I could review, play by play, the Giants convincing win over the conference rival Redskins. How the defense functioned rather well without last year's bookends, Umenyiora and Strahan. But I won't.
I could analyze John McCain's speech. Acknowledge him, perhaps, for his criticisms of not only the Dems but his own party. Critique him for his inability to stay in touch with the working class as 'maverick' as he may think he is. But I won't.
Instead, I have a more important topic. One that touches Democrats and Republicans and Independents. I have a story more gripping than the Giants' spectacular run to the Super Bowl last year. I have a plea to the few of you who read this blog. Of course, I can't say what that plea is immediately. That would be poor drama. Instead, I have a story.
For me, the story begins at birth. In fact, I think this story began some time after I was conceived and before I was born. My mother and father, as responsible Christians, were tasked with naming godparents. For me, their first son, they chose my father's younger brother, Karl, and my mother's first cousin, Lynne. In my family, godfathers were rather easy to come by. My father has two brothers. My mother has two brothers. And there are a bunch of male cousins to go around. As for females, well, there aren't as many. And Lynne was the closest person either my mother or father came to having a sister. In retrospect, they couldn't have made a better choice.
Lynne Murray, the only daughter of the union of my grandfather's older brother, Walt, and his second wife, Dottie, was a fiery redhead. Never hesitant to speak her mind, she had a rare charisma that drew people to her. A strong woman in the vein of her grandmother, my great grandmother, Lynn exuded grace and unconditional love in anything and everything that she did. I personally regret that I did not spend more time with her as I grew, but I knew she was always there. For Christmas. For my birthday. For Easter. Every year until my 18th birthday, she would send a card and a gift to whichever address I happened to call home at the time. Reminding me that she was there for me. Reminding me that she loved me...
I remember her at my First Holy Communion. At my Confirmation. Encouraging me on my road to the priesthood. Not a holier woman have I met in my time. She was not the overly pious Bible thumping show-off that some 'holy' people can seem, but a down-to-earth, day-by-day worker. For peace. For justice. For love. For hope. For faith. For all those attributes that Jesus considered the basics of charity that should be shown to God and to each other.
Although I can speak only from the fringes of her magnificent existence, I know that she became the center of her nuclear family. She took in her ailing mother at the same time that she was raising her two children. She was a loving wife to her husband, Dave, working through all of those ups and downs that any relationship endures. But not only was she there for those who lived within her house. She was an aunt, and perhaps better stated, a mentor to her nieces and nephews through significantly difficult times in their family. A loving niece to my grandparents, she would always call them to see how her favorite - and only - uncle was doing. A loving cousin, she always had time to talk to my mother, my uncles, and the countless others that sought a loving and listening ear.
And this doesn't do justice to her charity. I know that St. Barnabas Church knew her to be the fiery redhead who got things done. One of my spiritual directors, Father Bob, was at that same parish during her early years, and when I told him that she was my godmother, he couldn't stop praising her faith and fervor. I can only imagine what those who worked with her or what those who were her friends thought of her. But I can guess the following. She ain't no pushover. And she just has so much love in her heart.
I don't remember exactly when I heard. I don't even remember the exact date of the diagnosis. But it was some time in the late 1990s or early 2000s that my grandparents called me and told me that she had cancer. Breast cancer. I called Lynne. You'd never know that she was just diagnosed. And, what's more, she didn't let on. As if it hadn't even happened. Oh sure, she knew what was happening. But, in her mind, what was the use of giving that damned disease any kind of power. It wasn't in her. She said as much. 'What am I gonna do, lay down and die? I still have things to do.' And she did. She had her treatments, and she kept going. Working when she could, thankfully for a good and understanding company. Ensuring that her son and daughter had everything they needed as they went from high school to college and out into the world.
At first, the treatments seemed to be working. She said she was feeling better. But looks can be deceiving, especially when it comes to the greatest evil this world has seen. After a time, the doctor told her there was nothing more they could do. They gave her the time limit. No doubt, she cried in the comforts of her home. No doubt, she spent hours praying to God asking why such a thing could happen. But never in front of her family. She was the strong one. And so many people relied on her. She kept going. She kept going...
I can only claim to have had limited communication with her since I moved to Seattle. Because I was too self-involved with my own issues. But I did receive e-mail every once in a while from her. One on October 3, 2004 just said 'Hi David, I was thinking of you all day yesterday but did not have a chance to email. A belated Happy Birthday. Hope your day was all it could be. Wishing you much happiness and good health in the coming year. Again HAPPY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! Love ya, Lynne'. She always remembered my birthday.
And then, the last one I have saved was a forwarded e-mail. I usually delete forwarded e-mail. But because it was from her, I opened it. And I prayed to St. Rita of Cassia, the Saint of the Impossible.
Soon after, I received word from my grandparents that Lynne had passed away. It was expected, they said. Yes, I know, I replied. She was a good woman, they said. An understatement, I returned. We love you very much. I love you too. And that was it. I had lost my godmother. Worse yet, an aunt and uncle had lost their niece. Cousins, their cousin. Friends, a friend. A husband, his wife. And children, their mother. On earth, that is. But what a wonderful advocate we have in heaven...
And so, I now enter my plea with you. From 9/12/08 - 9/14/08 a few of the softball players I coach - including a breast cancer survivor - as well as my partner, Joseph, will be walking 60 miles in the Breast Cancer 3-Day. Although I will not be walking - with my severely flat feet and various other foot issues - I will be what they call a walker stalker. Encouraging, coaching, helping in any way possible. We collectively need your help. I'm not much of a salesman, to be honest, because I don't particularly believe in most things that need to be sold. But in this... in this cause I believe. I need to sell to you the hope that Breast Cancer - and all cancer - can be cured. And if you have faith that we, as intelligent beings, can continue to fight this, the greatest of all evils, then I would ask that you help us with anything that you can spare. Finally, after you've contributed or even if you are not able, please pass this blog post on to anyone and everyone who has faith that we can win this fight. You need do no more than refer them to this post and have them take a few minutes to read the story.
If you are interested in donating or if you have any questions, please feel free to contact me at giants75@hotmail.com
For Lynne Murray Jermine
Thank you for reading.
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