“No, Grandma. I just woke up!”

Peg McShane Walsh sent me this wonderful piece of wisdom:

Bethy’s “Courageous Woman” gift of a coffee mug has now taken on even greater meaning. Peace!

So I’ve decided to be different, to change. On Monday, I called my brother Michael:

Ring. Hello?

Hi, Mike. It’s Nancy. Voice cracks.

Ya, Nance. How you doin’?

I’m good. Voice cracks. I’m just callin’ to see how you’re doin’.

What? My sister Nancy? You’re callin’ to see how I’m doin’?

Ya, Mike. I just feel bad that I never call, so I thought I’d call.

Have you been drinkin’?

Laughing. No! I haven’t been drinkin’!

Well, I’m doin’ fine, Nance. What about you?

Voice cracking. I’m not doing so hot. Crying.

Why? What’s the matter?

I feel bad about Danny.

Oh, there’s nothin’ you can do about that.

Struggling for words. Well, is it okay if I just call you once in awhile to see how you’re doin’?

Voice smiling. Ya, Nance, you call any time.

It was kind of rough, but it’s a start. Sending cards might be easier.   

God is persistent. According to Thomas Merton, “We refuse to hear the million different voices through which God speaks to us, and every refusal hardens us more and more against His grace – and yet He continues to speak to us: and we say He is without mercy!” The Seven Storey Mountain (143).

We can choose to pay attention, to stop, to listen, to think, to reflect, to let ourselves go into the darkness, so the Light can defeat it and guide our paths. There is so much doing, meeting, talking. What about being? Listening?

Saturday, while running through the woods with Watson, I journeyed through a montage of moments – at the funeral home, at church, at the cemetery, at my house, at my mom’s, on the phone, at work, as a child, as a new mom, at the last holiday, at our wedding. What was said? What was assumed? What was meant? I thought of Father Kevin and Father Frank’s incredible faith and loving guidance, and I found myself singing “Be Not Afraid,” the words and rhythm providing a reverie of prayer and contemplation. I allowed myself to go into the depths of the shadows of pain, grief, anger, and overwhelming sadness – no distractions, just the flow of movement and waves of torment.

“I’m sorry, Danny. I’m sorry, Danny. Please forgive me. I’m so sorry.” The tempoed lament resounded as I meandered through trails while dodging mud and ice. I plunged into the messiness of life: remorse, guilt, shame and missed opportunities to help. I sifted through phrases at recent gatherings, in conversations, and in tidbits of information. Would’ve, could’ve, should’ves haunted my run.

As I entered an open field flooded with sunlight, the memory of my father’s deathbed wink at Danny hit me. Peace filled my soul as I felt Danny’s wink, his forgiveness, his “it’s okay, Nance,” his Irish sense of not wanting to put me out. He would hate it if we all felt bad. He loved us, and he is basking in God’s mercy and love. I suspect he may feel sorry for us.

Now I just have to forgive myself. That is a bigger battle. I have to trust in God while being steadfast on the lookout for signposts on the road to reconciliation. I know they’re out there.

Bobby Hull is not dead.

My mother, my brothers, my sisters and I thank you for or coming today and for sharing in our love for our brother Danny – Danny Boy, Dan the Man, the Last of the Mohicans, Whitey.

Thank you, Father Frank and Mike Heeney, for your kindness, blessings, and Grace.

My father used to call Danny and me “the cabooses.” We followed a long train of Maureen, Tim, Sue, Mike, Therese, Frank, Bob, and Eileen. As the youngest, Dan brought great joy to all of us. Timmy is his godfather, and I remember thinking it was so cool that we had such a large family that the big kids could be our godparents. How lucky is that?

Our childhood was consumed by Chicago sports. My parents had a buzzer in the kitchen designed to signal us downstairs for meals. It was also a sign that someone, Stan Makita comes to mind, was about to get a hat trick. Danny’s first words were “Bobby Hull!”

