At Holy Spirit Church January 9, 2015
I thank everyone who has come here today to honor and remember John. It is a witness to John’s life and the Spirit that he managed to touch so many people. John was a unique person, which everyone sensed who met him. He was a surprising person. A person of letters, a person of gentle heart, and a person who would talk to you – at length – a person who embraced everyone – the type of person who was willing to do anything for anyone.
John loved the sea and fish. It was a great joy for him to keep aquariums and watch fish. It was a joy for him to work on fish farms, especially in Africa and be among the people in the villages. He felt such deep empathy, that he didn’t want to leave there.
In his later years, John was an unselfish care giver for mom and dad, and then he himself was diagnosed with cancer while dad was still living. During this time he underwent a transformation and became more fully present to the world, where he emerged from what he called “the turtle in the shell.” He developed friends among the Rivertree and Holy Spirit church communities, and though he wrestled with what he felt were shortcomings in both, in the end, he embraced them both.
Most surprisingly, John became a writer. He told me and others, “I am not a writer, I don’t know where this is coming from.” But then he would say that he did know, and would give the credit to God. For many months John wrote faithfully every day, letters to Mom and Dad who had already passed. As time went on, he felt that his writing was getting better, and indeed it became mystical. “There’s more,” he told me a few weeks ago. “I can write a thousand more letters – two thousand more!”
John was aware that his gift of writing was related to his suffering, and that if he had not gotten cancer, he wouldn’t have written. And though he would rail against the cancer, in the end he concluded that he would not trade being cancer free for his gift of writing.
When I visited John in the month before he died, he still got up in the very early AM hours to write. His method was to talk into his Ipad, then edit his words. On my first day there, I woke in the middle of the night to hear him talking from across the house. I sensed power and light from where he was and I knew, like Moses on the mountain, I shouldn’t interrupt or go near that space. I sensed that God was personally visiting him. The way John described it, “I would have a blast till dawn.”
When I was at John’s bedside for the final three days of his life, I put down some thoughts, some admonitions to myself. "Let’s talk to one another, take the time to share. Don’t be in a hurry to do the next thing and miss what’s in front of you." John passionately talked to us and he tested our patience at times, but in the end he broke through and touched many people. John also spoke his mind and didn’t sugar coat things. You may not want to hear it, you may disagree with it, but you knew where John stood.
During John’s last three days, his three brothers were at his bedside and we would hold his hand and talk to him. John gripped us back strongly, telling us of his presence. On the day before he died, I had time alone with John and spoke a long reminiscence, starting with our childhood, when we lived in Florida with a dock on the bay in our backyard, remembering the blue crabs and sparkling sunfish, then out exploring woods and rocks in Alabama. I recalled the different places he’d been in his life and things he had done: then I told him: “We’re proud of you, John. You did it! You did it!” After I finished, he uttered the words “I’m still here!” They were clear as a bell and rang of the true John.
I feel John is still here today, that he hasn’t left us.
John’s last word was spoken within a couple hours of his death. He was visited by someone who had only known John for a month, and he seemed unusual, a different sort of person. We had been concerned that visitors might be too aggressive and try to wake John. When this visitor boldly approached John, I said, “Don’t wake him.”
John spoke saying . . . “OK” . . . and added some words that were indistinct. John was welcoming even to the last.
If I might share one more memory. I’m a writer myself and used to the imagination. I felt or imagined what was happening to John in his last moments.
As John was shedding his body, I sensed his spirit soaring, ascending with the help of Angels. I was invited to come along, touching his arm or shoulder. At one point he broke through his body with light flashing about him, and he gave a Tarzan-like yell.
Then we were at heaven and God said, “You can skip St. Pete. Just come on up.” Then John was with God and Jesus and having his back slapped and I heard the words, “Job well done!” I noticed others around him, our extended family who had already passed. There were people that John referred to in his writings: Mother Theresa, St. Francis, and Albert Schweitzer. And then I heard a shout across heaven, “John!” Then surprisingly the names of his brothers.
So I don’t have much doubt about where John is now, and I thank God for the beauty of his life. I pray that we may continue to feel that John is still here with us, that we may all gain by the example of his life:
To live our faith with a deep passion,
to have courage to share our spiritual life,
to be really present to others,
and to simply work good in our lives.
