+ Michael Alan Kornacki +

 “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; 
Blessed be the name of the Lord.” 

My son is dead.

I don’t know if I’ve ever had to produce a harder sentence in my life. One sentence, four words, and yet the ramifications of those words have irrevocably altered my life and that of my family. 

Michael was, in a very real sense, the center of our lives. We all understood that his needs would affect us all, and we all accepted that sacrifice with varied amounts of grace and patience—me least of all. He could be a handful, and sometimes more than one. And yet, nobody loved the way Buggy loved. His all-too-rare smile was beautiful, even more so for its rarity. His cuddles and hugs were a gift from God Himself. He had this deep little laugh that never failed to bring an echo from me. He never said much, his words swallowed by his autism, but he was always able to make us know what he felt and what he needed. He was a beautiful boy, and my life won’t shine as brightly without him. 

Michael is a baptized child of God. It was my privilege and everlasting joy to be the one who dunked the little sinner. There is very little that can give me real comfort right now, but what I do have is promise of Jesus through the Apostle Paul: “…According to His mercy He saved us, through the washing of regeneration and renewing of the Holy Spirit, whom He poured out on us abundantly through Jesus Christ our Savior, that having been justified by His grace we should become heirs according to the hope of eternal life” (Titus 3:5-7). Furthermore, as Paul wrote to the Romans (6:3-5), “Or do you not know that as many of us as were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into His death? Therefore we were buried with Him through baptism into death, that just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life. For if we have been united together in the likeness of His death, certainly we also shall be in the likeness of His resurrection…” Michael was marked with the name of the Triune God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. He was marked with the sign of the cross. I don’t have to worry that Michael has done enough to merit eternal life. Michael’s eternal life doesn’t depend on Michael; it depends on Jesus for Michael; my eternal life depends on Jesus for me; your eternal life depends on Jesus for you. “The promise is for you and your children,” St. Peter writes, and I am clinging to that baptismal promise right now with all the strength I possess…and when that strength inevitably and repeatedly fails, my Lord Jesus is clinging to me with strength that cannot fail.

My son—my sweetest boy, my beautiful Buggy—is dead. My heart is broken, and it won’t ever fully heal in this vale of tears. But I do not grieve as do those who have no hope. I know that Michael has received his holy rest from the Lord. I know that he will be raised on the Last Day, no longer in a body that betrays him, no longer with a voice stilled all too effectively by autism. I know that Michael’s Redeemer—my Redeemer—lives. I know that I am reunited with my son every time we receive the body and blood of Jesus “…with angels and archangels and with all the company of heaven…” and I know that we will be eternally reunited when the Lord calls me to my own rest. For now, he rests with his PopPop, PawPaw, and all those we love who have gone before us in the one true Faith. He rests with his Jesus.

Michael was a wonderful gift from God for me, for Faith, for Alexis and Molly, his twin, and for all of us who were blessed to be part of his life and to have him as part of their lives. God is good, even now, and I wouldn’t trade the life we’ve had with Buggy for anything, even knowing what we know now, even grieving as we grieve now. There’s a beautiful hymn by possibly the preeminent hymn writer of all time, Paul Gerhardt, called “Why Should Cross and Trial Grieve Me.” The third stanza reads as follows:

God gives me my days of gladness,
And I will
Trust Him still
When He send me sadness.
God is good; His love attends me
Day by day,
Come what may,
Guides me and defends me.

I am trusting God right now in the midst of this agonizing anguish. Lord, I believe; help my unbelief! God is good, and in the days ahead, in the midst of my grief, He will sustain me. He will give me joy. He will renew my soul. He will remind me of the joy I had in Michael, a joy I can carry with me for as long as I live.

For now, like King David after the death of his son, I will get up, wash myself, and go into the house of God to worship the One through whom Michael received life and will receive life again. As David confessed, “Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me” (‭‭II Samuel‬ ‭12:23‬). ‬I shall go to Michael in the Lord’s time. Even so, Lord Jesus, come quickly!

Rest in peace, Buggy. I will always love you, and I will see you again soon.

In Memoriam: Borrowed Words for Dad

He lives and grants me daily breath.
He lives and I shall conquer death.

Dad’s funeral was today. My dad, Al Kornacki, died on Saturday, February 19. Of course it has been a difficult few days, between watching him struggle for each breath and then watching him take his last breath, planning his funeral, starting the process of going through his possessions, and then the finality of the funeral today. 

Whether or not you know who your father is, whatever kind of relationship you had with him—if, indeed, you had a relationship with him—you know what a father is; you have some idea of what a father should be to his children. I’ve had a father/son relationship with a number of men. I buried one of them in 2020, at the death of my vicarage bishop, Kim Scharff. At the time of his passing, I had many words to say to honor him; some of them might even have been eloquent. But for my biological father, the best man at my wedding? It’s too soon, maybe, and I’m too close. For my vicarage bishop, the kids had already lost their mother earlier in the year, and I was there to be the older brother none of them had growing up; that helped me keep some part of myself functional. For my own father? I don’t know what to say. 

Fortunately for me, a number of people have shared their memories of my father. He was a man who touched many in our community over a period of 60 years. He coached baseball teams for thirty years, from the time he was 16. He ran the Alternative Learning Center—in-school suspension, better known as “Al’s Little Corner”—for twenty years. He was in charge of the city’s Youth Center for decades. 

