Remembering My Friend During The Easter Season

My friend loved to hate God.

It didn’t matter.

God laughed and had the last word.

I write this on Monday after the Fifth Sunday of Lent with its Gospel account of Jesus ordering his friend, “already dead for four days,” “Lazarus, come out.”

Yesterday, as I opened the Lectionary (the collection of assigned readings for Mass for each day of the year) a newspaper clipping – my friend’s obituary - fell out. 

Strikingly handsome and with a Corvette convertible that only enhanced his ability to charm the Mona Lisa into a toothy smile, Thomas (I’m only using his middle name) was my first friend at the University of Miami. 

He loved to hate God.

A 3L (third year Law School student), he arranged for me to take over his beat covering intramural sports for The Miami Hurricane. [Promise not to tell? I didn’t – still don’t – know anything about sports; but I could write one helluva sports column. The secret: Just name as many fraternities and fraternity men as possible and they’ll be very happy. Hey. It sold newspapers.] In 1963, when tuition at the University cost an astronomical $1,000 a year and writing about intramural sports paid $100 a month, succeeding Thomas was a “dream job.” [Gas cost about 57 cents a gallon – about $3.12 in today’s money; and I can only tell you what tuition is today if you’ve had a complete cardiac workup and your doctor’s OK.]

I kept that job for four years; it paid for dates and fraternity dues. More importantly, Thomas became one of the most prized friends of my University experience. He pushed me to apply (and be accepted) to Law School and planned my after-graduation career in his law firm.

He was definitely not happy when I announced my decision to leave Law School and join the Maryknoll Missionary Fathers. But he was there for my First Mass in Miami and insisted that I baptize his youngest child.

He also called when, a few years later, he experienced a severe mental health crisis – a bipolar disorder that, on one pole or the other, only got much worse depending on the medication his doctors wanted “to try next.” The request was simple. He was not concerned about himself. Rather, would I see his children and help them understand and deal with his on-going situation.

Absolutely.

I met with the kids – the older son about 12, a daughter a year or two younger, and a son who was maybe five or six.  They were great! Open. Honest. Questioning. And understanding beyond their youth. [For many years, they and their Mom joined my family for Christmas Eve Mass at 7740.]

After a prolonged stay in a local hospital, Thomas was transferred to Florida’s then best teaching hospital. Nothing worked. 

In the end, he was discharged to his parents’ home in the center of the state. The next day, Thomas found the gun his father had hidden in the garage.

The call from his wife came as I was turning out the lights.

We decided to let the kids sleep and that I would be there – “first thing in the morning” – to help her break the news. 

In the very early morning hours, Mom woke the kids and told them. 

When I arrived there were hugs, tears – and from me a renewed promise to tell them “everything,” “only the truth.” As news came in and facts were gathered, their Mom and I did just that. Nothing was held back.

Unfortunately and understandably, Thomas’s father was a very angry man. Despite the fact that his son had lived his whole life in Miami, he insisted that the Mass of the Resurrection and burial take place upstate. 

The wake (not quite Irish) was filled with lawyers in pinstriped suits. 

I still remember an especially important moment: Individually, lawyers and judges would approach the older son, drape an arm over his shoulder, bend down, whisper in his ear, and – after a warm pat on the shoulder – walk off, making room for the next lawyer or judge to repeat the scene. Finally, I approached my friend’s older son. Leaning down I whispered, “James, I’m really worried about something.” 

“I know, Skip,” he said, looking me straight in the eyes. “They’re all telling me that I’m supposed to be ‘the man of the house’ now. But I remember what you’ve told me – that I’m just a kid and that’s all I’m supposed to be.”

The Mass of the Resurrection and funeral were classic early-1980s traditional Catholic. Cold. Not at all personal. 

Except.

Except Thomas loved to hate God.

And, forty years later, I am still absolutely certain God loved (maybe even enjoyed) Thomas’ longing, doubt-filled, intellectually questioning, struggling hate.  

At the cemetery, as the priest began the final Prayers of Commendation, something caught the eyes of a privileged few. Then everyone. The poor priest froze mid-Sign of the Cross.

A monarch butterfly emerged from the woods beside the cemetery.

Casually, almost leisurely but with purpose.

It flew over markers and tombstones. 

Under the canopy that covered the grave that would soon embrace my friend.

Circled gently.

Then lit briefly atop my friend’s coffin.

Flew off.

And God laughed as He said to my friend who loved to hate Him, “Thomas, come out.”

A week or two later, I began the homily of the Mass of the Resurrection in Miami for my friend by saying “Thomas loved to hate God” and then – as the heads of witnesses to the Butterfly Experience nodded, I recounted the graveside story: “Thomas loved to hate God. Yet God so deeply loves him that he called ‘Thomas, come out!’”

[A few months later, Thomas’s wife called laughing. “I guess we did a good job.” It seemed that, as she was driving away with her younger son after his religious education class, Robbie’s teacher came running after her to explain “Robbie had a hard time in class today. We were speaking about God as Father and I asked each child to tell us what their fathers did. Robbie said, ‘My father was sick. In his head. He killed himself.’”

“I don’t think it was Robbie who had the ‘hard time,’” Mom laughed. “We did a good job.”]

The butterfly is perhaps the earliest Christian symbol of Easter and some Renaissance images of the Christ Child show a butterfly alighting on his hand. In its caterpillar or first state, it represents Christ’s life on earth. The chrysalis, experiencing the darkness and constriction of the cocoon, reflects His death and burial. The metamorphosis of the caterpillar into a butterfly reminds us of the Resurrection. Its God-created, God-given colors, bright in the light of the sun, invite to wonder and celebration. 

God calls us!

“Come out!”