FBF #36: Remembering Dad

Five lessons my father taught me on the day after his death

My father died on Wednesday. He was 85 years old.

I would have preferred to write “passed away” or “we lost my father,” but he hated when people spoke of death in abstractions.

My dad had an irreverent sense of humor, and he used to tell us that if we ever wanted to check to see if “he’d gone to Q” (which he illustrated by sticking his tongue out in a cartoonish representation of death), we should just put some Popeye’s Fried Chicken under his nose.

Apart from sadness, my primary emotion when I heard of my father’s death was relief. He had suffered from steadily worsening dementia for the past 10 years. Since he was one of the most erudite and sophisticated men I have ever known, his frequent bouts of confusion and his inability to recognize even close family members were especially painful.

I feel that I have been slowly mourning my father for the last decade, which helped cushion the shock of his actual death. I prayed that Allah Ta’ala make things easy for him and that He not prolong his suffering, so when I got the call telling me that his death was fast and painless, I made shukr to Allah.

I pray that Allah accept my father, who said the kalima “La ilaha illa Allah, Muhammad ar-Rasul Allah” many times in his life, that He overlook any of his shortcomings, and that He reunite me with him in Jannat al-firdous. Ameen.

Yesterday, my brother Habeeb and I traveled up to Maine to perform the ghusl or final washing of my father’s body. As you can imagine, this was one of the most difficult tasks of our lives, but it was also among the most cathartic. Death was certainly not an abstraction in the basement of that funeral home.  

The October Letter

My dad died in October, the same month in which he was born. Yesterday, when searching through some of his notebooks, I came across a handwritten letter from the year 2000, just after he had retired from his law firm.

It was a fundraising missive sent to his St. Mark’s Class of 1955 classmates, urging them to donate to the school’s annual fund. But it was so much more than that. It was a reflection on aging and meaning and the months of our lives. Above all it was a paean to October, his favorite month.

I have written about my dad several times before, see FBF #17: Museums and my Dad and Day 8: Dad. Today, I wanted to write something that truly honored him, but I feel weighed down by the task and not fully ready just 48 hours removed from his death.

Instead, for today’s FBF, I wanted to let my Dad himself do the heavy lifting, by sharing his fundraising letter as a “primary source” with five reflections from me to follow.

October 23, 2000

Yo! –Gang:

Looking out at acres of mudflats on an incandescent fall day, your old philosopher cannot help but reflect that tides and seasons are great metaphors in contemplating our existence.

Yes, I am writing to solicit your prompt, enthusiastic, and overly generous response to the St. Mark’s Annual Fund. Last year was another five-year for us, and the school and I would like to thank you profusely. We raised over $25,000 ranking sixth for all classes. We had support from 81% of our class, fourth best for small classes, and we had no less than nine Founder’s Associates, those who give $1500 or more, which ranks us first among all classes great or small. Close to one-third of our class are Founder’s Associates! There are two or three others who give very generously, so we have the potential to boost that number to twelve. Envelopes are provided to assist you in your eleemosynary intentions.

Back to my ruminations. October is my favorite month, except for investments. Maine is especially glorious in October, a final efflorescence before the big sleep. This October featured for Molly, my son Nat and me a three-day cruise to Monhegan in Beagle. Day one was spinnaker run to Monhegan. Perfect wind and cloudless skies. Day two saw 30 knot winds and a hairy reach back to Christmas Cove, making 8-9 knots under main alone. Day three perfect weather again and a long port tack home. Retirement can be heaven on earth.

Here's my point, my insight: With health and moderately clean living, we might have 78 to 84 years on Earth. Dividing by twelve, we have “months” of six to seven years each to one “year” of life. At this point September is ending and we are just entering the most glorious month of October. This should be a time of great beauty in our lives. I am finding it quite pleasant not to be constantly competing. Working on our house and property seems far more satisfying than working hard in a sealed office building.

Walking in these fields and woods is a constant revelation. Will our grandchildren have it this good? I think so if they can become close readers, proficient writers, appreciative of music and art, and especially if they become actually accomplished in the arts like Alain Miner in sports… (he then gives numerous examples of specific classmates and their strengths).

Our formative years were in Southborough. We, who seemed so ordinary in the March of our lives when we were struggling to bud and blossom, look quite remarkable now, caparisoned in October’s colorful tunics.