As kids, we’d play kick-the-can, catch-one-catch all, wiffle ball, and any sport that was on TV at the time, and we had ready-made pick-up teams with the Griffins next door and the Cronins next door to them. During Bulls season, we’d shoot hoops in the Griffins yard until my mom called us into dinner. When the Bears played, we played. One day after a rainy afternoon of mall ball at Kennedy Park, Danny and I came in the side door, both of us caked in mud head to toe.

My dad at the top of the stairs said in his sternest voice, “Take those clothes off right there,” but as he turned, I saw the Irish glint in his eye.

When Danny was nine and I was eleven, my mom and dad bought a place in Long Beach. Danny, our friends, and I spent days scouring the sand dunes. Many of those friends are with us today. We were convinced that the cement company behind the dune of my parents’ house was really a hide-out for crooks, and we loved to spy on those sand stealers.

Danny was an athlete. In fact, he was the best athlete in the family. Sorry everybody. Dan could could  play anything. He threw righty, he batted lefty, and he golfed righty because left-handed clubs are expensive. As kids, we’d carry our clubs at Long Beach, and when I  dragged my bag, Danny would carry mine because he knew the whole day was torture for me. At par 3’s, he’d get on the green in one. I think Danny could hit the green using a broomstick. My mom and dad were so proud.

Dylan Thomas said that it snows more in our memories, so it is with the ice at Kennedy Park. Man, Danny could skate!

I remember how mad we got at Mr. Kinehan across the street on Artesian when he firmly told us we couldn’t play hockey at the dead-end because we might hit his car with the puck. Imagine that crabby guy worried about his car when the ice was so perfect.

Danny went on to play hockey at Marist, and he played a lot of hockey with our cousins at the Southwest Ice Arena. He was invited to play in golf tournaments and made friends with ease.

Many of us overlapped working with him at Service Electric. Eileen and I also traveled with Dan in Europe in 1984, thanks to Therese’s passes on American Airlines. His clothes had to be folded perfectly before placing them in his backpack. I suspect he was the same way when he packed his garbage. It is a family trait.

Danny loved people, and they loved him.  He liked to go out. He loved the White Sox, the Chicago Bears, and the Blackhawks. He was always up for going to a game, and he loved to go with his nephew Marty. Dan knew players’ biographies, stats, and he knew the point spreads.

And his nieces and nephews loved him, mainly because at the holidays, Uncle Dan sat at the kids’ table. There are only so many seats.

Dan gave our daughter Katie and her husband White Sox tickets for their wedding gift, Elvis night – a true night to remember. Dan was a fan of any college team where his nieces and nephews attended: Marquette, Butler, Illinois, Indiana, Northwestern. Both Dan and Tim called last year to pay their condolences when the Valparaiso University Crusaders lost in the first round of the Big Dance.

As adults, years fly by, and we lose track. When my son Kevin was diagnosed with Retinoblastoma, Tim and I  told everyone we were fine – no need to come to the hospital. At Children’s Memorial, only one parent was permitted in the CAT scan room with Kevin for the preliminary test, and when I looked through the little window in the door, I saw Dan sitting next to my husband Tim in the waiting room.  He said he had to be there. And he continued to want to be there for all of us.

This Christmas, he called to say he was looking forward to the Neylon Christmas party in Valpo. That day, he called to say he couldn’t make it. The next day, he called saying he regretted not making it, it was his loss, and he was sorry. He then e-mailed saying he was going to kick this thing. It was time. And he said he loved me. And I know he did.

Danny tried so hard to find his way, and my mother, brothers, sisters, and his friends did all they could to help him. He would come up with a plan and state with conviction that he had it all together. We’ll never know why he couldn’t follow through with his promises and dreams.

I found myself looking for answers why. C.S. Lewis’ first line in A Grief Observed is “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”  This week, I’ve overcome being scared for Danny and for our day of reckoning. Therese saw to it that Dan received his Last Rites, and the last voice he heard was Therese’s reciting the Rosary. Dan is at peace.

Norman MacLean, a University of Chicago professor, wrote A River Runs Through It at the age of 72 as he tried to sort out the circumstances of his younger brother’s death, MacLean’s thoughts bring me peace. Perhaps they will for you, too. MacLean wrote,

“Each one of us here today will at one time in our lives look upon a loved one who is in need and ask the same question: We are willing to help, Lord, but what, if anything, is needed? For it is true we can seldom help those closest to us. Either we don’t know what part of ourselves to give or, more often than not, the part we have to give is not wanted. . . .. But we can still love them – we can love completely without complete understanding.”

