The late Rev. Gerald White is the father of Katherine White, our 8 a.m. choir director. Rev. White passed away on Jan. 4. The St. Bernard Catholic faith community extends its prayers and condolences to Katherine and her family.
By Katherine White
My Dad.
There are people in life you just believe will go on forever.
I mean, of course, we all come to our end, but these people just are such a huge presence in life, so integral to your being, your thinking, to your own life, that the contemplation of their absence is impossible.
My Dad.
There’s an older country song called “Daddy’s Hands.”
The late Holly Dunn sings:
“There was always love in Daddy’s Hands
So there was for me.
Such strong hands.
Reliable hands.
Capable hands.”
Dad’s hands were always full, always busy.
They always were holding a tool to build something.
At home in Minnesota.
Or the Eucharist, at a table he held open to all.
Or holding a book, or magazine or a pen, or a Bible — or maybe even four Bibles — so he could compare the Greek, and the Hebrew and the English, and of course, the Norsk.
And certainly a cup of coffee.
They rarely held a phone. He was always just present where his feet were.
But sometimes, if mom weren’t home and he was home alone he would hold the phone to talk to me or my sisters.
Not if mom were there:
“Hi, Dad!”
“Hello, good to hear from you. Here’s Joyce.”
But if you caught him home alone, he would talk.
You’d hear all about his next building project.
And what he’d like to do after that. And what he bought at Menards. And when Lonnie was coming next to do anything that needed the ladder.
And a question of the weather would become a trip down memory lane: to the blizzard that was so bad the children had to walk in front of the school bus, one on each side of the county road so the bus could stay centered.
He never minded telling the same story twice. Or a hundred times.
No detail omitted.
He’d love to tell you about his miracle tree. Or the robin he handfed after it fell from its nest when he was a boy, and how he’d whistle and it would come to him long after it found its home back in the oaks.
We learned, you needed to prepare to settle in if he had a story he wanted to tell.
Or something he wanted to teach you.
Like how the periodic table of elements was constructed. Or the magic of chemistry. Or how to use a turning lathe and table saw.
Or the consonant shifts between languages, and how quickly one could learn to recognize words in different languages: fönster: fenster/window: vindu.
“Look! You can see the ways the languages developed.”
Dad loved learning. And loved teaching.
And, Oh! he could talk, alright. I guess I came by it, honestly.
In this last year, the details were shuffled; sometimes the words wouldn’t come when called. So unkind of a loss to someone who loved languages and stories and people so much.
Dad would wrestle his mind back in order to greet a friend. His hands would clasp theirs.
“So good to see you, takk for sist.”
Final goodbyes.
And he’d watch us and wait for the recognition to solidify to tell us how much he loved us, and how proud he was of each of his children.
Even in childhood we got used to hearing the litany of names until he came to the one that belonged to the daughter in front of him — Steph!Chris!Beck!Jo!KATHY!!
Ah, he’d get there eventually. So we knew that when he looked at us with that love in his eyes, no matter which name he used for us, the love was real and belonged to us all.
In his last days, the clear blue eyes that lit up to see a friend or family member walk through the door were clouded and dimmed, struggling to find anything to focus on.
Dad’s hands changed. His fingers became long and thin. Less certain.
And now they are still.
The hands that steadied the world for me have been emptied of their work. The mind that I was sure would carry all the answers for me is still and at peace.
Home.
There are marks left behind by those hands.
The fireplace built from rocks gathered by my parents on their travels, built by those hands like an altar of warm memories.
The buildings he constructed with my mother — the home, the chapel, the shop — each built with love, incorporating pieces of the stories and buildings that existed there before.
The blessings he spoke over each of his progeny, the prayers, the baptisms, the hugs and handshakes, hands raised to pass along words of a love and a faith that only grew more certain as his days went on.
His hands caressed the Honor Quilt given to those who remembered his service to country.
His hands reach out for whatever is next.
Peace.
“Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word; for mine eyes have seen thy salvation which thou hast prepared in the presence of all peoples”
Well done, good and faithful father.
On the farm.
