As you read over here (and maybe on Facebook), darling Dr. Miller passed away on Wednesday. Here’s how his oldest son described it:

After a small nightcap of whiskey, making his funeral intentions abundantly clear, refusing all unnecessary medical help (as only a surgeon can), having returned to his home… my father, almost 97 years of age, a former clinical professor of surgery and departmental chief in innumerable hospitals in Boston, a true gentleman with generosity and heart from a bygone age, passed from this earthly plane to one of bliss.

And now Maida, darling Maida, is lonely.

“I know I’m not alone… but I only want Harold.”

Her plan was always for them to pass into “bliss” hand in hand. Even in her tenth decade of life, living without her partner of 66 years was unfathomable until the cruel reality of his death. And although this is devastating, it’s an absolute honor to witness: to be called to comfort a woman capable of this much love.

Following traditional Jewish rites, Dr. Miller will be buried promptly and without pomp and circumstance. I can’t make it out to California in time for the service, but (if little boy schedules, flu season, and somewhat reasonable airfares permit it) I really want to pay a visit while the family is “sitting shivy.” Jews really do this well: let the family stay put, let the world come in and bear witness to a life, and let us hold close the ones suffering the gaping wound of its absence. I want to be a part of that for Dr. Miller, for Maida… for me.

My boys are, naturally, shaken. I’ll admit that my first fascination with the adorable Millers morphed into a bit of an outreach program to teach Brodie and Teddy the importance of generosity, kindness, and neighborliness. It was a joy to bring the boys across the street… to watch Maida’s face as Brodie played their Cold War-era-tuned piano or to find Teddy watching televised soccer at the feet of a snoring Dr. Miller. Coffee cake delivery to our ancient neighbors was a job to teach the boys how to cross the street carefully, looking both ways before they were greeted with kisses and pinches and love. And although we had discussed the sooner-than-later mortality of our 90-year-old friends many times, I wasn’t prepared for how sad I’d be… and how that would affect them, too. Teddy told Grandma Karen:

“The last time I saw Mommy cry was when she told us she had breast cancer.”

I’ll be reeling from that blow to the stomach for a little longer. Brodie reminded me of a funny voicemail from them: a rambling message from Maida listing all the reasons we were lucky to know each other, with Dr. Miller in the background yelling his “me, too!” endorsement of these sweet sentiments. I hadn’t deleted it. And it made us laugh all over again.

There is going to be a lot of talk about Heaven, where and what it is, and if Dr. Miller won’t need a walker because he can fly now. Because the afterlife is impossible for me to explain to anyone, much less these logical little people, I focused on more earthly explanations. I told them that Heaven can be found find right here in little moments. When we curl around my cell phone to listen to a funny message and laugh… that’s Heaven. When we stand in a circle and squeeze each other after Teddy yells, “Family Hug!”… that’s Heaven. When Maida opened the door and gazed with delight at two eager little visitors who never once shied away from a lipsticked kiss… that’s Heaven. We can bring a little taste of it to each other right here, right now. And if we’re lucky enough to notice it, it’s bliss.

(Farewell, darling Dr. Miller.)

“Other’s faults seem so small when looking at our own.” — Dr. Harold Miller

I’ve been nominated to join the Church Vestry: a huge honor. The first task was to pen a little blurb about myself for the Redeemer News and it went like this:

Britt Lee found The Church of the Redeemer in 2008 when The Lee Family was looking for intelligent, poignant, and witty sermons (and the option to enjoy them without the children). Smitten with the Rector and Sunday School, Britt found herself joining every committee listed in the Announcements. She has enjoyed being a member of the Sunday School Committee, co-chairing the Christmas Market, and being both a part of and a grateful recipient of the Pastoral Care Committee. She has a whole bunch of science degrees, but is lucky to ignore them and stay home quizzing small boys to be better than yours at math. When she isn’t blogging about Breast Cancer, she’s buying new plants that refuse to grow in her shade garden. She has pom pom wielding enthusiasm for our Church and is thrilled to join another Redeemer group where fellowship and love bring joy to any work done in His name.

This is somewhat of a lighter tone than the other biographies with their rather more impressive employment histories and societal contributions and talents. What I lack in accomplishments, I attempted to bolster with goofy wit. Mr. T (his wife’s pet name for my favorite Church “elder”) mimed an adorable rah rah rah as I sallied down the aisle last Sunday, suggesting my ebullience for all things Redeemer was evident from that handful of sentences, at least for him. And yet… in the midst of current discussions (and self-flagellation) regarding the effect of the published word, I received a note from the Church Office. A fellow parishioner mailed in an edited version of my silly bio, correcting my usage of “pom pom.” Surely, I didn’t intend to convey “anti-aircraft artillery”-wielding enthusiasm for our Church! This lover of words felt strongly enough about my simile to put a pen to paper and stamp to envelope for edification. Now, I’m rather obsessed with meeting him.

