My father was a man who taught by example. If I had been a better student and a better son I’d have learned a lot more from him than I did. Nevertheless, one of the most enlightening lessons I actually did manage to learn from him was in regard to the virtue of forgiveness.

His first child and my older sister was born with a growth defect. Despite our parents and doctors efforts, Beth never reached a height of more than 4 feet & 10 inches…in short, a tall dwarf, so to speak. She endured a great deal of mockery while growing up and never had a boyfriend. My father was her best friend. He adored her and was the primary pillar of strength throughout her life.

Being raised in the Catholic Church during the 1950s; it wasn’t all that unusual for parents of five children to hope that one of them would become either a priest or a nun. They gave up on me at a very early stage. Beth, however, took the bait…she developed a genuine vocation and entered The Order of the Sacred Heart at the age of twenty-three. I visited her at a novitiate in Boston on returning from Europe. It was the happiest I’d ever seen her. We sat around the kitchen table with her friends talking and laughing. Sadly, that was the last time we ever talked or laughed together.

While bumming around Los Angeles looking for a job in May 1975, I received a call from a friend of my father’s. My sister had been in an accident and I was instructed to return home immediately.

Upon entering the hospital room, I saw Beth comatose in bed; head wrapped in bandages and hooked up to half a dozen IVs. My father stood motionless in front of a picture window overlooking the street. It was a beautiful spring afternoon. When I walked over to my father I heard him mumbling to himself.

“What are you saying?” I asked.           

He pointed to the street below and said, “I can’t believe...I just can't believe what I’m seeing.”

It was a struggle for him to talk.

“Can’t believe what, Dad?”    

“I can’t believe all those...all those people and all those cars and buses are still...still moving.”

In essence, his world had come to a screeching, heartbreaking stop. In addition to my mother, Beth was the love of his life and, suddenly, she was gone. Four years later, my father would be gone, as well. He never fully recovered. Still, he stayed true to his noble character.

Beth had been run down on her way back to the convent by a drunken teenage boy. As it turned out, the boy’s parents were friends with people my parents knew. A week after the burial, my father visited the boy’s home. Knowing who he was, the mother hesitantly called her son to the door. It was some time later that I learned what my father said to the boy. Based upon what the mother told others, I will simply attempt to paraphrase his remarks…

“I’m sure you are truly sorry for what happened. It was an accident but, one you will have to live with for the rest of your life…as will I. Please don’t let this sink you into a deep sense of remorse and depression. You have your whole life in front of you…make the most of it. For whatever it may be worth, I forgive you. Now, I beg you, please forgive yourself. Pray for God’s help.”

Imagine forgiving the person who killed your child! And yet, knowing my father, I know he meant it. So, a lesson learned.

My sister was twenty-five when she died. On the day before Thanksgiving of that year, the boy went down to the basement and hung himself. He had just turned eighteen. A tragedy compounded by tragedy.

I only remember my father laughing once after Beth died. We were on our way back to the company following a business lunch about three years later. One of the business associates at lunch gave my father a cassette tape when we left. It was a recording of Richard Pryor in concert. We plugged it in on the way back to the office. My father began laughing so much he nearly had to pull off to the side of the road. I will be forever grateful to Richard Pryor for that.