-26- Eulogy for My Dad

It’s been quite a while since I last posted something on this blog, but I’m hoping to begin again (again) and I thought I’d share what I wrote for my dad’s memorial service. It’s hard to believe that it has almost been a month since he died. We’ve had so much going on that the time has flown by.

I wanted to post this as a way of officially marking the return to daily life after dad’s passing. Tomorrow I’ll post a crappy recording of the song I wrote for and sang at his funeral. Someday soon, I’ll make a better recording and share that.

Please continue to pray for us. My mom’s last visitors went home this week and I know it isn’t easy for her to be alone in that big house. If you happen to know any other widows, do something nice for them, too.

Thanks to everyone who was so generous and loving over these past few weeks. I’ve told many people how surprised I was at how much comfort I personally felt from the condolences we received. Maybe people don’t suck?

My sweet wife likes to remind me to “be kind to everyone you meet for they are all fighting a difficult battle.” We are so grateful for the kindness we’ve been shown during this difficult battle.

My Dad

My dad was like a father to me.

I realize that sounds silly, but in today’s day and age, it’s not. My dad was like a father to me because he did what good fathers do:

  • He loved my mother with all his heart, faithfully, for over 52 years.
  • He loved my sister and me unconditionally and never gave us any reason to doubt it.
  • He loved the people we loved and welcomed them into his life and home—my wife and kids.
  • He set an excellent example of how to love others—waitresses, nurses, salesman, mechanics, barbers.
  • Most importantly, he loved God with all his heart, mind, soul, and strength. He “sought first the kingdom of God and His righteousness” and, in so doing, gave us the greatest gift any father could give his children: an image of fatherhood that drew us closer to God, the origin and source of all fatherhood.

My dad did not teach me how to fish, how to fix cars, how to fight (though he did tell some amazing stories about throwing guys through plate glass windows in Kansas and second-story windows in Thailand (earning him the nickname Ṣ̄ūny̒ ṣ̄ūny̒ cĕd – “Double-O Seven”).

He never tried to “make a man out of me” in any stereotypical way, but he did make a man out of me because he taught me how to love sacrificially and how to take up my cross and follow Jesus.

When he retired from the Air Force, he had a job lined up at the USAF Academy in Colorado. This was in the early 80s—before fax machines and the Internet—so he had to drive out to Colorado Springs to physically sign the contract. While en route, Congress passed a law prohibiting newly retired military from returning as civilian contracts until six months had passed. When he arrived, the job he had persuaded the Academy to create for him was unavailable. Because he had done such a good job convincing them of their need, they couldn’t hold it open for him.  With no prospects, we came to Phoenix and moved in with his parents—just what every 38 year old man wants to do.

He had been in hospital administration in the Air Force and tried to get a job in that field here, but no one would hire him. One guy told him (off the record) that he had too much experience and that if he were to hire him, Dad would have his job in a year.

He wound up working as a janitor at the V.A.

This was not what he wanted, but he did it to take care of his family. Because that’s what men do. They die to themselves out of love for others.

Throughout my life, Dad did many un-glamorous things for our benefit:

  • He delivered pizzas
  • He worked night shifts on the freeway putting up traffic barricades
  • He drove for Super Shuttle

Dad always wanted to retire young and die rich. One out of two ain’t bad.

Whenever he got close to getting rich, his luck ran out. His business partner drained their joint account and spent it all on women and drugs in one weekend. Dad took out a personal loan to cover payroll and subsequently ruined his credit.

He was never a financial success, but he was a success at life.He lived well. He died well—surrounded by loved ones and friends. He leaves a legacy of love that is an inspiration for many, many people.

I saw a horrible thing the other day: an obituary written by bitter children who hated their mother. They called out all her failures and ended it by saying that the world is better off with her gone.

Well, my sister and I could never write such a thing. We love our father more than we can say. And, as the Scripture says, “his children will rise up and call him blessed.”

And, so we do rise up and call him blessed. But, I will add that I do think that the world will be a better with my dad gone—not because he was a wicked man, but because he was a righteous man.

The Bible says, “the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.” I know that right now my dad is still praying for us and I am confident his prayers will avail much.

