The greatness of a man is not in how much wealth he acquires, but in his integrity and his ability to affect those around him positively. – Bob Marley
During a recent lunchtime walk, as I admired the sun’s
reflection on the surface of Philadelphia’s Schuylkill River a few blocks from
my office, I reached for my phone to call my brother. For the past several
years, I had called Steve every week or two. We would talk about how things
were going in our respective lives, upcoming travel plans, and anything else
that came to mind. But then I suddenly remembered that Steve was no longer with
us, his number in my phone but a remnant of a past life. I placed the phone
back into my pocket, looked at the still waters beside me and the blue skies
above, and walked silently onward.
This has happened to me a few times since Steve died in
early October. I am not sure why I experience these temporary lapses in memory.
Others have told me it is a common experience and to be expected for anyone who
has lost someone close to them. But it is at moments such as these when I am forced
to contemplate the reality of loss, the certainty of death, and the fragility
of life itself.
Another year has come and gone. Days pass ever so quickly as
the steady drumbeat of life leaves me stranded on the abandoned tracks of time’s
unrelenting forward progress. During a two-week stretch in early autumn, I
forever lost the presence of two men I admired and respected – Andrea’s dad, my
father-in-law, Marty Gelman, and my dear brother Steve. Through their deaths, Marty
to natural causes at the age of 96 and Steve to brain cancer at 61, I am more
intimately familiar with the temporary nature of life, compelled to appreciate
more profoundly the importance of awakening to the wonder of each new day. For
now and forever, it is the memories I will cherish, the shared experiences and
momentary insights, the simple pleasures of a good meal and a good laugh.
I remember especially the little things, the quiet
conversations with Marty on Sunday afternoons, the golf outings, ballgames, and
childhood memories with Steve. “That’s when I realized that certain moments go
on forever,” writes Lauren Oliver in the novel Before I Fall. “Even after
they’re over they still go on, even after you're dead and buried, those moments
are lasting still, backward and forward, on into infinity. They are everything
and everywhere all at once.”
Marty and me, Thanksgiving 2016 |
Martin Gelman was a one-of-a-kind man who lived a full and meaningful
life on his terms. (You can read of his many accomplishments and rich history here
and here.) But what I will miss most are the many conversations I had with
Marty about religion and politics, life and the world around us. Marty had a
knack for listening and putting things into perspective – he provided a sense
of historical insight, reminding us of the many ways life repeats itself. He
had lived through the Great Depression, fought in World War II, and for fifty
years taught anthropology and psychology at a local community college, where he
became one of its most popular professors. For 35 of those years, he counseled
patients from all walks of life in his center-city Philadelphia clinical psychology
practice, earning the love and respect of countless admirers. He earned the
Distinguished Flying Cross as a B-24 navigator during the Good War and was a
member of the Greatest Generation. And yet, through it all he retained a sense
of humility and unpretentiousness that made you immediately comfortable and at
ease in his presence.
I was especially inspired by Marty’s life-long love of
learning, for he believed that, as members of the human race, we are on this
planet to learn, think, question, and search. He was often the first person to
read a new essay I had composed. I looked forward to talking with him about what
I had written, eliciting his opinion and, hopefully, affirmation. Our talks typically
led to a much longer conversation about related topics concerning philosophy,
politics, family life, my love of the St. Louis Cardinals (which he admired and
found amusing, even as it perplexed him), and other things about which we
sometimes agreed and sometimes did not.
I debated often with Marty about the nature and existence of
God, with my defense of God’s existence sharply challenged by Marty’s inherent
skepticism. Having survived fifty bombing missions over the skies of Europe in
World War II, having learned of the horrors of the Holocaust, having witnessed
the repeated failures of human morality and humanity’s misuse of technology for
the sake of greed and power, he had many rational and logical reasons to question
God’s existence. But in all of our talks, while he asked good questions, he never
insisted he was right, and he retained a hopeful sense of possibility, which
allowed us always to find common ground.
