Though Much is Taken, Much Abides

There lives more faith in honest doubt, / Believe me, than in half the creeds.

Eulogy for Jack Pruden, 1945 - 2023

Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church

I can just see Dad shaking his head in disbelief that so many people would come to celebrate his life. Then with a twinkle in his eye, he’d remind us of the words of that greatest of philosophers, Yogi Berra: 

“You should always go to other people's funerals; otherwise, they won't come to yours.”

One of the best things about Dad is that what you saw was what you got. Whether we knew him as dad, uncle, Pop Pop, teacher, coach, friend, teammate, or husband … he was the same guy. 

Stoic. Self-giving. Systematic.

And maybe a little bit stubborn. 

* * *

He loved beauty — a well-manicured golf course, a glorious harmony, a curveball that breaks perfectly. 

He loved structure — the doo-wop chord progression, the crossword puzzle, the windup and delivery of a well-executed joke. 

I’m not saying a good joke. But even the Henny Youngman one-liners burned into my brain are amusing because he took such delight in telling them. Over and over. 

Beauty and structure went hand in hand for Dad — and he wasn’t shy about supervising to make sure you got it right. Any of us who’ve ever helped him know that you cut in at the corners before you roll out the walls. You mow the lawn horizontally one week, and diagonally the next. You maintain a following distance of 2.5 seconds on the road.  

Two years ago, Cody and I were in Israel, climbing the steep switchbacks of the Mount of Transfiguration in dubious shuttle vans. As we careened around another corner, Cody grinned and said, “Pop Pop would be really pleased with the turning radius on this vehicle.” 

Dad could also take a joke. Not long ago, when we were ragging on him for “forgetting” his hearing aids, he quipped, “Hey — I may be deaf, but at least I’m stubborn!” 

And man, was he stubborn. You could not make that man do anything he didn’t want to do. 

But carrying the cross of cancer required true tenacity. He would argue with us for saying this — in fact he did argue with us — but he was incredibly courageous. Not once did he give in to resentment or self-pity. 

The game was out of his control, but it wasn’t over. So he kept moving forward, with grit and grace, even as his steps slowed. 

He tended his corner of creation as long as he was physically able: cutting the lawn, feeding the birds, even finding a way to slide Mom’s morning coffee through the banister when he wasn’t supposed to be climbing stairs. 

He loved his home, he loved his children and grandchildren, and above all, he loved Mom. 

But for most of his life it was easier for Dad to give love than to receive it. 

He told me last year how, after his father died, he put up “blackout curtains” over his heart. That worked pretty well for shielding him from pain. But he realized that they also blocked a lot of joy. He figured it was probably too late to tear them down. 

I agreed that seemed like a lot of work, but that maybe all he needed to do was part the curtains, just a little, and let God do the rest. 

There is a crack in everything

That’s how the light gets in. 

Dad came here to Mass with us for Gabriel’s first Holy Communion last December, on Gaudete Sunday. And then … he kept coming, week after week. 

He went to see Father Daniel and invited Father to come visit. And in his own time, he received all of the sacraments, some right here, and some at his own kitchen table. 

When his limp left him unbalanced, he used the walker to come here. When standing became too difficult, he asked if Father would mind bringing the Eucharist to our pew. When leaving the house became impossible, he asked Father to bring the Eucharist to him in bed. 

He didn’t say much about it. He didn’t need to. We all witnessed him grow lighter, more tender, more accepting, more peaceful. We watched him welcome the light of Christ. 

* * *

There’s a reason people say that baseball is a microcosm of life. On one level, there is beauty and structure: Nine men, nine innings. Four bases, four balls. Three strikes, three outs. 

But beneath the appearance of symmetry and predictability, it’s really an exercise in managing the chaos of people and events that are outside your control. 

No two games are the same. The length of each depends on how it’s played. There are infinite variables. And any single interaction can change the trajectory of the game. 

What makes baseball beautiful — what makes it alive — is the interplay of human skill, human frailty, and providence. 

We try to impose order on the game, but we are always deeply aware that anything could change — right up until the final out. 

As Yogi Berra said, “It ain’t over til it’s over.” 

For Dad, it is just beginning. 

* * *

He leaves us a legacy of warmth and wit, compassion and courage. Our lives are brighter for having loved him, and having been loved by him. 

Whatever way my days decline,

I felt and feel, though left alone,

His being working in mine own,

The footsteps of his life in mine.

* * *

---