Dear Neighbor,
It’s March, and our calendars proclaim that spring is about to be sprung. Hah! This has been a weird year, with spring-like weather much of the winter — will it be reversed (or “corrected”) in March and April? Who knows?
In any case and any year, the calendar and the weather often are off-kilter. So, instead of seasons of the year, let’s talk about seasons of life, and we’ll scroll to the end, Death.
I recently lost my old friend, Tom Stegman, to glioblastoma, a nasty killer that took Senator John McCain, the sister of my dear friend, Abby, and the husband of my dear friend, Lois. Glioblastoma works the room like the most unwelcome, uninvited guest to the party we call life.
Tom was a Jesuit priest. I met him nearly 40 years ago when we were young bucks, each embarking on our respective callings, and I was hired to teach Spanish to the novices at the Jesuit Novitiate in St. Paul. The Novitiate had been the convent for nuns who taught at St. Luke’s School, next door to its church on Summit Avenue, a stone’s throw from the Governor’s Mansion.
Having grown up in what can only be described as a tyrannically Catholic home, I found the Jesuits to be more than a breath of fresh air, rather a full-on oxygen tank, with their commitment to education, the needy in every way, and their acceptance of all, allowing one to have a belief system and question it at the same time.
Tom was in my class, one of nine students, all of whom I enjoyed, but Tom was unique. He was razor smart, had studied philosophy (one of my college majors), and when called for expressed a wicked sense of humor. We clicked immediately.
While I have countless memories of conversations and times spent together, two stand out that reveal the depth of his character.
The first involved baseball. Tom was a fanatic – a “stan” in current parlance. Born in Holdrege, Nebraska, he was forced to go out of state to find his team, and became steadfastly loyal to the St. Louis Cardinals. I had neither interest in nor knowledge of baseball — the closest I came to the sport was playing on my 4-H club’s softball team.
Tom often wore his red, satiny Cardinals’ jacket, which I appreciated mainly because I’d gone to school in St. Louis. It was the late 1980s, years after the Metrodome was built. Tom had attended dozens of games, and when I confessed that I’d never been there he declared it a “heresy” and set out to exorcise my lapse.
Tom got tickets, borrowed a Jesuit car, picked me up, and we went to a game. I remember walking into the sea of blue seats, agog. He got us hot dogs and beer and explained the game to me as if lecturing on an abstruse yet fascinating topic. He knew everything about baseball.
I can’t remember who played against the Twins or who won. It doesn’t matter; I had a terrific time.
It was May, one of those days when it’s warm in the afternoon, but the temperature drops like a boulder after sundown. I hadn’t worn a coat. As we left the Metrodome and walked to his car I was cold but didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to. Without a word, Tom took off his Cardinals’ jacket and placed it over my shoulders. Tom was a gentleman.
Tom was ordained in June of 1995. Three weeks later I got married, and Tom officiated. We joked that it was the first marriage for each of us. While I’ve held steady at one, Tom went on to oversee countless such sacraments.
Jesuits tend to move around a lot, and three years later Tom, now in Milwaukee, called to say he’d be in St. Paul for a few days, could we meet for dinner? He came by the house, met baby Daisy, and we walked to a nearby restaurant. It was there that Tom served me the second outstanding memory I have of him.
We caught up, talking and laughing, and then it got serious. I asked him, “Now that you’ve been a bona fide priest for a few years, what’s the most important thing you’ve learned?” Anticipating a pat answer about God’s grace and love, Tom surprised me with an answer that blew me away: “I’ve learned that people suffer more than anyone knows.” He went on to say that many of his parishioners would visit him privately during the week, revealing horrors and torments that left him wondering how they were able to function. Yet, Sunday after Sunday they would show up to Mass appearing as if everything were fine, demonstrating strength and courage he’d come to revere.
Tom was wise and kind and good, and his soul, now certainly with God, is making Heaven an even better place.
A meaningful life is giving more to, rather than taking from, the universe. Tom Stegman led a truly meaningful life.
— Dorothy
P.S. For more on this topic, Google “Luke Priddy, Valley Girl is a Mind Virus” on YouTube. It’s brilliant and insightful.