My, I do run on—please give to our school and make it a little better and tomorrow, better still.

1) The Glory of October

Reading the line “looking out at acres of mudflats on an incandescent fall day, your old philosopher cannot help but reflect that tides and seasons are great metaphors in contemplating our existence,” on an October afternoon the day after my dad died felt like Allah was allowing my dad to advise me one last time.

His line, “October is my favorite month... Maine is especially glorious in October, a final efflorescence before the big sleep,” brought me great comfort.

I am grateful that Allah allowed my dad to both enter and leave the world in his favorite month. And I am also grateful that he left the world during Rabi’ al-Awwal, the birth month of our beloved Prophet (SAWS).

Between fall foliage, apple picking, cider donuts, and the crispness of the air, fall in New England has always been my favorite season, just like my dad. I can picture him writing this letter at his desk in his tower room looking out at the mudflats of Brunswick, Maine, and I can see him at the helm of Beagle on those glorious days of sailing.

I love how he likens the days of early retirement to the October of his life, and it brings me great joy to hear how happy he is.

His words, “I find it quite pleasant not to be constantly competing… in a sealed office building” particularly resonate with me, as I, too, feel an incredible lightness at having left behind the life of a full-time employee and finally having earned significant control over how I spend my time.

2) The Art of Fundraising

A few years ago, I took a course called The Art of Fundraising through the Lilly Family School of Philanthropy at Indiana University. One of the central premises was that fundraising is defined as “the gentle art of teaching the joy of giving.” My dad is offering a masterclass of this art in this letter.

Look at his crystal-clear call to action delivered within three sentences of the beginning of the letter: “I am writing to solicit your prompt, enthusiastic, and overly generous response to the St. Mark’s Annual Fund.” He then uses various statistics (logos for the rhetoric nerds among you) to praise previous efforts, highlight the generosity of others, and gently build the desire for every classmate to give. Later in the letter, he highlights the accomplishments of specific classmates.

His fundraising efforts come off as sincere and personal, and not at all sale-sy or desperate. MashAllah, I have much to learn as I seek to master the art of marketing and selling.

3) The Months of Our Lives

My dad explains the crux of his entire argument when he writes: “Here's my point, my insight: With health and moderately clean living, we might have 78 to 84 years on Earth. Dividing by twelve, we have “months” of six to seven years each to one ‘year’ of life. At this point September is ending and we are just entering the most glorious month of October.”

This framework which breaks life down to twelve 7-year “months” is incredibly clarifying. By this token, at 45, I am halfway through June, and entering the heart of summer.

Indeed, since founding Five Before College, I feel like all the seeds that I sowed in my springtime in the classroom and in the masjid are starting to take root. While I will try to maintain the gardener’s mindset and focus on the process rather than the goal, I am hopeful that the harvest of these seeds will be bountiful in both dunya and akhira.

4) His Advice for His Grandchildren

I was brought to tears when he wrote, “Walking in these fields and woods is a constant revelation,” because I have discovered the exact same truth since the pandemic forced me out of my daily routine and allowed me to rediscover walking and nature.

When he asked, “Will our grandchildren have it this good?” my heart was in my throat because I have often pondered the same thing when I see how connected my kids are to their devices and how seemingly disconnected they are from nature.

But his answer is both optimistic and instructive. “I think so if they can become close readers, proficient writers, appreciative of music and art, and especially if they become actually accomplished in the arts.”

My dad was a fanatic for the liberal arts, and I marvel at how closely his advice parallels the exact lessons I have been trying to teach my students for so many years. Pursue STEM degrees, fine, but sprinkle in some philosophy, art history, or foreign language. The world needs thinkers and romantics, not just algorithms and robots.

5) The Importance of March  

In his conclusion, my dad writes, “Our formative years were in Southborough. We, who seemed so ordinary in the March of our lives when we were struggling to bud and blossom, look quite remarkable now, caparisoned in October’s colorful tunics.”

So much of this rings true for me as well, as it was my time in Southborough and at St. Mark’s where I discovered Islam.

Moreover, I have devoted nearly my entire professional life to helping students in the March of their lives learn to “bud and blossom.” I pray to Allah that their Octobers are as beautiful as my dad’s.

I love you, dad.