Posted on the first anniversary of my Pepere’s passing.

I absolutely adored my Pepere* Hebert. He was a man larger than life and a heart of gold. When I was younger as a joke he would take the Doritos that I would have with my lunch, which would send me into a fit of crying because those were my favorite chips. As I grew older I saw both a silly and sensitive side to my Pepere. One day he would be giving his bride, his wife of over 50 (maybe 60) years a hotdog as a Christmas present, the next he’d be comforting me over the phone and reminding me that he loved me as I cried about lost friendships. I adored this man that would do anything for his family, that would do anything to see me smile. He was my hero saving the day countless times whether it was pulling a pin my sister had gotten stuck in her foot out of her foot (because I was too scared and squeamish to do it myself) or whether it was driving two hours to pick up my prom date whose car had broken down so that I didn’t have to go to prom alone. Every weekend he would take a leisurely ride past those of the children and grandchildren who lived in the area. My mom tells me he did this to make sure we were all ok. I grew up visiting him and my Memere almost every Friday night. If we ever skipped a Friday he was sure to call on Saturday asking when we were coming over. And when we were about to leave he would also exclaim “sabre** come again.” Anyone who visited was sure to feel welcome by the warmth of my Memere and Pepere’s home and the love that they exuded. Both of them were so generous with their time, treasure, and talent.

Perhaps the greatest lesson that my Pepere taught me was to never give up. Though he had several health issues he was never one to sit on the sidelines and wait for death. He found different ways of doing his hobbies. Around Thanksgiving of 2022 both my grandparent’s health declined and they were both in the hospital. My Pepere pressed on and started doing better. My Memere’s health unfortunately declined and she passed away on December 23rd (I’ll write a letter about how much I loved her later on). The funeral for her came and went. The months in between my sweet Pepere couldn’t catch a break. His health was declining. My mom and her sister would visit every day to take care of him and help him with things. In February my parents came downstate (I live 7 hours away from them but still in the same state) to attend another loved one’s funeral. After the funeral we got the news that my Pepere’s health was declining and the end was near. I packed my bag and made the choice to head up North to see him one last time. Little did I know that I would be the one that he would choose to be beside him holding his hand when he was actively dying. I noticed his eyes were sort of open, but they were a different color than the deep brown they had always been and they were glazed over. I called for my mom and she told me it wouldn’t be long. She was right. He passed away within minutes.

I took bereavement time off from work to attend the funeral and to process all that had happened. Trying to move forward and to create some sense of normalcy I decided to go to a little café/gift shop for breakfast that day. I ordered and ate my breakfast. Then I lingered to look at what was in the gift shop. Amanda Gorman’s book “Call Us What We Carry” caught my eye. I debated whether or not to buy it in my head. As if reading my thoughts this little old man seated at a table not far away asks if I know who that is to which I respond yes. He then asks if I am going to buy the book and I answer that I am not sure. Without skipping a beat this man pulls out $20 and places it in my hand and tells me to buy the book. He tells me he does a nice thing for someone every day and today I was the recipient of his kindness. I could’ve cried right then and there. This man didn’t know me, he didn’t know that I had just lost my Pepere, he didn’t know I was grieving, he didn’t know that I had come to this café to find some normalcy when my world had been crumbling down. The only thing this man knew was that his kindness mattered. That moment didn’t cure the grief that I was and that I still feel about the passing of my Pepere, but it sure did bring a smile to my face. I believe that my Pepere put this man in my path to show me that he was watching over me.

That day the little old man was a testament to the quote “everyone is fighting a battle we know nothing about. Be kind.” I issue that same challenge to you today. Be kind to everyone you meet. It doesn’t have to mean buying something for someone, it could be as simple as smiling at someone or opening the door for them or entering into conversation with a stranger. You’ll never know how your kindness will impact another person. Let us choose to carry kindness with us wherever we go.

*Pepere is the French word for grandfather. It is pronounced pep/ehh. Memere is the French word for grandmother. It is pronounced mem-ehh.

**Sabre cannot be directly translated but is a French expression that indicates happiness, joy, contentment. And it was always said with that disposition too.

I’ve been where you are. I’ve always been a bit of a perfectionist myself. I don’t think that’s all bad as we are called to excellence. However, it can make life kind of stressful. Your need for perfection can then spiral into overthinking every little move you make, criticizing yourself for things outside of your control, and shame that is totally unnecessary. You look in the mirror to find that your own worst enemy is staring back at you. You worry that if you make one mistake that people will see you as incapable and incompetent. You’ll show them you can do it all. Until you can’t. Suddenly you feel yourself teetering on the tightrope about to plummet to the ground. This was me before the pandemic started. I believed the lie that this rat race world feeds us that we must stay busy, we must produce results. So I took on added responsibility thinking I could juggle it all and also what was going on in my personal life. But really I was on the edge of burnout. My mental health was not good. My work was suffering. I was exhausted. To make matters worse my boss talked to me about my performance without asking what was going on in my personal life that was making it that way. She seemed to see my poor performance as a character flaw rather than the fact that a check engine light was on, and I desperately needed help. Deeply distressed and beating myself up for my mistakes I ended up with a fender bender. Luckily no one was hurt, but inside I was really hurting.

In 2020 the pandemic forced everything to a screeching halt. I went to my parents, house with no idea of how long I was going to be there. My parents and I were all working at home under one roof. The extra family time was a much needed blessing. My schedule usually filled to the brim with things to do was completely open for the first time in a long time. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I ended up doing a lot of thinking and realized that I don’t need to do everything. I am human, I make mistakes and I’m going to continue to. When I do make a mistake I can choose how I respond. I can choose to respond with grace and self-compassion. I don’t have to spiral, I don’t have to walk the tight rope. A mistake doesn’t automatically mean falling. I started to prioritize more and suddenly I was worrying less and less about what others thought about my mistakes and taking the opportunity to let my mistakes teach me a lesson.