God bless John and all who are here. We love you John.
I thank everyone who has come here today to honor and remember John. It is a witness to John’s life and the Spirit that he managed to touch so many people. John was a unique person, which everyone sensed who met him. He was a surprising person. A person of letters, a person of gentle heart, and a person who would talk to you – at length – a person who embraced everyone – the type of person who was willing to do anything for anyone.
John loved the sea and fish. It was a great joy for him to keep aquariums and watch fish. It was a joy for him to work on fish farms, especially in Africa and be among the people in the villages. He felt such deep empathy, that he didn’t want to leave there.
In his later years, John was an unselfish care giver for mom and dad, and then he himself was diagnosed with cancer while dad was still living. During this time he underwent a transformation and became more fully present to the world, where he emerged from what he called “the turtle in the shell.” He developed friends among the Rivertree and Holy Spirit church communities, and though he wrestled with what he felt were shortcomings in both, in the end, he embraced them both.
Most surprisingly, John became a writer. He told me and others, “I am not a writer, I don’t know where this is coming from.” But then he would say that he did know, and would give the credit to God. For many months John wrote faithfully every day, letters to Mom and Dad who had already passed. As time went on, he felt that his writing was getting better, and indeed it became mystical. “There’s more,” he told me a few weeks ago. “I can write a thousand more letters – two thousand more!”
John was aware that his gift of writing was related to his suffering, and that if he had not gotten cancer, he wouldn’t have written. And though he would rail against the cancer, in the end he concluded that he would not trade being cancer free for his gift of writing.
When I visited John in the month before he died, he still got up in the very early AM hours to write. His method was to talk into his Ipad, then edit his words. On my first day there, I woke in the middle of the night to hear him talking from across the house. I sensed power and light from where he was and I knew, like Moses on the mountain, I shouldn’t interrupt or go near that space. I sensed that God was personally visiting him. The way John described it, “I would have a blast till dawn.”
When I was at John’s bedside for the final three days of his life, I put down some thoughts, some admonitions to myself. "Let’s talk to one another, take the time to share. Don’t be in a hurry to do the next thing and miss what’s in front of you." John passionately talked to us and he tested our patience at times, but in the end he broke through and touched many people. John also spoke his mind and didn’t sugar coat things. You may not want to hear it, you may disagree with it, but you knew where John stood.
During John’s last three days, his three brothers were at his bedside and we would hold his hand and talk to him. John gripped us back strongly, telling us of his presence. On the day before he died, I had time alone with John and spoke a long reminiscence, starting with our childhood, when we lived in Florida with a dock on the bay in our backyard, remembering the blue crabs and sparkling sunfish, then out exploring woods and rocks in Alabama. I recalled the different places he’d been in his life and things he had done: then I told him: “We’re proud of you, John. You did it! You did it!” After I finished, he uttered the words “I’m still here!” They were clear as a bell and rang of the true John.
I feel John is still here today, that he hasn’t left us.
John’s last word was spoken within a couple hours of his death. He was visited by someone who had only known John for a month, and he seemed unusual, a different sort of person. We had been concerned that visitors might be too aggressive and try to wake John. When this visitor boldly approached John, I said, “Don’t wake him.”
John spoke saying . . . “OK” . . . and added some words that were indistinct. John was welcoming even to the last.
If I might share one more memory. I’m a writer myself and used to the imagination. I felt or imagined what was happening to John in his last moments.
As John was shedding his body, I sensed his spirit soaring, ascending with the help of Angels. I was invited to come along, touching his arm or shoulder. At one point he broke through his body with light flashing about him, and he gave a Tarzan-like yell.
Then we were at heaven and God said, “You can skip St. Pete. Just come on up.” Then John was with God and Jesus and having his back slapped and I heard the words, “Job well done!” I noticed others around him, our extended family who had already passed. There were people that John referred to in his writings: Mother Theresa, St. Francis, and Albert Schweitzer. And then I heard a shout across heaven, “John!” Then surprisingly the names of his brothers.
So I don’t have much doubt about where John is now, and I thank God for the beauty of his life. I pray that we may continue to feel that John is still here with us, that we may all gain by the example of his life:
To live our faith with a deep passion,
to have courage to share our spiritual life,
to be really present to others,
and to simply work good in our lives.
God bless John and all who are here. We love you John.