Father Joe Kukura passed away on February 1, 2010. He was a priest of the Archdiocese of Newark for 42 years. However, to me and my family, he was so much more. I always thought that Thanksgiving would be the hardest time for me not to be home – but his passing has made me reconsider. Being away from my family has never been harder. Seeing as how I couldn't be home for his funeral, I chose to honor Fr. Joe in this way:
The bright afternoon sunlight poured through the wide bay windows, sneaking through the slits and the holes in the lace curtains, casting a fragmented shadow over the four of us. I stared across the wood and glass coffee table, nervously twitching and fidgeting with the Gatorade bottle I had been given, making eye contact but trying not to stare--listening to the stories but not really hearing a word. I was nervous in our conversations, especially when he spoke of the illness that was now attacking his body, something I tried not to let slip into my mind. The man that sat across from me resembled Fr. Joe, but for every similarity, there was a haunting difference. An added hunch and noticeable loss in weight which made him appear to be the framework of the man he once was; wisps of hair across a nearly balding head--where a full head of hair once sat; a much softer tone in his story telling voice, one that used to bellow through tales; and stories, fragmented, scatter-brained, stories--some with no beginning and no end--where once there was a man who could hold an audience for one tale after another.
As we gathered our coats and prepared to leave, I said good bye to Fr. Joe for the last time--hugging him and walking toward the door. My mind was fighting an internal struggle over whether or not to look back. How do you say goodbye to someone for the last time? I fought with myself not to look back--I already had several distinct memories from that lunchtime conversation--why make my final image of him something where he’s not even looking? I had made up my mind I wasn't going to look back. I took the coat from my mom and slid both of arms in the sleeves, zipped up the front and looked at the door--but then I couldn't help it. Taking a step back into the kitchen doorway, I glanced one last time at a noticeably older, hunched over version of a man who meant so much to me and my family. This was not the same man I knew and loved--but then again, how can we ever feel fulfilled when we see someone we love for the last time?
It was the 5th of January--and a bitter cold New Jersey winter--and that was the last time I saw Fr. Joe, what is worse is that as I walked out into the biting cold afternoon air, I knew I had seen him for the last time. As I drove home in my mom’s silver Prius, my mind was racing, I have very little memory from that ride home. I had a conversation about which I have no idea, my mind full of too many thoughts to focus on the present: Why should I have to settle for that last image of Fr. Joe? Why should one single image define a relationship between two people, when the course of a person’s life is a mosaic of moments and memories?
The ambiguous “they” say that it’s a natural part of life to grow to accept death. Accept death? How can we accept death? Accepting by its very definition implies the ability to deny. But we cannot deny death can we?
Death knocks at the door: “It’s time to go sir.”
“Who is that? Death? Nope, not this week. I’m not in the mood. Come back sometime next week and we’ll see if I’m feeling up to it then.”
So if we can’t deny it, why should we grow to accept it either? It’s something that we’ll never grow accustomed to. It’s something that will always hurt. Something we will always fear. Something I refuse to acknowledge as the last step. That day, as I drove home with my eyes slightly closed as a result of the bright sun bouncing off the snow glazed highway, I realized that I could never fully accept death. I refuse to accept it. Because accepting it, to me, means a focus on the end of a person’s life. I don’t mean to demean all the suffering that Fr. Joe went through at the end of his life, but I realized that day that I wouldn't accept Fr. Joe’s death--instead I’d honor his life.
Fr. Joe will always hold a special place in my heart, and it will have nothing (and everything) to do with that last brunch conversation we had. But he was so much more to me than that. Fr. Joe will always be the portly priest who spoke with his deep, distinct voice about his days at St. Peter’s and KU Leuven – something we share in common. He’ll be the guy who growing up would always make me jealous when he’d bring Kevin a really cool Christmas gift and I didn't get one. He will be the boat rides in Missouri on the Mississippi river where he let the smaller, childhood, me “drive” his boat “straight”--appropriately stopping me before we had to go under a bridge. He will be the New Year’s Day visitor who held intimate masses for the Cevasco clan, using a glass of red wine from my dad’s wine collection and a piece of bread from the bakery. He’ll be the trips down to his shore house to go crabbing--and then helping me and my siblings move them from the traps to the bucket of water. He will be that slight smile he would get right before he was about to tell a joke--which gave the joke away--as he arrived at a humorous anecdote in one of his stories.
Finally, he’ll always be a permanent part of the night my grandfather passed. Before my grandfather died, Fr. Joe showed up unannounced based on the premise that he “just had to be here.” He had just had some divine intuition to show up at my house that day. Later that night, my grandfather passed, and Fr. Joe was there to have an intimate prayer service with us. To this day, I don’t know what brought Fr. Joe to our house that night, but that was just the type of man he was--someone who always managed to be there for my family and so many others. These are the memories that are Fr. Joe to me. Other people may have other memories, and these are just a handful of memories I can recall off the time of my head--a thousand more escaping me.
