Today I am at the last place that I ever wanted to be. Since 2008, I have found myself proclaiming the Gospels and spreading the message of Salvation through Jesus Christ. I have embraced this vocation and have done my best to fulfill my role as a slave to Jesus Christ. One of my responsibilities has been to assist at the Funeral Rite when asked to do so. When performing in this capacity, I am expected to remind those gathered that death is not the end, but just the beginning; that the words written in the Book of Wisdom that we just heard, “The souls of the just are in the hands of God, and no torment shall touch them,” are the truth and should offer us comfort and joy in this time of apparent loss and sorrow. But, today is different. Today I am here assisting at the altar during the funeral of my father, Lionel Anthony. I have always viewed my father as being larger than life and could never envision a world without him. He was always a commanding presence and a central figure that everything else seemed to revolve around. 1 Dexter Street Derry, NH appeared to me as a grounding, stabilizing force in my life with my father at its center. Even now, I cannot fully process that he is no longer with us but is with God. Yet, I know today that he is there, at peace, his hope full of immortality.
Faith was always a large part of my father’s life. He graduated from Boston College and earned a total of 3 Master’s Degrees and began teaching at Saint Mary’s High School in Lawrence, Massachusetts for the next eight years. Some of my earliest memories were of him riding his orange ten speed to work either to save gas or because there was something wrong with the old white Valiant and it needed to be worked on. Meanwhile, the car of his youth, his Triumph GT6 hatchback, was parked in the garage under a tarp never to be driven again. Nothing else could mark a more stark transition from a care-free youth to a family man than the transition from a pretty cool sportscar to a ten speed and a Valiant. One of the many sacrifices he made for his family throughout his life. He registered us, his family, at this church, where he remained a parishioner with my mother for over 56 years until now. Rarely, if ever, did a week go by without mass being attended. All of his children were baptized, received Holy Communion, and were confirmed here. Many grandchildren followed suite. He made Derry his home with Saint Thomas Aquinas an integral part.
Using my mother’s own words, we became a small unit early on that included my brother Richard and myself (Irish twins we were, born 14 months apart), secluded in our own unique existence up here in Derry, New Hampshire with a population just above 11,000. The intent was to raise a family while pursuing a solid, prosperous future. And what was the definition of prosperity to my father and mother? Early on, it was about financial stability without forgetting the deep roots that were forged in Bedford, Massachusetts. There was an attachment to their parents and other family members who resided there, including brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews. Visits were almost weekly and holiday celebrations frequent. My father created a schedule and routine that we became accustomed to throughout the years. We became avid hikers and mountain climbers. Northern New Hampshire was familiar to us, along with Hampton Beach and Plum Island.
There was a side of my father that I remember vividly that not many people were privileged to see. There was a ritual created where my father would sit us down at the end of the day and ask us how our day at school was. And he would listen intently. Then he would kiss us goodnight and tuck us in. I remember the excitement about the new movie Star Wars that came out and how he took us three times. Understand this, for my father to spend the money to go see a movie more than once with his sons, was a special event in itself. The Light Saber fights in the living room and the patient, meticulous chess lessons. These memories present the different sides of my father that I was privileged to see. The decision to take me to see the movie Jaws at a very very young age, not because they wanted to but because my brother was having a sleepover with his grandparents while I was the odd kid out with no babysitter. Of course, we ate popcorn at home before the movie so it wouldn’t have to be purchased there. Me being comforted because I cried at the end of the movie because I wanted the shark to win.
Frugality was a key aspect of my father’s personality. It was also a necessity early on. During movie nights, where he would bring home a treat such as a large bag of M and M’s, they were rationed in small Tupperware cups and handed out to us. It we were good, we would then receive more. Richard and I were the snowblowers, working side by side with our dad to keep our large parking lot driveway clear. During the blizzard of 1978, we worked in shifts to keep the driveway clear. We were the dishwashers. We had chores. All this instilled a deep work ethic in all four of us. Yes, the two princesses, Jennifer and Christine came ten years later and we became a family of six, two pairs so to speak with Richard and I 14 months apart, while Jennifer and Christine were separated by 2 years. And yes indeed, they were princesses. How did I know? Because my father said so.
It would have been nice to say that all went well and we all followed the rules, adhering to this lifestyle seamlessly, but there was a rebellious streak within me that manifested itself on many occasions. My mother was the disciplinarian in the family. My father’s participation was reserved for the most severe offenses, which unfortunately on my part I was privy to more than once. There was one statement from my mother that would render any of us to complete silence except for pleas of mercy: “Just wait until your father gets home.” Memories of us, depending on the perpetrator, silently waiting in our rooms, praying that our mother would reconsider giving a full report to our dad, remain with me today. The sinking feeling when the sound of my father’s voice echoed from the bottom of the stairs, “Thomas, come down.” The utter fear coursing through my veins as I took the long walk to the kitchen to, yet again, learn my fate.
