A is for Anthony

He was only in my life for five short years, but his legacy of generosity lives on.

My father-in-law's name was Anthony, but everyone knew him as Tony. Or Dad. Or PopPop. One of ten children born to Polish immigrants in Baltimore, Dad grew up in a poor, Catholic neighborhood where he was schooled by nuns. World War II erupted when he was 18, and he was "called up" to serve as a medic in the United States Army. Later he worked various jobs including as a butcher's apprentice and plumber. His lifelong vocation was plumbing, his avocation crossword puzzles. You might say he had an abundance of wrenches and words at his "DisposAll."

He met and married a slim, pretty young lady named Marcella in the mid-40s. He liked her legs and outgoing personality. She couldn't resist his dimples and his ability to "cut a rug" to the Beer Barrel Polka. Their brood included five sons and no daughters.

I had the privilege of watching Dad in action as he fixed our earliest sinks, tubs, and toilets during our poor, newlywed life. He would never take a dime for his work, but could be easily persuaded to eat one of my humble spaghetti dinners as thanks. Paul and I bought our first home six months after we got married, for $44,000. and Dad was there to help us transform the ugly duckling into our little dream cottage.

On many occasions, Dad would show up at our door with his toolbox in one hand and a bag of good-quality meat in the other. First he'd slice the big hunk of flesh into steaks or roast portions for us to freeze. Then, while I was cooking dinner, he would sit down on the sofa and bounce a grandchild or two on his knee, clucking to make them giggle. He had a special way with babies, something that many men lack. That's something he passed along to my Paul; people have always noticed the way my husband loves infants. You can't manufacture that nurturing side of a man, and I credit my father-in-law with modeling good "daddying."

Dad also coached Little League baseball, and his sons grew up running bases and catching fly balls. When our sons were young, Paul coached Little League himself. If only Dad had been alive to witness that. I remember thinking of Dad when I'd watch Paul huddle on the sidelines with a bunch of rag-tag seven-year-olds full of sugar and promise. "Like father, like son," Dad and Paul loved training and encouraging the next generation of these young bat-wielding boys to work hard at being good players on a team.

Dad loved the Baltimore Colts and the Baltimore Orioles. Any time of day or night, his portable radio or his truck radio was tuned into a game if it was on. I never understood how someone could enjoy action in only audible form ,but that's what he grew up on.

His main fault was that he couldn't say no. My sisters-in-law and I joke about how he overbooked the babysitting commitment all the time. Linda, Donna, and I would all want him for a certain Friday night, and he'd tell us all "sure!" and then show up to only one house, leaving the others "hanging" because he forgot what he'd promised. The solution? Drive ALL the kids to the house where Dad was, and let him figure it out. Somehow he always got nine grandkids, including toddlers and babies, to mind him. (Bribery of donuts and McDonald's french fries worked well.) If Dad kept one commitment, he kept them all. His favorite night at our house was the time he committed to watching our 13-month old Ben while Paul and I went to the hospital to have our next baby. "Bring home a pretty one," he said, meaning "a girl to add to the bunch of all boys." We did, and he spoiled her rotten.

Dad didn't earn much money as a plumber, but every member of his large and growing family could count on getting a crisp ten-dollar bill and a kiss or hug on their birthday or Christmas. In those days, a ten seemed like a hundred. The funny thing was, even the babies got ten dollar bills, and he thought it was really cute that they would put their money where their mouth was.

At about 2:30 a.m. on the morning of February 12, 1992, I dreamed that Dad died suddenly. The dream was so vivid I startled awake. My heart raced; I had the distinct impression that this nightmare was God's way of preparing me. I was too afraid to say a word about it to my husband. Eventually I fell back to sleep. Four hours later, when Paul was drying his hair for work, the phone rang. I answered it, trembling. It was his younger brother David.

"Zo, Paul there? I've got some bad news."
"What do you mean?"
"Dad's dead."
The guy he picked up for work every day found him slumped over the wheel of his truck. Massive heart attack.

To this day, I miss him when I am trying to cut a big slab of meat into pretty sliced portions, or when I make keilbasa with sauerkraut at Thanksgiving. Paul misses him on Orioles' Opening Day or when the hot water heater leaks or when he watches old war movies. Dad donated his time, talent, money, and love, over and over and over again. For that I remember Anthony--"Dad"--as a man who left a legacy of generosity.

Denise Left a Legacy of Hope

My friend Denise Villani went Home to Jesus a few days ago, after battling cancer. It was her second time around with the fatal disease, but the first time God healed her body with a bone marrow transplant. This time he healed her by transplanting her.