There is a Jesuit motto, “In Omnibus Quarent Deum”--translated from Latin meaning, “In all things let them seek God.” To me that motto hit home in high school where I came to the conclusion that not only could I find God, or love, in everyday activities in the world around me, but that I could be the love of God for someone else. For me it was the Fr. Azzarto mentality, but now that I reflect on it I suppose it could also be the Fr. Joe mentality. The formula was simple: If I went out and lived my life to the fullest, with love and compassion, then perhaps someone else would not only find God in me, but more importantly, be inspired by me to show God’s love to someone else.
I know Fr. Joe was Jesuit educated, so perhaps these words always wrung true for him also, but even without the slogan, that was the way he lived his life. It is evident not by all the lives that he touched (of which I'm sure there are many), but by how deeply he touched each life. He not only showed people love--and was loved by so many--but he inspired others to go out and live better lives. That is what I believe is the true measure of a man, and measure of a life. It’s not even necessarily the number of people he inspired, but how truly deep he inspired them. Never was this more evident than when I spoke with Fr. Joe on that last day, when he described how many different people were trying to help him in his final days. The same compassion that he took into his own life came full circle. The people in his life who cared for him, visited him, thought of him and prayed for him, gave back the same love that he exuded. They showed the love of God through their love of him--just as he had undoubtedly done for them.
When someone like Fr. Joe passes away, it makes you wonder, at least me anyway: “What’s the point?” How can a man so great, who affected so many, who was so spiritual, and who loved and was so greatly loved, how could he be taken from us?
The bright afternoon sunlight poured through the wide bay windows, sneaking through the slits and the holes in the lace curtains, casting a fragmented shadow over the four of us. I stared across the wood and glass coffee table, nervously twitching and fidgeting with the Gatorade bottle I had been given, making eye contact but trying not to stare--listening to the stories but not really hearing a word. I was nervous in our conversations, especially when he spoke of the illness that was now attacking his body, something I tried not to let slip into my mind. The man that sat across from me resembled Fr. Joe, but for every similarity, there was a haunting difference. An added hunch and noticeable loss in weight which made him appear to be the framework of the man he once was; wisps of hair across a nearly balding head--where a full head of hair once sat; a much softer tone in his story telling voice, one that used to bellow through tales; and stories, fragmented, scatter-brained, stories--some with no beginning and no end--where once there was a man who could hold an audience for one tale after another.
As we gathered our coats and prepared to leave, I said good bye to Fr. Joe for the last time--hugging him and walking toward the door. My mind was fighting an internal struggle over whether or not to look back. How do you say goodbye to someone for the last time? I fought with myself not to look back--I already had several distinct memories from that lunchtime conversation--why make my final image of him something where he’s not even looking? I had made up my mind I wasn't going to look back. I took the coat from my mom and slid both of arms in the sleeves, zipped up the front and looked at the door--but then I couldn't help it. Taking a step back into the kitchen doorway, I glanced one last time at a noticeably older, hunched over version of a man who meant so much to me and my family. This was not the same man I knew and loved--but then again, how can we ever feel fulfilled when we see someone we love for the last time?
It was the 5th of January--and a bitter cold New Jersey winter--and that was the last time I saw Fr. Joe, what is worse is that as I walked out into the biting cold afternoon air, I knew I had seen him for the last time. As I drove home in my mom’s silver Prius, my mind was racing, I have very little memory from that ride home. I had a conversation about which I have no idea, my mind full of too many thoughts to focus on the present: Why should I have to settle for that last image of Fr. Joe? Why should one single image define a relationship between two people, when the course of a person’s life is a mosaic of moments and memories?
The ambiguous “they” say that it’s a natural part of life to grow to accept death. Accept death? How can we accept death? Accepting by its very definition implies the ability to deny. But we cannot deny death can we?
Death knocks at the door: “It’s time to go sir.”
“Who is that? Death? Nope, not this week. I’m not in the mood. Come back sometime next week and we’ll see if I’m feeling up to it then.”
So if we can’t deny it, why should we grow to accept it either? It’s something that we’ll never grow accustomed to. It’s something that will always hurt. Something we will always fear. Something I refuse to acknowledge as the last step. That day, as I drove home with my eyes slightly closed as a result of the bright sun bouncing off the snow glazed highway, I realized that I could never fully accept death. I refuse to accept it. Because accepting it, to me, means a focus on the end of a person’s life. I don’t mean to demean all the suffering that Fr. Joe went through at the end of his life, but I realized that day that I wouldn't accept Fr. Joe’s death--instead I’d honor his life.
Fr. Joe will always hold a special place in my heart, and it will have nothing (and everything) to do with that last brunch conversation we had. But he was so much more to me than that. Fr. Joe will always be the portly priest who spoke with his deep, distinct voice about his days at St. Peter’s and KU Leuven – something we share in common. He’ll be the guy who growing up would always make me jealous when he’d bring Kevin a really cool Christmas gift and I didn't get one. He will be the boat rides in Missouri on the Mississippi river where he let the smaller, childhood, me “drive” his boat “straight”--appropriately stopping me before we had to go under a bridge. He will be the New Year’s Day visitor who held intimate masses for the Cevasco clan, using a glass of red wine from my dad’s wine collection and a piece of bread from the bakery. He’ll be the trips down to his shore house to go crabbing--and then helping me and my siblings move them from the traps to the bucket of water. He will be that slight smile he would get right before he was about to tell a joke--which gave the joke away--as he arrived at a humorous anecdote in one of his stories.