But, even in times like these, examples of my father’s love for his children manifested itself in the most unexpected ways. On one occasion I remember being disciplined by our vice principal at Pinkerton Academy. The discipline was obviously more severe than the offense and was administered with a bias, influenced by past infractions. The vice principal also wrote a scathing letter to my parents that was very critical of me to the point of being overreachingly judgmental. My father accepted the discipline that was administered to me but noted his disapproval of the actions the following way: He calmly took out one of his red pens and corrected every spelling, punctuation, and sentence structure error (which there was many). He then signed it in red and sent it back. In his wisdom, he was able to send a two-fold message: he acknowledged my wrongdoing, but protested the way it was administered and would not tolerate it. The statement did not go unnoticed from the vice principal. The other time I remember was when, in a moment of extreme stupidity and defiance, I ran away. With the assistance of the Derry Police Department I was soon returned home, only to escape again before my dad returned home from work. I ended up at this church, where my return home, much to my father’s frustration, was negotiated with the help of the priests. When I was returned home, thoughts of severe discipline raced through my head. I walked down the front lawn alone, expecting the worst, My father opened the front door. He looked at me not saying a word and gave me the biggest hug I ever received in my life. I never felt so much love emanating from my father into my soul than in that moment. It was my Lost Son moment from the Gospel of Luke coming to life. I was lost and I was found. What happened afterward was even more profound. I was to accompany him to Friday karate class, which our whole family was involved in, alone. Just him and me. Before class, we would come to this church and attend Evening Prayer. This was the first time I was introduced to the Liturgy of Hours, the Prayers of the Church, which I now recite daily as a Permenant Deacon.
Through these formidable years, my father continued to be a rock, the foundation to which the family was structured on. This is by no means taking anything away from my mother. She, as it is always with great men, was his closest confidant and counsel. Some conversations, discussions, and disagreements, were reserved for a husband and wife, mother and father, behind closed doors. There was always an unspoken need to gain my father’s approval. We all wanted to do well. I feel this became a driving force in all of our lives and kept us focused, especially in times of crisis. I can honestly say that, in both the best of times and worst of times, the words and lessons of my father were put to good use. Despite my own decision-making process, which I can honestly say possesses quite a bit of corruptibility, it was my father’s guidance and wisdom that helped me get to the positive conclusion I was seeking despite myself getting in the way. I am very thankful for this. I see this wisdom and characteristics in my children, passed on from my father: my son Alex’s meticulousness, attention to detail, and mathematical genius. His frugalness, saving every dollar coin given to him by my father (carrying on a family tradition started by my grandmother) marking a visit. These savings, coupled with the saving of the change from his lunch money every day while attending college, enabled him to have enough money for gas, school books, and living expenses without having to get a part-time job. My daughter Angela’s fierce loyalty and love of family, the desire for everyone to be happy and get along. The concern when someone is hurting. My daughter Renee’s extreme work ethic and drive for success. All these characteristics are things that I saw in my father, and now I see these things in them. A part of my father remains in me and it is in them.
I now know that this need for my father’s approval was unfounded. A few years ago, I took an opportunity when visiting my mother and father to make amends, to acknowledge that some of the things I said and did in my past had make their lives more difficult and challenging. My father looked at me and said, “All we ever wanted was for you to be happy.” Since about that time, I made it a point to say to both my parents and to all those whom I love, to say “I love you,” every time I see them or talked to them, never tasking that knowledge or understanding for granted. I here those words in return has been a precious gift.
There are so many precious memories that can be shared, so many moments of love that can be cherished. These will never fade from any of us and in themselves can serve as a testament to my father. This I know: that he is with God and at peace. This is our faith and this is the truth. In my father’s final moments on this earth, we were given a gift that was a testament to this fact: in his final moments, we gathered around him, reciting the Rosary and the Chaplet of Divine Mercy. After these prayers, he received the Eucharist (the Body and Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ). Immediately upon receiving our Lord, our father slipped away from the bonds of this earth painlessly and effortlessly. The words of Saint Paul to Timothy come to mind:
“I have competed well; I have finished the race; I have kept the faith. From now on the crown of righteousness awaits me, which the Lord, the just judge, will award me on that day, and not only me, but to all who have longed for his appearance.”
This is where he is now.
I want to leave you with my father’s own words, a window into his heart. He shared a story with my sister Jennifer. He wrote it to her, as she sought to crack that silent exterior he so often projected to the outside world:
Your mother asked if we could have a fire Sunday night. We have Tom’s old firepit from Haverhill down by the swing set. She begrudgingly acquiesced as she wanted the other firepit by the porch. The fire started easily using old tax returns, bills, and receipts.
Using two logs as table and chair, I settled down with a “wee dram” and awaited your mother’s arrival. As the sun set, the word gloaming came to mind.
Several frogs started their serenade. To my left a hummingbird lingered for a brief time, much longer than their usual habit. The odd chipmunk came out of the overgrowth and wandered around the area. Then a small pair of ears appeared from between two logs. They were attached to a tiny bunny. He cautiously approached to within ten feet and started eating large quantities of violets. I went to retrieve your mother in hopes she could enjoy this barely a hand full of bunny.
The bunny was cooperative and stayed with us for quite a while moving about the woodpile and munching the greenery.
Your Mom finished her wine and went in. I stayed until the fire burned down and enjoyed the atmosphere and our little visitor
Rest well dad.
As the embers of your life here faded on your earthly existence, Jesus was definitely whispering, “Well done my good and faithful servant.”
I love you Dad.
Deacon Tom
