As one life passes, new life begins

Ministry brings me in touch with the cycles of life on a daily basis. I am called to be with members of the congregation in times of struggle and loss as well as times of joy when people welcome new life or commit themselves in love. This is one of the gifts of my calling that I am constantly reminded that our lives are precious. That no other person or special moment should be taken for granted.

My understanding of the fleeting nature of existence motivates me to live without regret to the best of my ability. As I weigh decisions about how I will spend my time or the quality of relationships with other people, I constantly ask myself whether I have done the best possible. I try not to delay speaking words of caring concern. When someone is in my mind or heart, I reach out to them even if unexpected. When there is an unresolved conflict or hurt, I seek reconciliation and forgiveness. When I have left a responsibility unfinished, I work to complete it or find help or adjust the timetable. By no means am I perfect, but I refuse to reach the end of my days haunted by “what if’s” or “should have’s.”

This is a time in my personal life that is particularly bittersweet. My father died on September 12, 2008. Robert J. Freedman was born in 1921 in Brockton, MA, the third child and only son of Abram and Hilda. He was a caring, intelligent man with a keen interest in people. He was married to my mother Josephine for 41 years and was also Stepfather to my brother, Michael.

Above all, my father was a man of integrity. He was always hard-working, dependable, and true to his word. He did not suffer fools or hypocrites. However, he also had a sense of wonder about life in its infinite variety. At an early age his Uncle Harold had told him, “Bobby, you do not really look at anything.” He took this message to heart and began a lifelong practice of capturing color and form on film. His photographs do not focus on landscapes or people but instead show fascinating details found on his walks, such as an abandoned building, a store window, a funny sign, a tree reflected in a puddle, a shadow cast on a wall.

Over the past four years, my father suffered a decline in his abilities. This began subtly at first with an inability to remember certain words and then to complete certain tasks. He was frustrated that he was not able to perform to his usual high standards. After a weeklong stay in the hospital due to internal bleeding, we began having a team of health aides care for him. It was not easy to have strangers in my parents’ home but we found a caregiver who was not only a skilled health professional but fit into our family beautifully. Early on, my father even had her take him around the Boston area taking photographs.

My mother’s love and devotion to my father motivated her to find creative solutions to accommodate his mental and physical decline at home. My parents moved to their home in Newport this August when it seemed my father had reached a plateau in his health. However, his strength and appetite soon waned and his imminent passing was anticipated.

During his final days, my mother, my husband, my father’s caregiver and I said prayers from many different traditions around his bedside. We held his hands, told him how much we loved him, and that although we would miss him we would take care of one another. I was there as he let out his last three sighs. The cycles of life fill me with humility and wonder. Dad never really understood that I am pregnant. However, at the same time as I bid farewell to a man who will always hold a special place in my heart, I could feel new life kicking inside me. Truly, I am blessed.