The very
first time I met the man who would in time become my father-in-law, my then-girlfriend and
I had just gotten off the train from Chicago to Portland, and she had pointed out her father to me. I was naturally a bit nervous about meeting the father of the girl I loved, the woman I was already thinking I would marry. He introduced himself
thusly, after shaking hands and exchanging names:
“So, you
just got off the train, huh? You know why the rails of the tracks are that
particular width apart? It’s because the wagon wheel ruts from the Conestoga
wagons on the old Oregon Trail were that far apart, and it was simplest to just
put the rails on the established path. And the reason those wagon wheels were
that far apart, was that the wheels on a two-horse carriage were that far apart,
because that’s how wide it had to be to comfortably accommodate two horses
side-by-side… and it just made sense to use the same factory specs for the axles they were putting on the covered
wagons.
So: You just
rode two thousand miles on the width of two horse’s asses.
Anyway, need
help with your luggage?”
And that…
was actually a very apt introduction to Tom Wolf.
I knew right
away that I would fit in with this family, based on that introduction. I knew I
could count on truly terrible jokes, preferably at the most inappropriate time
possible. I knew I wouldn’t have to pretend to be anything I wasn’t, or pretend to feel
anything I didn’t. I knew that I would LIKE this quirky, nerdy, snarky guy.
I didn’t yet
know what I would learn later, as a member of the family: Tom was a great guy
at all times, but he especially shone in a crisis.
You know, it’s
true what they say – You never do tell people everything you should while they’re
still alive to hear it. You always think they’ll be around longer, you’ll have
some warning before they’re gone, you’ll have time to say it when the time is
right for them to hear it… and then, they’re gone and you never said it, so you
have to say it to their friends and family instead.
Tom died unexpectedly
in his sleep Thursday morning. And as we dealt with the crisis, I couldn’t
help thinking about how Tom always dealt with a crisis.
The FIRST thing
he did was to listen carefully. No one knew how to shut up and listen like Tom.
He was never one to interrupt someone else’s anger, fear, or grief with
offering advice – he held his peace until you had poured out everything you
needed to say.
The second
thing he did… was to quietly, calmly, do anything that was in his power to help.
He didn’t waste time on telling you how sorry he was for what you were going
through – he would drive you to the hospital, or write a check to make the
unexpected expense go away, or fix the leak, or tell you gently but firmly that
you should do (the exact thing that you already knew damn well you needed to do,
but needed someone to nudge you to do it) and offer to go with you while you
did it.
The third
thing he would do, was to crack some absolutely AWFUL joke. I have no doubt in my mind that, if
Tom could somehow be alive to attend his own funeral, he would be the first to
gesture towards his own coffin and deadpan “The shell is here, but the nut… is
gone.” He would always look for the grim humor that would make the unbearable a
little more bearable, to make the heavy burden feel a little less heavy and burdensome.
And finally,
AFTER he had done all that, he would ask if it was okay to pray for you.
Now, I grew
up in a church where, most of the time, “I’ll pray for you” was code for “I’ll
pray for you INSTEAD OF DOING SOMETHING for you.” It was an excuse for
inaction, a way for people to feel like they’d helped without having to bother
with actually helping. It was telling people “Be warm and well fed” without
actually warming or feeding them. Often, when I hear the phrase “I’ll
pray for you”, I don’t feel cared about – I feel dismissed. And I often feel like
telling the speaker to do something biologically impossible.
But I never
felt that way with Tom. Because when he said it, he meant “I’ve done everything
I can think to do to help, and I’m sorry I can’t do more. I believe I know a guy
who CAN do more – is it okay with you if I ask him?”
It didn’t
feel like a cop-out or a social nicety when Tom said it.
When Tom
said it, it felt like love.
Ironically,
Tom (an old-school man’s man in many ways, who wasn’t generally comfortable
with talking about feelings, or with hugging, a man who would have been the
LAST to describe himself as a nurturing person) was better at nurturing people
in crisis than I am, despite the fact that nurturing people in crisis is
literally what I do for a living. He knew that you have to start with the hard
part – shutting up and hearing the other person. Then you have to meet the immediate
need. Then you have to try and help the person laugh a bit, because laughter
makes things look smaller and therefore more manageable. And THEN you offer thoughts and prayers and well-wishes. I had
to work for decades to learn how to do what Tom did as naturally as breathing.
And now that he’s not breathing anymore, I wish he was here to help us through crisis one last time.
In his
quiet, awkward, unassuming, gentle way, Thomas J. Wolf was a giant among men, a
pillar of strength where mere power would have been useless; and the world is
poorer for losing him. May he rest in peace, and may the rest of us learn how
to do, in some measure, what he did for those he loved.
Tom, I’ll miss you. And now I can say the
words that would have made you feel awkward if I’d said them to you in person:
I love you.
- Your
son-in-law,
John
