A few weeks ago, a friend of mine died...

A few weeks ago, a close friend of mine died of cardio/renal failure. He'd been a Jesuit priest for many years and was loved and respected by many people, particularly for his ability to listen and to love.

By the time I learned how sick he was, he'd already lost conscious contact with this world and it was too late for me to talk with him about some things that I'd always wanted to share with him, but never seemed to find the right time to do that. When I attended his vigil this last Sunday night and then again at the funeral mass on Monday morning, I was holding on to a rather painful burden coming from my not having taken the time to reach out to Frank before he died. For a variety of reasons, I'd always sensed that he had some sort of struggle related to alcohol and I always felt that I was listening and watching for the right time to reach out to him to help him if I could. It appears that I waited too long.

But as a result of watching another priest, Fr. John, perform most all of the responsibilities in terms of leading the community in the various rites Catholics have for going through all the various aspects of grieving a loved one's death, as well as celebrating one's life, I think I have been able to process this whole burden in a much healthier way. Part of my doing that though was drafting a letter to Fr. John and using that letter to bring some sort of closure to my relationship with this wonderful man, Fr. Frank. A man that I didn't really know, but that I loved nonetheless. And a man that loved me, even though he really didn't know me.

I haven't sent this letter yet, but wanted to post a draft here.

Fr. John-


I'm sure you don't remember me, but I'm a former member to St P. parish and friend of Fr. Frank Houdek. Frank had been a close part of our family for many years.

I attended both the vigil (you kindly asked my wife, Nancy, to read one of the readings) and the funeral mass on Monday.

I can't tell you how touched and moved by both ceremonies and, in particular, your kindness and compassion expressed in countless words and actions. Thank you.


The main reason for this communication though is to try and bring some closure to my relationship with Frank. Something you said on Monday at the funeral mass struck me to the core. It hit me where I was most troubled and pained since hearing of Frank's turn for the worse: a time when I realised I'd simply waited too long to have a heart to heart, face to face conversation with this man I now know "I didn't know---but that I loved."

I've known Frank for many years---we met sometime around the time when he joined St. P's staff and as a result of his friendship with a friend of Nancy's. What connected Frank and me at first was our Jesuit past (I joined the California province in 1976 but left after about 3 1/2 years). Not long after leaving the Jesuits, Nancy and I fell in love and were married (at St P's) in 1980.

More than our Jesuit connection though, I was was always drawn to the kindness and love that I saw in Frank---it exemplified the best of what I cherished in the Jesuit tradition and way of life. It mirrored the best that I had seen in a few Jesuit mentors I had come close to in my short time with them. It came out from Frank most often when Frank talked with me about my young son Pat.

Pat has always been a most loving and sensitive child, but at a very young age he began confronting some dark personal demons and ultimately began using drugs and other things to escape from the intolerable pains associated with just living. His drug use started when he was about 9 years old (then a student at St P's...). His life and our family became an ever increasing living hell over the next 5-6 years. The hell extended beyond our family in various ways and certainly into St. P's School and parish community. No one, including Pat, my wife or myself, had any real clue that drugs had become the primary solution for Pat and his problems with life. That awareness only started to surface in each of us as the drugs stopped being a solution and became an all encompassing problem all in themselves.

Before we became aware of Pat's problem, we all did and said many things that displayed anger, fear, resentment, frustration, despair and hopelessness. Looking back, it's clear to me that all these words and actions were based in a flickering love and an overwhelming fear. All were based in ignorance about the dis-ease of addiction. Ultimately, through the kindness and wisdom of many strangers, including Frank's, Pat began a process of recovery that included almost as many failures as successes. Pat celebrated 8 years clean on May 10, 2009. In a few weeks, he'll turn 24 years old. Quite a miracle story.

Back to Frank: all during Pat's "dark years" Frank was always a source of kindness and love to me and each member of my family. Never did I see Frank without him asking me, "How's Pat doing?" No judgment. No frustration toward Pat. Just love. Then when Pat got clean just before his 16th birthday, Frank became Pat's most ardent cheerleader. He and Pat became close --- connected --- although I know little of the extent of their friendship.

Back to me and why I'm writing you now: when Pat began his recovery process in January 2001, I began to hit my own "bottom" in terms of my own drug (alcohol) use. Until that time in my life, I'd always been able to "prove" to myself and others, that I wasn't an alcoholic like my dad. He couldn't stop (he died of alcoholism about the time Pat began using drugs). I could!