Someone on Facebook—and my father, for that matter—warned against canonizing Dad before the Church does. I understand the sentiment and I am fully aware of his many shortcomings (now that I see his financial situation, I’m sure he’s going to have to serve some time for leaving that mess for my mom to deal with), but I am convinced that God would not keep someone out of heaven who wanted so much to go there.

A few years back, I wrote a blog post about carrying our crosses and following Jesus. I’d like to end by reading the last few paragraphs of that post:

We must learn to respond to all our suffering with cheerfulness and love. St. Josemaria Escriva gives this counsel:

. . . don’t drag the Cross…Carry it squarely on your shoulder, because your Cross, if you carry it so, will not be just any Cross: it will be…the Holy Cross. Don’t bear your Cross with resignation: resignation is not a generous word. Love the Cross. When you really love it, your Cross will be…a Cross, without a Cross.

And surely you, like Him, will find Mary on the way.

Holy Rosary, “Jesus Carries His Cross”

Think of the Children

Parents are the primary educators of their children. How they carry their crosses will have a profound and lasting effect on how their kids respond to suffering. It’s one thing to tell your kids to “offer it up” or “kiss the cross”; it’s another to give them concrete examples of how to do it.

Here’s a good Catholic trivia question for you: what are the names of Simon of Cyrene’s children? Give up? Rufus and Alexander. It’s right there in the Bible (Mark 15:21) and I never paid any attention to it either.

According to tradition, both of these guys grew up to be Christians. Can you imagine their pride when they tell their friends that their dad was the Simon who carried the cross for Jesus? It would be their greatest boast. Wouldn’t it be something if it was your kids’ greatest boast, too?

My dad never taught me how to throw a spiral or restore an old car, and he doesn’t know one end of a hammer from another, but I thank God for him every day, because, man, can that man suffer.

About ten years ago, my dad had quintuple bypass surgery followed by a long and difficult recovery. He spent months in the hospital and the whole time he was praying for others. Through his prayers, he made his hospital room an oasis of peace. The nurses wept when he was discharged.

The other day when my mom was asked about my dad’s health, she said, “I was raised a Pentecostal and had no concept of redemptive suffering. For us, suffering was always something to be avoided. I guess God wanted me to teach me about it through my husband’s example.” Wow.

Finally, I want to say thank you to everyone who has come here to be with us tonight—all the friends and family who have shown their incredible support and whose condolences and prayers have truly been a source of comfort to us.

I want to especially thank Uncle-Deacon Roy for guiding us through everything, Tiffany here at the funeral home for her help and generosity, and my sister’s dear friend, Rachelle who worked on the amazing memory board (and may or may not have been the one who organized meals for my mom, but did get us at least one delicious dinner and outstanding desserts). And of course, I want to thank my wife, Amy who is the best of wives and best of women and who dresses me, etc. and Michelle’s fella, John, who is exactly the kind of man my dad wanted for my sister.

Rest in peace, Dad. Pray for us.


Carrying Our Cross

What does it mean to follow Jesus? In Luke 9:23, Jesus declares to his disciples, “If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me.” This is a command we’ve heard many times, but it is always worth contemplating.

One sense of the word follow is “to imitate.” If we consider closely what Jesus is asking of us in the above passage, we may see something that has previously escaped our attention. It’s this: when we deny ourselves and take up our cross, we really do imitate what Jesus did, because what he did was deny himself and take up our cross. The cross he carried wasn’t his. It was ours.  Continue reading


Yes, I’m aware that I’ve already published post -24-, but somehow, -23- was skipped. This remedies that.

To make this post extra special, I’ve posted a picture.

Look at these people.

These people are crazy.

And loud.

And mine, so I guess it’s okay.

To all you wonderful people who sent us Christmas cards, etc. Thank you. In response, I have decided to caption this photo “Merry Christians to you.” It’s all you’re going to get from us this year. (We are men of action; lies do not become us.)

But in 2017, please impose yourself on our merry band. Life is too short to wait for us to get the house clean.

Also, for the record, I posted something for 97 of the last 100 days of 2016. It was just for work. Now I hope to return to regular posts. Please bug me about it if I don’t keep that promise and also, please pray for the familias that I pater. Our life is bananas. 🙂

-24- All Saints Day

Today is the best day of the year. At least, it used to be.

