Tag: fiction

We all knew that when Aunt Lucy passed, it would not be long before Uncle Sal joined her. It is deeply saddening to understand that and to watch it unfold, especially for the children who so desperately want more time with their parents. But it is not about us, nor is it within our power, to stop a choice like that, even when we do everything we can to hold it back. Reflecting now on my own parents, I know it was in God’s hands, and I trust in that always. More than that, I am thankful for this beautifully poetic example of marriage, the union of two souls so completely entwined that one could not remain here for long without the other.

I am deeply grateful for Uncle Sal. We had a special relationship. I say sincerely that he was the grandfather I never had but always wanted. Some family members may have thought I was simply being gracious by spending so much time talking with him, but our relationship was never about sympathy. We were kindred spirits. We were both curious, both drawn to what other people thought, and so we asked each other questions endlessly. Big questions, small questions, and everything in between. Government, work, finances, marriage, children, purpose. We were both smart enough to understand how much we did not know, and excited by the chance to hear the other speak. There was no ego in it, only humility and a real desire to listen, to think, to be surprised, and to stand amazed at life.

Uncle Sal understood his purpose with a kind of quiet clarity. He had found something so many people miss while trying to play the game of life by other people’s rules. He learned long ago that life is malleable, and so he made his own rules. Then, like a piece of wood in his hands, he shaped them and refined them until they became simple and true. He found a way to win each day, and because of that he was able to be present in the moment and enjoy his life. All the little things we are meant to cherish and appreciate, he did.

I think we both loved not knowing almost as much as knowing. There was joy in discovery, in mystery, in hearing a new thought and turning it over together. He was a Renaissance man in the truest sense, interested in everything around him. He wanted to learn, to experience, and to play in the world. He always described himself as simple and uneducated in his self deprecating way, but his curiosity made him so much more. He was an artist, a musician, a tinkerer, and a space explorer. He spoke Italian and English, played chess, loved nature, and was an avid walker. There was far more depth in him than he ever gave himself credit for.

He was a carpenter by trade, but even more by passion. He loved wood, loved working with his hands, and loved making something lasting and beautiful out of what the world had given him. He was always building, always creating, always shaping something for someone else. An Uncle Sal work of art. A fully articulating standing clock. Wood inlay paintings. The family elves he made for us, each one with a Christmas name from a different language. The time he got lost and scared his family because he had pulled off to the side of the road for hours to paint a beautiful vista that had caught his eye. His hands were never still for long because his heart was curious and always ready to play.

And for all the things he made with his hands, the greatest thing he ever built was a life rooted in love. He taught me, and reminded me, that the simplest things in life are the greatest things. And none was greater to him than his love for his wife and family. He looked upon Lucy as an angel. Always. I never heard him complain. I never heard him ask for more. I never heard him wish for some different road. He loved as we are all meant to love, selflessly, freely, without keeping score, and without asking for anything in return. His advice on a successful marriage that lasts was simple. He would say, “I work hard and hand over my paycheck to Lucy, no questions asked.” His was an endless well, overflowing with devotion, tenderness, and grace.

I think often of John 14 and Jesus’ promise to prepare a room for us in His Father’s house. I can picture Sal arriving there and being shown to his room, plain and simple at first, sparse and untouched. But he would know immediately that there are no limits now. No constraints. No weakness in the body. No shortage of time. And so he would begin. He would reshape that room into something only he could imagine, some great woodworking cathedral filled with the richest woods, carved and polished into magnificence. The walls and ceilings would soon be covered in inlaid scenes of nature, heaven, and earth. Beauty rising everywhere under his hands. He would run out of room quickly and begin working into the hallway. By the time the rest of us arrive, I would not be surprised if Jesus Himself had to move into another house just to make space for all that Sal had created.

So now, as he leaves this world, I do not think of loss alone. I think of gratitude. I think of laughter, questions, wood shavings on the floor, and the quiet strength of a man who understood what mattered. He lived simply, loved deeply, and left beauty wherever he went. And though we will miss him here in ways words cannot hold, I trust that heaven has already placed tools in his hands and love all around him. More than this, my heart rejoices that he will be reunited with his love and finally know peace.