Finally, he’ll always be a permanent part of the night my grandfather passed. Before my grandfather died, Fr. Joe showed up unannounced based on the premise that he “just had to be here.” He had just had some divine intuition to show up at my house that day. Later that night, my grandfather passed, and Fr. Joe was there to have an intimate prayer service with us. To this day, I don’t know what brought Fr. Joe to our house that night, but that was just the type of man he was--someone who always managed to be there for my family and so many others. These are the memories that are Fr. Joe to me. Other people may have other memories, and these are just a handful of memories I can recall off the time of my head--a thousand more escaping me.
There is a Jesuit motto, “In Omnibus Quarent Deum”--translated from Latin meaning, “In all things let them seek God.” To me that motto hit home in high school where I came to the conclusion that not only could I find God, or love, in everyday activities in the world around me, but that I could be the love of God for someone else. For me it was the Fr. Azzarto mentality, but now that I reflect on it I suppose it could also be the Fr. Joe mentality. The formula was simple: If I went out and lived my life to the fullest, with love and compassion, then perhaps someone else would not only find God in me, but more importantly, be inspired by me to show God’s love to someone else.
I know Fr. Joe was Jesuit educated, so perhaps these words always wrung true for him also, but even without the slogan, that was the way he lived his life. It is evident not by all the lives that he touched (of which I'm sure there are many), but by how deeply he touched each life. He not only showed people love--and was loved by so many--but he inspired others to go out and live better lives. That is what I believe is the true measure of a man, and measure of a life. It’s not even necessarily the number of people he inspired, but how truly deep he inspired them. Never was this more evident than when I spoke with Fr. Joe on that last day, when he described how many different people were trying to help him in his final days. The same compassion that he took into his own life came full circle. The people in his life who cared for him, visited him, thought of him and prayed for him, gave back the same love that he exuded. They showed the love of God through their love of him--just as he had undoubtedly done for them.
When someone like Fr. Joe passes away, it makes you wonder, at least me anyway: “What’s the point?” How can a man so great, who affected so many, who was so spiritual, and who loved and was so greatly loved, how could he be taken from us?
But maybe that’s the point. Fr. Joe inspired me throughout his life, and will continue to inspire me after his passing. Maybe the point of life is that each one of us is our own Christ story--suffering and dying so that those around us who love us so deeply are reminded how precious and fragile life is. Maybe the point is that in passing, our lives inspire others to go out and live their lives better. Maybe the death of a great person is just a reminder for us to begin living our lives better and to start now.
It was Albert Einstein who said:
“There are only two ways to live your life.
One is as though nothing is a miracle.
The other is as though everything is a miracle.”
Well I choose to look at the life of Fr. Joe as a miracle. He was an inspiring priest, a great friend, and a loving man. The love he showed me, certainly made him a miracle for me, my family, and hundreds, maybe thousands, of others whose lives he touched. The measure of Fr. Joe wasn't the miracle of how many people he affected, but rather how he inspired us to be miracles for one another. That is the measure of the man who passed away on February 1, 2010. That is what makes him our miracle.
It was Albert Einstein who said:
“There are only two ways to live your life.
One is as though nothing is a miracle.
The other is as though everything is a miracle.”
Well I choose to look at the life of Fr. Joe as a miracle. He was an inspiring priest, a great friend, and a loving man. The love he showed me, certainly made him a miracle for me, my family, and hundreds, maybe thousands, of others whose lives he touched. The measure of Fr. Joe wasn't the miracle of how many people he affected, but rather how he inspired us to be miracles for one another. That is the measure of the man who passed away on February 1, 2010. That is what makes him our miracle.
*
~ ~
“But we rejoice in our sufferings,
Because we know that suffering produces perseverance;
Perseverance, character;
And character, hope.
And hope does not disappoint us.”
~Romans 5:3-5
Because we know that suffering produces perseverance;
Perseverance, character;
And character, hope.
And hope does not disappoint us.”
~Romans 5:3-5
~ ~
*
that was an amazing tribute to an equally amazing man...thank you for sharing that with all of us... i miss you and love you!
ReplyDeleteBeautifully written....and so deeply felt. thanks for sharing that with all of us.
ReplyDelete--Kara
Great reflection Andrew - I think Fr. Joe would agree with you. And don't worry about missing the funeral, Fr. Joe would have wanted you to stay in Leuven and enjoy your time there.
ReplyDeleteBeautifully spoken by an equally beautiful young man.
ReplyDeleteWhat a touching tribute. It should be published.
ReplyDeleteHi Andrew: I'm Cathy Callagee and have known your parents and Joe for many, many years. I have tears in my eyes as I read this missing Joe tonight so much. It helped to read your blog and know he is still here and with us at every turn. I know he is with you in Belgium as he loved his time there - thanks for sharing!
ReplyDelete