Before I worked at the Greatest High School in the Universe, I worked at the Greatest Independent Catholic Grammar School in the Universe: St. Maximilian Mary Kolbe School in Phoenix, AZ. It’s closed now, a fact as depressing as the burning of the library of Alexandria. Even now, I can’t think about Kolbe without tearing up.

Our experience there–and that of everyone else I know who sent their children there or had the privilege of working there–was wonderful. It wasn’t perfect, and, if I’m pressed, I could probably think of a bunch of things that needed improvement, but in my memory, all the images have the golden glow of the magic hour. Those few (those happy few) years we had at Kolbe are the best memories we have of our children’s education. In fact, probably the greatest sorrow we have as parents right now is that our youngest two children will never have Mrs. Franko as their kindergarten teacher and will never experience the joy of Kolbe School that was our strength.

The one thing that epitomizes the Kolbe experience more than any other was the All Saints Day Celebration. It truly was the best day of the year. I loved it so much I wrote a song about it.

Kolbe children prepared for this day for the first nine weeks of the school year. Each kid in K-5 spent the first quarter learning about a particular saint while students in grades 6-8 worked together to produce a play about a saint. When the day finally came, all the giddy children, dressed as their chosen saints, gathered in the great hall and bore witness one-by-one to God’s goodness as manifested in the life of the saint they had chosen. The speeches were always delightful. The kindergarteners were cuter than muppet babies and frequently flubbed or improvised lines to hilarious effect. The tween girls regularly came dressed as “tarted up” versions of famous religious women (I’m pretty sure St. Catherine Laboure didn’t wear rouge and deep scarlet lipstick), and all the boys wanted to be St. Michael the Archangel or Padre Pio.

After the youngsters gave their speeches, the junior high kids would perform their play. Most of the time, the play was something I’d write to accommodate a cast of all boys (or all girls, depending on the year). We had no budget, little talent, but heaps of heart, so every year wound up being a minor theatre miracle.

After the presentations, the fun began–chocolate fountains, kettle corn, cake walks, egg tosses, you name it. The one thing we didn’t have this day was school. It was a for-real, good old fashioned Catholic feast day. And this is why Kolbe was so wonderful. At Kolbe, the All Saints Day Celebration wasn’t Catholic window dressing; it was Catholic culture. In many schools, Catholic identity is treated like sesame seeds sprinkled on a hamburger bun. It’s an afterthought. The “bun” is like any other bun you’d find at public school. At Kolbe, Catholic identity is like yeast sprinkled into the dough. Once it’s mixed in, it might seem to disappear, but that yeast leavens the dough and makes the bread qualitatively different from what’s available elsewhere. I think this is why parents loved Kolbe so much. We did not send our children there because of what it lacked (bullying, drugs, pop culture, whatever); we sent our kids there because of what it had: the joy of the Lord, the joy of the Catholic faith, people who were just as screwed up as anywhere else, but who loved God and wanted to live as part of His family.

I’m trying to write this too quickly, so I’m sure I’m leaving out something wonderful and not being as eloquent as I might, but I want to end with saying that the best thing about sending my kids to Kolbe is that they didn’t just learn about the saints. They befriended them. And, as a consequence, my wife and I befriended them, too. Before Kolbe, I had no idea who Josephine Bakhita, Pauline Jaricot, Pier Giorgio, or Gianna Molla were. I didn’t really know Bernandette, Jacinta, Kateri, or Jude, but because my kids made friends with them, they are now really and truly part of our family. For this, I am forever grateful.

Here is the song I wrote, “All Saints Day Celebration”:

It’s long and the sound quality is sketchy, but I don’t care. I really like it. It has some of my favorite lines I’ve ever written. I think it captures the spirit of the day. I wrote it for my good friend Mary Jo Scamperle, who was (and always will be!) the principal of Kolbe. The day of the celebration we learned that the charter school that took most of our graduates was going to open a lower school which had the potential to severely affect our enrollment. There was a good chance that year’s celebration would be the last. It wasn’t, but the end came pretty shortly afterward and for heartbreakingly worse reasons. No matter. The school lives on in our hearts and in our memories as an Edenic bright spot in hoc lacrimarum valle.


Hello! I’m not avoiding you, promise. Here is a peace offering: Surprise Endings.