She and I weren't what you'd call close friends for very long, but what I remember is that God brought her onto my path in life's journey when it was rocky and dry, when I had begun to lose hope that God would bless me with another baby. She was that "older woman" that Titus speaks of, one who had wisdom from walking with God longer than I had.

I don't even remember exactly how we met. Besides being in the same church, I don't recall the details. All I know is that I was wanting an older woman in my life on a regular basis who would
pray a lot, share her life, be full of scripture, and have a good sense of humor. I just don't survive long around people who take themselves too seriously or are overly self-conscious or perfectionistic in a way that makes them dull. But when people take God seriously while laughing at themselves, they are utterly winsome to me. Denise was such a person.

My memories take to me two places with Denise. One was the track at Bel Air High School, and the other was my living room floor. At least once a week in the early spring and summer of 2001, she and I would meet at the track to walk while Paul ran and Ben, Sarah, and Stephen played around in the midfield or did their own thing within sight. We were both trying to lose weight (a theme of my life since age 28). Both high achievers, we'd set goals. "Okay, we'll do 8 laps today. Ready?" But no matter how hard we tried to keep a mental record of our laps, we would talk right through the quarter miles. We figured we'd quit when Paul quit and summoned me to the car.

At the time, Denise's two sons, Mike and Gabe, were in high school and oh how she loved them. She so enjoyed them and that gave me hope that teenagers could be lovable. Though she was a single mom and had accompanying hardships, I never once heard her badmouth her ex-husband. Never. Her lack of bitterness was real, not a show for a fellow believer. She had quite obviously forgiven him and refused to let negative feelings rule her. You can't fake that when you're being truthful in every other way.

While we walked, we talked and we prayed. Prayed for our children, our church, our nation, ourselves. I especially remember the fervor with which she prayed for me to conceive. It was as if she'd were the child's own grandmother. Yet, in all her praying and understanding ways, she made sure to ask me about my relationship with God in the midst. Was I going to praise Him regardless of the answer to my prayers or was God only God when He acted according to my wants and wishes?

As I said, Denise joined me in a leg of my spiritual path when it was dry and rocky. I was in the valley of the shadow of death--the deaths of two babies overshadowed all my good impressions of God for awhile, and Satan was accusing me that it was all my fault and that God couldn't be trusted. Depression was hitting hard. Misery loves company, but seldom vice versa. Few are the people who spend hours listening to the perpetual moans of another's spirit, let alone offer to rinse and repeat as necessary. My husband had grown weary of my condition. My children couldn't understand. My dearest friend in Kansas empathized and I talked her ear off, crying, but she was...in Kansas. I needed someone right here. God brought Denise for an intense season. Looking back it seems so selfish; was I doing anything to ease Denise's burdens? I had a heart for single moms, but never did more than pray and listen. Maybe that's what she needed from me?

Denise came over one evening near the end of May and sat on the living room floor. I offered her the comfy chair to sit in, but she preferred to lean against it instead. It was during our conversation that she introduced me to a little book that ministered to me more than any book besides the Bible could have. It's called Beside Still Waters by Charles Spurgeon. She told me that Spurgeon himself had battled severe depression and yet knew how to counsel his own soul in such a way as to bring God glory eventually. No formulas, no twelve-step programs, but by meditating on God's character and Word. To make more of Him and less of me was exactly the counsel I needed. I read the book over and over. My spirit was changing and I was starting to say things like, "Yes, Lord, even if You never bless with a baby again, still I will bless you."

We walked and walked most of the summer. I was slimming down and firming up little by little. She was feeling more vibrant, enjoyed the increased stamina and the lower numbers on the scale. I wasn't looking forward to summer ending. Our walking prayer times had become precious. About a month later, though, at the track, I told her that I'd have to take some time off. I wouldn't be losing weight, I could practically predict it. In fact, it could be a challenge to keep food down. She laughed out loud and hugged me. "You're pregnant!" We danced around. What joy! Seven months later on a day that celebrates love, God placed His answer to my prayers in my arms. We named him Joel which means "The Lord is God."

Denise and I never shared our lives so personally or regularly again, but mine was the richer for that season. What started out as a dark winter in my soul became a golden summer when Denise infused it with hope. That's what made Denise such a wonderful traveling companion. It's what makes any believer in Jesus Christ a terrific "walking partner" in this life. No matter how many times you go around the same track, a good friend won't keep record of it, but instead will hold one of your hands while reminding you of the big, big God Who is holding your other one.