He was intrigued by my embrace of the teachings of Rabbi
Abraham Joshua Heschel, who believed that God’s presence, though concealed, was
everywhere, and that it was up to human beings to make God’s presence known by
experiencing the everyday wonder of the universe. “Our goal should be to live
life in radical amazement,” wrote Heschel. “[T]o get up in the morning and look
at the world in a way that takes nothing for granted. Everything is phenomenal;
everything is incredible; never treat life casually. To be spiritual is to be
amazed.” I believe this resonated with Marty because, despite his secular rationalism
and deep skepticism born of the evils of 20th Century atrocities, deep down he
shared Heschel’s sense of wonder and amazement. And I loved that about him.
I will miss Marty and our talks, his wise counsel, and the
love and compassion he had for all who entered his life. Even at the end of his
life, when he had lost his physical agility and needed help with the daily
things of life, with eating and sitting and getting dressed, he never lost his
sense of humor, his compassion and concern for others, and his genuine interest
in the wellbeing of us all. He was a living example of Heschel’s admonition,
“Just to be is a blessing. Just to live is holy.”
Steve and me at One World Trade Center Fall 2016 |
My conversations with Steve were less intellectual, but he
was my big brother, a source of encouragement and support I have always counted
on. Steve and I shared a bond that went back a half century, to our childhood,
when we found new and creative ways to have fun, played sports together, and
shared life’s many adventures in a suburban New Jersey, Huck Finn sort of way. Steve
was an incredibly fun-loving soul who never took life too seriously. When we
were growing up in Moorestown, and later Hightstown, New Jersey, we did
everything together. Although Steve was three years ahead of me in school, he
let me hang out with his older friends and never excluded me from any activity.
We played touch football in the backyard of our house with neighborhood
friends, competed against each other in one-on-one basketball games, hit ground
balls to each other in our backyard, pitched batting practice to each other at
the local ball fields, and found all sorts of ways to have fun in the days
before video games and technology kept all the kids indoors.
Although he possessed a perpetually childlike spirit, Steve
was slightly defeated in later years, a touch beaten down by an adult life filled
with heartache. When his first marriage ended in divorce, along with his career as an
ordained Lutheran minister (a long story, to which I will say only that the
then Bishop of the Southeastern Lutheran Synod was a rigid, unforgiving, and
uncompassionate man who represented exactly the opposite of what the Church should
be), he never fully recovered. He made his share of mistakes, but his negative
experience with the church diminished his youthful zest for life. For years
afterwards, though he retained his friendly nature and bright smile, a portion
of his happy-go-lucky style disappeared and he developed emotional defenses
that left him a touch guarded.
And yet, Steve was among the most resilient and resourceful people
I have ever known. He always found a way to make things work. Whatever sadness
he harbored in later years, he continued on with dignity and fortitude. He found
love and happiness again, restored his relationship with his two children, whom
he dearly loved, and performed well in his new careers in banking and business.
Before he became too sick to speak at any length, when he
still had his health and a sense of normalcy, Steve and I spoke nearly every
week by phone. Some days we would talk about the pressures of work, the daily
struggles to succeed and make a living. On other days we talked about politics,
our kids, our shared passion for baseball and our past dreams of baseball
glory. By the time we had reached mid-life, our childhood experiences were but faded
memories of days long past. But even as time and distance came between us, we always
remained friends and knew we would always be there for each other.
Steve was one of the few people in life with whom I shared deep-seated memories
and formative childhood experiences. And though we never made it to the major
leagues, we understood our baseball dreams for what they were – the longings of
young men learning as we go, providing support and encouragement along the way.
So, as a new year beckons and life journeys onward, here is
to the memories of two kind and decent people who found a way to enrich the
world with their presence, their dignity, and their generosity of spirit. Though
they were distinctly different individuals, Marty and Steve each in their own
way left the world a little better than they found it. I will miss them both,
but I will forever cherish the many memories, of love, laughter, and good
conversation.
What a beautiful tribute. Aunt Gert always told me to read your blog and I never found the time. Alas, I will now make the time ,thanks, Mark for your lovely words. I look forward to reading more posts.
ReplyDeleteMarina - Thank you for the kind words and for taking the time to read this tribute.
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