I will resume regular posting on Monday, even if it means just approving all the spam comments from my wealthy Nigerian friends and hot Ukrainian women who “like what I have to say in my very well-written blog posts on this very important topic.”


I know it’s been a while–sorry about that. A lot has been going on since -19-. I had a class to finish up, jury duty to not get selected for, a poem to publish at thekindling.org, and a host of other things. Most of those things would make many mere mortals question the central tenet of my belief system (that God is good): all three of our cars, two and a half of our children, and one marriage-in-law have all broken down since last Thursday. And, as if that wasn’t enough, today my wife called me at work to let me know that, when I get home, I’ll have to dispose of the opossum-sized rat that met its demise in my living room some time last night. How’s this for pathetic: we literally have more dead rats than dollars.

Happily, I’m no mere mortal. I count it all joy. I have:

  • excellent rat traps
  • a living room in which rodents can expire
  • a job which will pay me tomorrow
  • health insurance
  • spare children (one for each day of the week)
  • poetry that wants out
  • a wife who loves me (me!)

I’m sure it sounds like I complain a lot, but I’m not really complaining. Not really. I’m blessed and I know it.

I could have been on trial like the guy whose jury I’m not on. I could have lost steady writing gigs like Mark Shea and Simcha Fisher. I could have lost my children or not been able to have any like some of my friends. I could have been bad at wordplay like Alishia Hanson*. I could have been blind-sided by divorce like my brother-in-law, one of the finest men I know.

But I wasn’t and I didn’t, so I’m grateful.

*just checking to see if Alishia still reads this!


If you’re curious, I’m waiting till I get to -33- before I start naming my posts. Somehow I feel that will prove I’ve made it a habit.

Today is the Feast of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, and I thought I’d share a stupid little story that makes me laugh when I remember it.

But first let’s get spiral to the point. (Help me out, people-what’s the opposite of “straight to the point”? Forte: it’s not “gay to the point”…)

The Church teaches that, because of her special role in salvation history, Jesus’ mother has been blessed with being the first Christian to experience the resurrection of the body that Christians believe everyone will experience at the end of time. The Church says that, at the end of her earthly life, God took the Virgin Mary, body and soul, up to heaven. I don’t know what her zip code is or exactly how that works, but that’s the Church’s teaching. Protestants may think that’s crazy, but the Bible says both Enoch and Elijah were taken up to be with God, so they can’t dismiss this idea as merely a Catholic invention.

One of the strongest arguments in favor of the universality and antiquity of this belief in the pre-Reformation Church is the interesting fact that there are no pilgrimage sites that even claim to be the tomb of the Virgin Mary. Think about it: even in the most corrupt times of the Church when charlatans were claiming to have such spurious relics as the head of John the Baptist as a child and the Virgin Mary’s breast milk, no one set up a roadside shrine in Ephesus or Jerusalem or anywhere trying to capitalize on the burial place of the most famous saint ever. This, along with the fact that Satanists never perform “Black” Presbyterian Worship Services, is one of my favorite arguments for the truth of Catholicism.

Anyway, “at the end of her earthly life” God brings Mary to Himself.  Notice that the Church doesn’t say, “after her death.” This is because there are theological reasons for believing that Our Lady was exempt from the penalty of death to which all other members of our fallen race are subject. If, as the Church also teaches, God preserved (i.e. saved) Mary from the “stain” of Original Sin (i.e. its effects), this makes perfect sense. Now again Protestants might object to this idea because they believe it’s human nature to be sinful, but that’s not strictly true. Remember, before the Fall Adam and Eve were created sinless (“able to stand, but free to fall” as Milton puts it), so being human doesn’t require one to be sinful. All Christians acknowledge Jesus as the New Adam; some of us recognize Mary as the New Eve. As the new, perfectly obedient Eve who always says to her Lord, “Let it be done unto me according to your will,” it again makes sense that Our Lady would be free from the penalty of death.

Now, careful readers might object and point out that Jesus died and he was indisputably free from sin, so why wouldn’t Mary die as well? Well, that’s why the Church’s formula is as it is. “At the end of her early life” could mean when she died or when her life changed from being earthly to being heavenly. In the Eastern Church they speak of the Dormition (i.e. the going to sleep) of the Virgin Mary.