And that is the answer. Love. We gather this morning as a community of faith in God’s everlasting love knowing Dan has been set free. Like Lazarus, he is out of the tomb. We mourn, yet we ultimately rejoice in God’s mercy and Grace.

We love you, Danny, Dan the Man. You are no longer at the kids’ table. You’re up there with Dad, Frankie, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, Bobby Hull  and Walter Payton.  Please save a spot for us in the palm of God’s hand.  

If I were Billy Joel, these would be my lyrics to “It’s My Life.” Tee hee.

Got some calls from our kids

We try to be real close

Said they couldn’t believe the cheap air through Midway

Packed their bags, took their books

Some bought tickets to the West Coast

Brendan gives them a stand-up routine in L.A.

We don’t need them to worry ‘bout us ’cause we’re alright.

They don’t want us to tell them it’s time to come home.

They don’t mind when we say we found seats on Southwest flights.

“Go ahead use reward points, and Mom write a poem.”   

We never said they should stay in Valpo for the Big Dance.

We kind of said Chicago was a good circumstance.

They still belong, don’t get me wrong

And they can speak their minds

Always on our time.

They will tell you you can’t adjust as

emptynesters.

They will tell you you can’t help

but miss those fun kids.

Ah, but sooner or later you get

in your own space

Either way it’s okay

to fly by ourselves.

Oct. 4, 2015

My mother Eileen Brigid Sullivan Neylon, born Feb. 28, 1927, and my granddaughter Eileen Clare Immen, born April 30, 2015, share one basic, universal human need spanning generations regardless of age, race, gender, socio-economic status, religion, politics, health, or ethnicity.    In the 88 years between them, the world has been transformed through the Great Depression, multiple world wars, television, Rock ‘n Roll, air travel, steps on the moon, Civil Rights, the Internet, cell phones, and drones.  If I live long enough to be a great grandmother and hold Eileen Clare’s child, what will the world be like then?

One thing is for certain – we’ll all still benefit from a quick catnap.

On Dec. 31st, I made a commitment to write every day, so this semester, I signed up for another writing class at Valpo. I took Creative Writing two years ago, and that’s when I wrote a few of my first posts: Stolen Miles, Self-Doubt, Sonnets and Marathons, and What do you See?  

I write when something really impacts me or eats at me. It’s my way to find peace . . . along with running. I sort things out and often see beauty like never before. Sometimes I vent, and there are journals all over this house. Some are hidden for a reason – those need to be burned if I ever get hit by a bus.

So I signed up for COMM 590: Short Screenplay Writing with Prof. Charlie Anderson. Charlie is loaded with great stories of his experiences as a writer in LA, and I love learning about the film industry and my son Brendan’s work and aspirations.

The syllabus clearly outlines a path to completing two short screenplays each written for a ten-minute film. On Wednesday, our assignment was to turn in three loglines – 27 word descriptions of a potential movie. (The logline term is new to me, so I feel like I’m talking like an expert here.) My wheels were spinning.  I narrowed my list down to three topics: Kevin’s diagnosis of Retinoblastoma, my father’s illness, and a grandmother’s FaceTime relationship with her granddaughter – not too autobiographical.

My classmates, on the other hand, had loglines that entailed the discovery of a magic pendant, a secret spy mother, a Syrian refugee camp, and exotic travels. Imaginative worlds of good vs. evil and vivid depictions of dual personalities, clandestine behaviors, and global perspectives prevailed in the college students’ minds. Suddenly, my ideas seem mundane and ordinary, but I signed up for the class, and now I have a draft of  a screenplay due in three weeks.

I’ve been up for two hours in a quest to work on this project, and so far I’ve cleaned out my van, balanced my checkbook, sorted the laundry, emptied the dishwasher, and written this post.  And since the sun is up now, I think it’s warm enough to take Watson for a run.