In fact, I repeatedly "stopped" drinking hundreds of times between the ages of 18 and 48. But always, as soon as I became convinced that I was "stopped" and therefore not an alcoholic, I would start drinking again. The cycle of stopping and starting continued until the day Pat completed an intake interview with a counselor at a local hospital's "adolescent chemical dependency program" -- Pat had voluntarily agreed to begin that program at the suggestion of one of those "strangers" who'd miraculously crossed our path and the perfect moment in time.

But after the counselor had met with Pat for about an hour, he asked my wife and I to join them in his office. He informed us that Pat qualified for their program, but that before he admitted him into this outpatient program, my wife and I needed to agree to a couple of conditions: (1) we needed to remove all alcohol and drugs from our home (my wife and I both answered "Yes!" to this request, although I must admit that she said it a little faster than I did! -- you see, she's not an alcoholic. I had to think something to myself before saying Yes out loud and that was "Well, I guess I can drink somewhere else!") and (2) we need to stop all use of alcohol or any other drug while Pat was in this treatment program which was going to last somewhere around 6 months.

Well, that was my personal and dark bottom: that was the first time in my life when I knew without question that I couldn't stop drinking. And I couldn't tell them that I couldn't stop drinking! because if I told them that truth, they'd naturally start expecting me to stop! Well! I just realized for the first time in my life that I couldn't stop! And when I realized I couldn't stop: I realized it to my core. I simply couldn't go one day without some amount of alcohol in me to relieve the stress and pain that filled my life.

What's happened since is that I eventually woke up one morning and realized, once again, that I couldn't stop drinking. But that morning, October 20, 2001, I then became aware of the fact that the inability to stop drinking was called "alcoholism" and that I just happened to have this disease. All of a sudden, everything I had done up to that point, especially in terms of my drinking, became perfectly clear. It all made sense. What used to only bring feelings of shame and guilt, now brought only compassion and understanding.

I've been actively involved in AA for the last seven and a half years. I never broadcast to those outside of the program that I was a recovering alcoholic: it's really a personal matter for me. But whenever I sensed that someone was struggling with issues related to alcohol or other drugs, I would never hesitate to reach out to them by telling them my own story with this issue. It took me five years before I shared my story with Frank. We were sitting in our backyard for some family celebration and late in the afternoon Frank and I found ourselves sitting alone at one of the tables. He asked me how Pat was doing in his recovery and we talked about that for a little while, but then I felt the time was right to disclose my own recovery with this friend of mine. I did that in part because he was a close friend, but to be honest, I also did it because I had some sense that Frank himself had struggled with this perplexing and subtle disease over the years. And I thought that if I told him my story, he might feel comfortable sharing his with me.

He was clearly touched as he listened to me tell him what I have essentially just told you. He shared that over the years of his priestly life, he'd had quite a few brother Jesuits and priests come to him with their own struggles with alcoholism and how he'd tried to help them. He made only a slight reference to his own personal struggles with this issue, but our quiet time alone came to an end and we never again talked together at this level.

When Frank's recent illness became known to me, I knew that I had waited too long. His illness was such that he was losing consciousness of who people were and where he was. It seemed wrong for me to try and barge into this difficult transition time with my own need to unburden my soul.

At the memorial a few weeks ago, you ended your homily with a wonderful story about an elderly couple who had been married for many years. Toward the end, the husband began suffering from severe dementia and was hospitalized. As the wife went to visit him, she would suffer greatly because this husband of hers would not be able to remember who she was or remember her name. One day, toward the end, she was standing beside his bed holding his hand and she knew once again that this was a day where he did not know who was standing there holding his hand. She broke down and said to him, "You don't know who I am, do you?". The husband then looked into her eyes with tremendous compassion and replied, "No, I don't know you, but I love you."

That story cut into my core. It gave me a truth beyond my own understanding in terms of what had happened between me and my friend Frank. I didn't know him, but I love him. He didn't know me, but he loved me.

John, this long winded story is my way of saying thanks to you for your service and compassion toward Frank and all who loved him. Most especially, thanks for telling this story. Someone once said that the shortest distance between me and the Truth is the Story.

Take care!

Mike L.