  They’re more willing to wait, and to be more hesitant, more cautious with their words, their counsel.  Time is a big tool in the tool chest of the uncle.  He’s willing to wait around, to wait until you ask, or until the time is right so that he knows you are really listening.

The older I get, the more I cherish my uncles.  Their numbers dwindle over time, and the times of deep conversation and quiet advice become more rare, and more appreciated.  They weren’t all that numerous in my life to begin with, and now that the gray hair in the family has moved to my head, I miss them more dearly.

In the last few weeks, one of the great uncles in my life slipped away from all of us, and moved on to another world.   He came into my life when I became part of my wife’s family, about a third of a century ago.

It was a perfect fit.  He’d never met a niece or nephew he didn’t love unconditionally, and  open his heart and his ears to anything they needed in life.  He’d pour out his love to any one of them, as needed and as wanted.  His heart had an endless supply of all that was needed.  And, so, marriage to one of his nieces was all that he needed to offer me the same, no strings attached.

And, soon, I was welcomed, with open arms, jokes flying, and his contagious laugh and endless string of stories lighting up all the times I had with him.

We didn’t need to talk much about how we liked each other.  With him, all that was just something to be understood, to be taken for granted, just like his love.  I sensed he didn’t want to have me try to define what was between us, or what he was to his family.   With him, what was really important didn’t come out in words, anyway.  He was deeper than whatever you tried to say.

Words and definitions and any kind of analysis would have just left him cold.  That wasn’t his style.  He was a man of action, of living life deeply and vibrantly.  Life wasn’t to be defined or discussed, it was to be lived.

He lived a deep and rich life, loving without hesitation, and working hard.   He gave freely, of his time and his passions, spreading joy and friendship throughout his ever growing circle of friends and family.

He slipped away from us last week, leaving us to retell some of his stories, some of our adventures with him.  We remembered his laughter, his passions, and his deep, abiding love for us.

And, as I listened to those stories and those memories this week, as we gathered to mourn and to celebrate a well lived and rich life,  I saw that he had taught all of us well in that art of being an uncle, of living a life of service and love.  His craft of being the uncle was all around us,  and his work in all that was learned well.

He was the master of all that, a master of the art of being an uncle.  And, I am most thankful for all that he was and all that he taught to the world.

–Neal Lemery

8/20/2012

The Rock of Resentment

He spoke of his anger, raging inside, and his feelings about his family, his childhood, the place where he was at now, and what he struggles with.  His eyes flashed, his voice strong, energized as he shared what was deep in his heart, the pain, and the success.

“And, I’ve found a place to put all that, all my resentment,” he said, tears welling up, his voice quavering.

It was his Resentment Rock.

“I give it all to the rock, every day, so I can sleep at night, so I have a place for all this,” he said.

“And, this morning, it broke.  It’s in two pieces now.”

Silence filled the room, everyone feeling the tension as the rock broke, imagining that moment in his life.

Someone in the group asked him how he felt now, now that the rock of resentment has broken.

“Oh, I’m free. The pressure is off, the tension is gone.”

“Relief, I guess.  Yeah, relief.  All that resentment that was inside of me, and now, inside the rock, is gone.  It went away.  I just feel lighter now,” he said, one tear making its way down his young face.

“I can move on, now.”

Later, when we had finished our conversations as a group, he talked to a woman.  She had spoken in our group about a place she was making in her garden, a place to grieve, and an offering vessel she had made.  It was a place where people could come to pray, and leave an object, a symbol of their loss, their grieving.  It was a place of honoring one’s grief, and the memories of good times, and hard times. It was a place to honor what goes on, deep in our hearts.

“Could you put this there?” he asked.  “I want you to take the rock, and put it there, so I can let it be.  I need a place to leave the rock, a place for all my resentment to be.”

He took the two pieces of the rock out of his pocket, showing us how the two pieces fit, jagged edge to jagged edge.   He let me hold them.  The rocks felt heavy, my fingers sensing the burdens they contained.