Most likely, this brilliant man (who lived through WWII) was just struck by my word choice. Though I intended to summon the image of a tight-sweatered girl in pigtails, this reader conjured guns and death. Was he being funny? professorial? silly? or just kind of bored with Monday’s jumble? I need to know. I fantasize that we develop this deep kinship based on Writing, Faith, History, and Life. He’ll impart great, charming wisdom and lead me to some higher road where I never again write anything that could harm anyone. This is probably taking my romantic notions of all elders a little far, but forgive the fancy… I’m missing my favorite neighborhood ancients.

Once again I’m blown away by the work of the Holy Spirit here (less annoyingly Zealot types might call this “coincidence”—take your pick), reminding me that my little musings could feel like the rapid firing of so many angry guns. At Bible Study today (yes, BIBLE STUDY), we discussed word choice at great length. The King James version of John warns against the Wrath of God, yet other interpretations are kinder regarding the fate of people who fail to know Him. I’ll always favor the sunnier interpretations. I see rainbows and lollipops and cheerleaders instead of clouds and cavities and acts of war. My next writing assignment is to pen a cheery little letter to my newest (oldest) editor, cross-referencing each word with Wikipedia lest I unwittingly fall onto some horrifying Holocaust allusion in an attempt at bon mot. Wish me luck: I’ve got a great lunch-at-the-retirement-home outfit at the ready.

Yay, Church!

Yay! Steve Safran is back, encouraging all of us to embrace the inevitable: social media (and perhaps the backlash of those we drag into it). Although Stevie and I attended the same college, our friendship really blossomed on Facebook. Our shared love of shared-writing has led to this fun, bloggy partnership I cherish. And honestly, who doesn’t love a Facebook birthday?

The Truth Is… By Steve Safran

Webster defines “decorum” as “that thing other people think you’re violating when you write it, but not when they write it.” Webster does not, of course, write any such thing. He would… if he were alive in this era of Facebook and blogging, and also… if he were me. Alas, none of this is so, even though my fourth-grade nickname was “Webster” because I knew so, so many words. (Another lie. But I’m a writer–for TV–so the power of the lie is mine to spread, and abuse my power, I shall!)

Britt recently wrote about how people can react to seeing their names in print. Not everyone likes it. I’d like to offer why living this way is important to those who do. I’ve been writing online since 2002 and blogging since 2004. I started updating on Facebook before anyone knew anything about a man named Obama. This makes me an old man in social media. I live my life online. Writing. In Hebrew, Safran literally means “writer of the scrolls.” Really. How could I not write? It’s a Jew-y birthright.

Last week, I turned 45. I was working at a new job in a new city. By myself. And there, in a two-star Manhattan hotel room, the bedbugs and I read more than 150 “Happy Birthdays” and “Congrats on the New Job” messages. I was alone, but I was not lonely. Without social media, I’d have heard from a handful of people. I know it’s not strictly the numbers, but when you want to feel the love, let me tell you– there’s nothing better than 150 messages of “attaboy.”

Webster defines “catharsis” as “that thing you need so you’ll stop feeling so shitty all the time.” (This time it’s true. Webster was a total bring-down.) Writing is great catharsis. And writers must write! You don’t need to be a professional to write. You just need to write. This is fantastic. Britt is a doctor, which required years of training. To be a writer, all I needed at the start was a pencil. It had to be a Number Two Ticonderoga, but I’m a connoisseur. Want a good catharsis exercise? Write a really open, honest, mean letter to someone you’re pissed at. Then erase it. Do not– and I can’t emphasize this enough—do NOT hit “Send All.”

I fully understand Britt’s need to write about her illness. You write what you know. It’s great catharsis. I have depression and I am getting a divorce. I am not going to write about the joys of handcrafting fine cabinets. (Although I’m sure it would be an amusing read from someone who cannot handcraft a small block of wood out of a larger block of wood.) When you write honestly, it shows. You need to include the details, or it doesn’t feel real. Would Britt’s writing work without A Ma or A Gong? I suppose– but we’d be the poorer for it.

In Neil Simon’s “Biloxi Blues,” the character of Epstein says, “Once you start compromising your thoughts, you’re a candidate for mediocrity.”

I’m not running for that office.

Britt’s a writer. Writers need an audience. The audience demands the truth. Britt writes the truth. QED.

Webster defines “conclusion” as “that bit you’re very happy to reach, especially if the writer has belabored a point to death and, possibly, has been drinking too many Harpoon Ales.”

Stevie in his wheelhouse: on TV, plugging social media