I’d also like to point out that Jesus didn’t have to die, he allowed himself to be killed. This is why we corrected the English translation of the Nicene Creed to say “He suffered death and was buried” instead of “He suffered, died, and was buried.” Suffer means “to allow.”  From older English translations of the Bible you might recall Jesus saying,  “Suffer the children to come into me.” He’s not telling the Disciples to inflict harm on children. He’s saying, “Let them come to me.” Interestingly, our word passion has the same root as passive. Thus, the “passion of Christ” doesn’t mean “the intense emotional ordeal of the Messiah” as so many people  mistakenly think. It means “the agony and pain Jesus allowed Himself to be subject to even though He could have summoned a host of angels and wiped out the Romans in a heartbeat.”

So, enough spiraling. The stupid story:

The summer between my sophomore and junior years of college I spent a month or so living in community with some friends in Steubenville, Ohio. We had gone out to attend the summer conferences at Franciscan University with a group called Catholic Commission, which was like Campus Crusade for Christ, but Catholic. We lived in a house without a TV or a phone (it did have basement we referred to as “The Promised Land” that featured a solitary toilet out in the open with no privacy whatsoever), so instead of vegging out at night or chatting on the phone, we would pray the rosary.

Well, our house leader was a very conscientious man and he very much disliked the fact that, whenever we prayed the Glorious Mysteries, some of my housemates and I would get the giggles during the fourth decade.

“Why are you laughing?”

“No reason,” I chortle.

“Seriously, what gives?”

“Fine. It’s just this mystery is about the Assumption.”


“Well, what if Mary was just washing the dishes after dinner in her home in Ephesus and was about to serve the Beloved Disciple some dessert and she turns away from the sink to grab the baklava and when turns back, there’s Jesus and the rest of the Trinity staring at her. Jesus says, ‘Welcome to heaven, Ma! Ain’t it great?'”

“And? ”

“And, well, Mary’s upset.”

“Why is Mary upset?”

“Well, because she’s a good hostess and wanted to make sure John got his dessert.”

“So why does that make you guys giggle?”

“Because, what if she gets mad at Jesus for taking her up body and soul and his apology is where we got the name of the mystery? ‘Gee, Ma, well, um, I guess Dad, HS, and I just figured you’d like to join us…'”


So, God is good. We’d been wandering in the desert for five years or so and, as sometimes happens in our life, God decides to act in an unmistakable way and I get this phone call:

“Wanna be the Academic Dean at Saint Mary’s?”

“Um, yes please.”

“Don’t you want to know the details? Don’t you want to know how much you’ll be making?”

“I guess. . .”

Then, prayer:

“Lord, what are you doing? I hate green. I mean, I. HATE. Green. And Saint Mary’s? My nemesis?  Is this really where you want me to go? I’ll do it, (of course I’ll do it), but please send me a friend. Amen.”

A couple of days later I’m at the Catholic Men’s Fellowship annual conference and I bump into to an acquaintance:

“Hi, Rob. I don’t know if you remember me, but I took your class on Catholic Education at Saint Thomas the Apostle’s Institute for Catholic Theology.”

“Sure,  I remember you. You’re my friend Mike’s brother-in-law. You teach at a public school, right?  How can help?”

“Well, I’m thinking about teaching at Veritas and I wanted to ask your advice.”

“You shouldn’t do that. You should teach at Saint Mary’s.”

“What? ”

“You should teach at Saint Mary’s.”

“I actually have an interview there tomorrow.”

“Really? Me too! What for? ”


“Wait. . .what? Me, too. . .for Dean of Academics.”

“Oh, ha! Mine is for Dean of Students.”

“Kevin, this is so funny. I was just praying about this and I told God I’d do it, but I told Him He had to send me a friend. You’re an answer to prayer–you have to take the job.”

“No, you don’t understand: you’re an answer to prayer.”


“I’ve been really struggling with this decision about whether to work for Veritas or not, so I asked my brother who’s a priest what I should do. He said, ‘Kevin, when I’m in a situation like this, I tell the Lord, “God, I’m stupid. Make it totally clear to me what I’m supposed to do.”‘ So, that’s what I prayed last night and then you just say that out of the blue. It’s a sign!”

It was a sign. And that’s how Saint Mary’s’ former-Dean-of-Students-now-Assistant-Principle and I answered each other’s prayers and both started working there. 

More tomorrow. . .