Pickled Herring

A jar of pickled herring sits in our refrigerator, waiting to be enjoyed. Those little morsels are wonderful on a cracker or corn chip while sipping on a glass of wine. A relaxing happy hour while watching the news with My Love.

But I can't relish those pickled herring without recalling my Father, who died in 1971. At the beginning of each Lenten season, he would get a jar of pickled herring squares. He would munch on those herring pieces throughout the Lenten season, until finally Easter would arrive about the time that the bottom of the jar was reached. To this day, I don't know if he actually enjoyed the pickled herring, or if it was one of the penances that he took upon himself for that penitential season. This is one of the mysteries of my youth that remain with me today.

My Father remains for me a pillar of strength and faith. He was quiet, not easily riled, and always willing to help anyone in need. His largeness of heart reached out and touched many people, as was evidenced by the fact that his funeral was the largest one ever in our parish church. For me, his life is best summarized in his favorite prayer, the "Serenity Prayer".

"Lord, grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The Courage to change the things I can,
And the Wisdom to know the difference."

He was not one who was afraid to become involved, especially in his Church. My memory of him includes him actively engaged as one of the men who counted the collection after the Sunday Masses, going with one of his trucks to help haul things around the church property that needed to be transported, ushering in church, and many other occasions of service. If there was a need that he could meet, he was there.

I don't recall him ever getting angry. He seemed to be able to accept life as it came at him, and to accept people the way they presented themselves. Truly he seemed to have the wisdom to know the difference.

One night, a month or two after he had died very unexpectedly in September, 1971, I had a dream in which my Father came to me. I began to argue with him, saying that he was not supposed to be there because he was dead. But he said that he was only there to tell me that everything was OK. There was nothing to be concerned about. That was so typical of him, and I found it to be very reassuring.

However I was unable to ask him about the pickled herring and his reason for eating it during Lent. That is just one of the questions that will have to wait until I meet him again after I die.