His hands trembled, as he put the two pieces in her hand. A large whoosh of air escaped from his chest.

“It’s time to let all that go, and move on with my life,” he whispered, tears soaking into my shirt.

6/30/12

He marched tall and proud down the aisle, in cap and gown, a serious look on his face.

Today, he would receive his diploma, he would be a high school graduate.  He would achieve one of his major goals in life.

I sat next to his brother, and his mother.  A half hour from now, he would have a serious, one on one talk with his brother, about life, and finishing high school, and about making something out of himself.

He’d be speaking from experience, half way through a seven year prison sentence.  Life isn’t easy for him here, but he keeps moving ahead, keeps learning, and keeps growing.  He’s taking more steps now, almost done with his master gardeners class, becoming an expert on the kitchen garden he manages.

And, he’d be changing the family agenda, leaving behind the words of his father, telling him he’d never graduate from high school, no one in the family ever had.  From behind these walls, he speaks his mind, telling his family who he is becoming, and urging them along in their own journeys.

When his name is called, he leaps onto his feet, and clutches the diploma with all his might, breaking into a big grin.   He pauses for the photo, his eyes glistening with joy.

“It’s mine.  I did it,” I can hear him say to himself, as the crowd gives him a round of applause.

A while ago, he almost didn’t make it.  There was that last assignment, the last project to finish before he’d be done.  He kept fooling around with it, not getting it done, putting it off.

It wasn’t very hard to do.  He’d paid attention, learned the material, and could tell you all about it, any time you asked.  But, that last step, putting it down on paper, finishing the project, was slowing him down.

We’d talked about it, over coffee, his dance of moving around it, pushing it to one side, and not getting it done.  And, nothing much was happening.

I asked him if he was hearing his dad’s voice, about not finishing high school, not being able to achieve anything meaningful in his life.

Tears filled up his eyes, then spilled down his cheek.

“Oh, yeah,” he said.  “Big time.”

We let that sink in, a nice spot of silence in our otherwise lively conversation, the conversations we’d had at this table for the last year and a half.  Conversations about life, and his childhood, and school, and all the other things he liked sharing with me.

“You don’t have to listen to that voice, you know,” I said, quietly.

His dad’s been gone six years now, and some in his family still blame him for dad dying too soon.  He’s still sorting through what all that means, and doesn’t mean any more.

“I know, but his words keep bouncing around inside, just when I’m doing well,” he replied.

“I think you deserve that diploma,” I said.  “You’ve worked hard for that.  It’s yours if you really want it.”

“I do.  I really do,” he answered.

I didn’t ask him about school the next couple of visits.  I’d bide my time, wait for him to sort it all out.  It’s not my place to boss him around, or be like his dad was to him.  He knew what he had to do, and he knew the demon in the basement, and what its name was.  It was his battle, not mine.

It’s tough enough for him to deal with me, coming every week and talking.   This mentor work is hard for him, hard to deal with me, and my patience and my commitment to him.  Oh, and my passion and my opinions, too.  He knows where I’m coming from, how stubborn I can be.

All those conversations come flying back to me now, as I watch him stand with the rest of his class, as they flip over their tassels, becoming official graduates, and hearing yet another thunderous round of applause.

As we get ready to leave, giving him more time to talk to him mom and his brother, he hands me his diploma.

“You keep this, until I get out,” he says, quietly, looking deep into my eyes.

“And, happy Father’s Day.”

Neal Lemery 6/17/2012

In a circle, we gather

hearing songs, the beat of drums

the rhythm of life, of our journeys, our fears–

the storyteller weaves his tale,

drawing us into his heart, 

into our own.

Finding our voices, finding the beat of our hearts,

we follow his lead, and go deep

inside, cleaning our wounds, 

chasing the pain away, becoming 

strong, becoming whole

again, for the first time in this life.

Young men offer the storyteller

gifts from their heart, from their ancestors,

eyes of all misting in gratitude at the ending of

suffering, the cleansing of darkened hearts–

In a circle, we become complete.

–Neal Lemery 5/20/2012