Sweetheart I know you want to move mountains and you will. But spiraling won’t get you there. Beating yourself up won’t make you stronger, instead it will tear you down more. You need to learn to rest. You need to learn that your mistakes don’t define you. Learn to embrace your humanity. Learn to love yourself the way that you would love a friend. You are worthy of love. You are worthy of self-forgiveness. You are worthy to live a life that includes mistakes because if you haven’t noticed everyone else is too. When you learn these things you’ll be freer, happier, healthier, and holier. If you don’t hear anything else in this letter hear this; unlike St. Paul, you can’t be everything to everybody, but instead of being your own biggest enemy, you can learn to look in the mirror and embrace yourself in grace and self-compassion.

With love,

From the moment I was born you were mine. My parents had chosen you to be my godmother, a duty which you took very seriously. When I look back you were always there for every one of my milestones; my Baptism, my first few words, my first steps, my first haircut, my Confirmation and First Communion, my high school graduation. You were even there when I got my acceptance letter to St. Joseph’s College. When I moved into St. Joe’s you took me under your wing and made sure I always knew that I had a safe place to go when I wanted to get off campus. You enjoyed spending time with me and even invited me on outings like going blueberry picking with you, your daughter, and your granddaughter. You became my second mom when my mom was 7 hours away.

And then unexpectedly you passed. There was no warning. There was no chance to say goodbye. You were gone. I remember where I was when I got the call. My entire floor had just gone to a trampoline park and we were hungry so we went to get ice cream. I saw my mom had texted me but thought nothing of it when she said “call me.” My sister texted me and told me to call mom. I texted back “why? Is it an emergency?” She responded “yes.” I excused myself from the group and ran to my RA’s car and called my mom. I could hear on the other end she was crying. She told me that you had passed and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I crumbled in a ball. I remember my mom asking “Hannah are you ok?” I don’t remember what I said. I remember my RA, a guy I didn’t know very well, and the girls on my floor coming back to the car and finding me weeping. My RA asked what was wrong and all I could get out between sobs were “SHE. IS. GONE.” It didn’t take long for denial and then shock and then loneliness to set in. I remember after the funeral we walked the middle aisle to the back of the church as a family. I remember everyone grabbing onto each other’s hand, but I had one hand free. The hand that you would have held if you were still alive. I didn’t know how I was going to live one day without you, let alone 8 years.

Grief still steals the air right out of my lungs sometimes, but I like to think that since you have gone I have been managing my grief and learning to breathe again. In the 8 years since you have been gone I have been working to build and live a life that you would be proud of. There are so many life milestones that I wish you could’ve been here for. Still I have to believe that you’ve seen them or at least know about them. Let’s start from the beginning. I graduated from St. Joseph’s with a bachelor’s degree in theology with minors in secondary education and psychology. From there I moved to Southern Maine and started my first job working for the Diocese. 4 years later I am still working there and I love what I get to do and who I get to meet through this job. Shortly after I graduated undergrad I decided to apply for grad school and was accepted to Felician University’s Master of Arts in Religious Education program. In the middle of this the pandemic happened. I began counseling in order to heal wounds from the past. And oh what a year 2022 was. I graduated with my Master’s and our family had a party to celebrate. I know you would’ve been there if you could’ve been. Family was your number one priority. I also went on a service trip to Kentucky to work with the Christian Appalachian Project in honor of you and all my loved ones who have passed away because you all were people who served others with love. We were doing home repair. And oh my gosh that trip was probably the best thing I did this past summer. I learned and experienced so much. I know if you were here today we would’ve gotten together to discuss it over coffee and donuts. I am so grateful to God for giving me that opportunity. I have no idea what 2023 holds (maybe you do….I don’t know how that works), but I hope that each day I do something that makes you proud.

This letter is getting long, so I’ll conclude with some things that I always want you to know.

I celebrate because you lived.
I still grieve because you died.
I am still impacted by your love and kindness.
I will always remember you.
I wish you were here.
I love you still.

Love,

Dear George,

You were meant to be a part of our family. After losing the dog that we had since I was in Kindergarten my mom claimed we weren’t getting another dog. But my dad convinced her to open her heart up again, and this time all roads lead to you….literally. You traveled from Georgia to Maine as a puppy. At the shelter, my parents observed how you interacted with a young girl, how you played with her, yet you were so gentle too. That’s the moment they fell in love with you and knew that they wanted to take you home. I can’t help but believe that our old dog, Lucky, had pulled some strings and guided us to you.

At first when we took you home you were timid, but slowly your sweet, sensitive, silly personality began to show through. You quickly became my companion. Every errand, every ride, everywhere I went you were by my side. Your little wet nose on my face was the first thing I felt at 6am on Saturday morning as you demanded that I get up so that you could get your cuddles in and then go back to bed, and your solid body against my leg was the last thing I felt at night before I fell asleep.

Life with you is filled with more laughter, love, and epic cuddle sessions. You give me a reason to get out of the bed in the morning. While you can’t talk, your actions communicate so much to me. Your cuddles communicate your unconditional love, your paw resting delicately on my lap and your solid body against my leg at night make me feel safe and secure. You greeting me at the door makes me feel welcome. You showing me your belly for the thousandth belly rub of the day helps me to know that you trust me. You putting your nose under my armpit or on my shoulder as if giving me a hug. You have me (and each member of our family) wrapped around your paw. We love you so much and are so grateful to have you as a part of our family.

Love,