Remembering A Living Saint

August 12, 2010. Twenty years ago today was a Sunday. I know this because I was preparing myself for a road trip home to my house in Burlington where I was teaching and coaching. Two-a-days started the 13th (Monday), so I had to make the four-hour drive home to settle in and prepare for the season--and to prepare for my second year of teaching at Burlington High School.

But I was very hesitant to go for good reason. You see, I was looking down into the beautiful brown eyes of a living saint. I was giving comfort to an Irish leprechaun with a fiery temper who had given her life for the goodness of anyone who wished to receive it. I was looking at the face of my mother on her last day on earth.

She had been in the hospital for two weeks with complications as a result of a lifetime of faith in God whom she had prayed to that He would let her live to see her children grown. My mother battled rheumatic fever as a child, and as a result, weakened her heart.

After bearing four children, three in three years, she developed a heart condition that left her near death. Following the birth of my little sister, she underwent three open-heart surgeries in four years in the late sixties and early seventies. She battled various surgeries following that over the years--from pacemaker replacement to colostomy surgery. All the while, she prayed she would live to see her children grow.

Fast forward to May, 1990. My little sister graduated from college, and two months later, my mother found herself in the hospital--thank God, for the last time. For two weeks she struggled to hang on. I attended summer school, my little sister watched over her day after day, and we all took turns staying with her at night, since her medications made her delusional. Somehow, after all these years struggling in and out of hospitals, something was different. We didn't want to admit it, but it was.

I looked down into her peaceful face and told my mom I'd skip coaching and stay with her. She said, "Joey, you need to move on with your life. I'll be okay. You go home."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, my boy. You need to go."

"I'll come back up Saturday and see you."

She responded with a gentle smile, she raised her frail hand to my cheek, and said, "I love you."

With that I left with all the confidence in the world that I would see her in six days.

The four-hour drive home was not easy, but my dog Zach kept me company as I thought of my sickly mother and the tasks before me.

When I reached home, I called my dad at the hospital to see how Mom was doing. A nurse answered the phone at the station, and was caught off guard. She stumbled trying to find words, but she finally put me on hold and suggested I talk to Dad.

It happened. Just then...it happened.

"How is she, Dad?" Silence. A choking comment...

"It's over...I said, 'Sugs, I'm going to leave the room...just let go. You've suffered enough.'"

Lulu Skerjanec was a living saint. She realized early on she was blessed with only a short time here on earth. We didn't know this, but she did. She lived every syllable as if it were her last in the way God has called us all to live.

She reserved nothing for herself, and she gave everything to everyone. She prayed constantly. Her relationship with the Blessed Mother is one we can only imagine. She prayed the Rosary at least once per day (some days many), and she prayed for everyone she knew as she did.

Lulu Skerjanec asked only for a simple life on earth, so she might live a life of eternity in Heaven with the Holy Father.

How fitting that she was buried August 15, 1990--the Solemnity of the Assumption of Mary. May God bless her especially this day, and may He bless all who knew her--a living saint.

"Powning" Tom Sawyerland

So I'm painting a wall in my basement today, and my second son, "McFly" who is 14, comes downstairs and asks if he can go hang out with his friend Daniel-son (spoken with an Oriental accent). I say, "Sure. Although, you can always help me paint." His response was classic teenalian, "I don't know how." I told him he would learn if he would help. Then in one of my best accents, sarcasm, I said, "But you'd probably just 'Tom Sawyer' it anyway.

His response: "Dad, if there were a Tom Sawyerland, I'd 'pown' it." (Teenalian cross of "pound" and "own" and pronounced poned as in loaned.) In other words, he would be the best at getting others to do things for him. He's right.

You see, my second son is a natural charismatic. (God help us it never goes to his head.) He can get anyone to do anything for him, and they will thank him for it no matter how miserable it might be. God has truly smiled lavishly on this one. One time one of his best friends (he travels in a herd, so you can never say "best" friend) was at the house. They wanted to go hang with another friend. I told him he had to clean the counter and sink in the bathroom first. In classic McFly fashion, he proceeded to clean the sink in the worst manner possible. His friend, "Touk" as I affectionately call him, saw what he was doing and was appalled.

He said, "You're doing it all wrong. Let me show you." I couldn't believe my eyes: Touk began cleaning the sink to a shine Aurora herself could not muster. (Later when revealing this story to Touk's mother, she was absolutely at a loss, for he had never cleaned so well at home.) McFly began to smile that s*#t-eating grin that makes him so irresistibly and classically McFly, and I could only grin and think, "How does he do that?"

What makes matter worse, not only does he know he's Tom Sawyer, everyone else does too..and they still don't mind being "powned" by Twain's fence painter! (Though his three brothers are much the wiser.)

So as for helping me paint the basement, McFly "powned" Tom Sawyerland...and I finished it myself.