The following words of remembrance were written by me and my sister Allison on December 26, 2012 upon the unexpected death of our dad, Jack Davis, on the 23rd. Relying on the loving support and presence of our phenomenal community, I was able to share them at the Funeral Mass at Blessed Virgin Mary Church on December 27th. I offer this reflection here for those of you who kindly requested a copy and for those who never met my dad, that you might get a glimpse of his spirit and legacy.
Over the
past four days, my mom, my sister, and I have been amazed by the love and
support that has overflowed from the hearts of our family and friends, here and
across the country, as we grieve the loss of my dad. Listening to the kind
words of people who love him, it’s no surprise that the recurring theme has
been his sense of humor. He was a hilarious storyteller and never ran out of
off-the-wall jokes or ridiculous puns. He taught us, for example, that you can tune
a piano, but you can’t tune a fish, and that the best time to go to the dentist
is 2:30. (Tooth hurty. Get it?) He loved making people smile, and I know that
his hearty laugh will be remembered by everyone he knew. My mom, sister, and I
were “privileged” to experience his more dramatic humor as well; he often
voiced his passionate and usually unfounded disdain for very specific people
and things. For instance, he intensely hated Elliot Stabler from Law and Order
SVU, Neil Patrick Harris, and Ryan Seacrest (OK, who really likes Ryan
Seacrest?). He was REPULSED by Triscuits because “Why would ANYONE willingly
choose to eat CARDBOARD?!,” and he adamantly opposed every form of technology
except TV (Twitter?! Really?! I don’t care whether or not you just ate a tuna
sandwich!). Last night, our cousin Holly recalled my dad’s Incredible Hulk
moment during which he literally pulled a rip in his shirt until he tore the
whole thing off his body like a madman, just for a laugh. And perhaps most
importantly, he regularly graced us with his bombastic and inimitable Monday
Night Football dance.
Beyond
sharing his laughter, my dad also shared his love of sports and music with his
daughters. He introduced Allison to basketball among other sports, teaching her
drills, taking her to games, and coaching her grade school basketball team. He
was so proud and happy at any sporting event when she played; he went to every
game, whether or not she was the star of the team. She’ll never forget her
first Sixers game with him, or those springs and summers sitting together
watching Phillies games and eating watermelon.
He
filled our house with music and shared the arts with me. From Stevie Wonder to
The Who, from Bye, Bye, Birdie to The Bodyguard Soundtrack (no joke), we
listened to music together all the time. In retrospect, I realize the special
intimacy of our shared love of music; I witnessed my dad enter into songs and
find God there; in the stories and passion of the musicians, he experienced his
own story and tapped into his humanity in a special way. And now when I sing,
my dad is always in the music.
One of
the graces of my dad’s life is that somehow, he was able to give his kids the
love and support that, in so many ways, was never given to him. Along with our
amazing mom, he made significant sacrifices always so we could pursue our
dreams. He gave us opportunities, supported us in our endeavors, and most
importantly, he genuinely delighted in anything that we loved.
My dad
had a sort of perceptiveness about people that he was NOT afraid to share out
loud…for better or for worse. By teasing people about their idiosyncrasies, he
helped them to laugh at themselves and not take themselves so seriously.
Recently, for example, while discussing video games, my dad told me, “In your
line of work, you’re only going to be able to afford ACOUSTIC Guitar Hero…”
More
seriously, though, he almost always talked to us like it was his last day on
earth. He was never afraid to put his feelings into words and to share them
with the people he loved. He had a gift for allowing himself to be vulnerable,
intimate, and honest about his emotions. He told us on a regular basis how
proud he was of us; as we grew, he celebrated the people we were becoming. If
we ever doubted ourselves for a second, he would look at us, practically scoff,
and say, “You can do anything…because you’re you!” He could see our giftedness
even when we couldn’t, and he made it his mission to let us know as often as
possible. It was like he saw us the way that God sees us.
Throughout
the past few years, my dad found himself overwhelmed with gratitude to the
point of tears on a regular basis. A man of few material needs, he taught us
about simplicity before we even realized that it was a value to be prized. He
revealed to us the importance of basking in immense gratitude for life…gratitude
for connection to God…gratitude for the people we love. When I picture my dad
in my head, I see him sitting in living room in his spot on the couch, looking
at us or our mom with this massive beaming smile and shaking his head…just
shaking his head back and forth as if he simply couldn’t believe that he had been so abundantly blessed. My dad had a deep
awareness of the grace that had been moving in his life and in our home.
In
addition to my sister, my mom, and myself, my dad touched the lives of many
other people. He loved all his brothers and sisters with whom he shared that
crazy Davis sense of humor and unbelievable resilience. His in-laws and many
nieces and nephews were able to enjoy his spirit, his love, and his ridiculous
commentary. He was profoundly grateful for the A.A. fellowship; sharing his
story in community was truly transformative for him. His life was changed by walking
with his companions on the road, and I have no doubt that his presence and
sharing changed lives. My dad could have a conversation with absolutely anyone,
and despite his introverted nature, he always ended up being the life of the
party when spending time with friends over the years. He was such a presence on
Yale Square, where he met some of his closest friends who became like family. And
he was a great dad to our dog Noozle, who he treated like a little prince; we
are so happy that he convinced my mom to get him.
It’s no
secret that my dad underwent a great deal of suffering at times, and his life
was filled with many ups and downs. He spent many years blaming himself for
dark times and struggling with his battles. Like Fr. Corley shared last night,
however, my dad’s pain led him to a poverty of spirit that opened him to God in
a powerful way. Thanks to the reliance on God that he found in the last few
years of his life, my dad was able to embrace an authentic humility that
enabled him finally to see himself as a LOVED sinner. Without even knowing it,
my dad was an amazing example of faith to us by allowing himself to be
transformed by God again and again and again. I have no doubt that my dad is
resting in Christ’s light now, basking in eternal peace, joy, and of course,
laughter.