I like to joke that I have thousands of brothers and sisters, but in a very real sense, he was a surrogate father for a generation and more of North Tonawanda’s children. Whether it was on the website of his obituary, the family or recreation department Facebook posts announcing his death, or at the funeral home visitation, hundreds of people shared stories about how “Big Al” made a difference in their lives. He loved all the kids he worked with over the years, but he had a special place in his heart for the kids no one else seemed to want. In every aspect of his life, it was the troubled and trouble-making kids he seemed drawn to. So when I say I don’t have the words, I can borrow some from my many brothers and sisters. I hope they don’t mind.

• I wouldn’t be the man I am today without having met “Big Al.”
• Mr. Kornacki was a great man with a big heart and a great presence… When he spoke, we all listened!
• I remember him from school and the youth center... tough but very lovable...
• Al always took time out to learn more about each kid because he cared about everyone.  He'd pull you in his office and ask you how you are, how's your family, how is school going, etc.  He genuinely cared about people…
• He was there for me when my father passed when I was a kid. He always had the biggest heart!
• He was the guy we all went to when nobody else was around.
• Thanks for your patience when I needed it the most.
• Kids who didn't have much respect for adults or authority always seemed to treat Al as their confidant and someone who respected them. I was one of those kids back then. Al certainly helped me to see that I was on a path that could have been destructive. He never gave up and he was always positive and I and many other people owe him a debt of gratitude for his kindness.
• Thank you Al for believing in me and never giving up. I know I was a pain in the neck, but you saw and understood my struggle. I will forever be grateful for your kind heart and wisdom.

That’s the kind of man my dad was. Is. He affected every life he touched, and he tried to touch as many lives as possible. 

And that’s because of his faith in Jesus Christ. As Pastor Eder said at the funeral, “Al was a big man with a big faith.” My dad knew he was a beloved, baptized, forgiven child of God. His heavenly Father touched every aspect of his life. The love my dad received from God, he gave away to all his kids. And God just kept giving him more and more. That’s the kind of love I endeavor to share as a father, a husband, a pastor…a man. When I grow up, I want to be like my dad.

I’m fortunate that I will see my father every day when I look in the mirror. I’m blessed that I will be reunited with him every time I receive the Lord’s Supper with him, where we gather “with angels and archangels and with all the company of heaven.” And I am looking forward to the Day when we will be forever reunited in the resurrection of all flesh. 

As he delighted to sing in the words of his favorite hymn:

Children of God,

Dying and rising,

Sing to the Lord a new song!

Heaven and earth,

Hosts everlasting,

Sing to the Lord a new song!

He has done marvelous things.  

I too will praise Him with a new song!

POEM/PARODY: Lying in Bed in the Middle of the Night

There's a joke of sorts in the Kornacki house, something about how we know it's Saturday night because Michael will mess with our sleep, knowing I have to be up early on Sunday for worship. Well, last night was one of those nights. As I was getting ready to head to the church this morning, this idea popped into my head.

My apologies to Robert Frost.

Lying in Bed in the Middle of the Night

I went to bed at ten, you know.
I cannot seem to slumber, though.
I hate to just keep lying here.
It seems my head is full of snow.

You must admit, it seems quite queer.
I thought at least a nap was near.
I should be dreaming of a lake
Which freezes up this time each year.

I toss and turn, I moan and shake.
I want to sleep--make no mistake.
Perhaps I should get up and sweep
The dust and dirt and dandruff flake.

And all I want is slumber deep.
I have appointments I must keep,
But Michael will not let me sleep.
Oh, Michael will not let me sleep.


(c) 1923, 1969, 2018  Robert Frost, Alan Kornacki, Jr.

Sweet Sixteen

My eldest child, Alexis, turned sixteen today. It's so odd to think of her that way, since I sometimes still think of her as the little six year-old girl I met in person the day before I asked her mother to marry me. She's grown quite a bit since then. It began with me being so scared of her that I was treating her with kid gloves--except, of course, for the time she got a scrape on her knee and I brought out a hacksaw and asked her if I could cut it off for her and make her feel better. (I swear it was funny at the time, and I wouldn't have actually done it, of course. Really.) I can't put into words...

Well, maybe I can. I gave her a gift today. It was supposed to be a song--I have a melody line and everything, but I don't have the instrumental skill to add music to it--but it works as a poem. It's only words, but it's a start. And I like to think she already knew all this, but it's good to say these things anyway. So...yeah, here it is.

The Chance to Call You Mine

 When I met your mom, I knew she had a daughter

And it scared me 'cause I didn't know what kind of dad I'd be.

But I loved her, and I knew you came together

As a package deal—a two-for-one—where one plus one makes three.

Before I asked her hand in marriage, first I asked for your permission.

Did you know how much depended on your single word that day?

But your tears of joy were for us all as we became a family—

A mom and dad and daughter. It was meant to be that way.

And I don't know how a father couldn't want you,

But I'm glad I've had the chance to call you mine.

And through the years, as you've become a woman,

I see the love between us as a sign

That God can make a family

From broken hearts and dreams.

His will is always stronger

Than our human plots and schemes.

It might not be how we would plan,

Yet still it's God's design.

So although you're not my child by blood

I'm proud to call you mine.

It may not be the way I planned,

Yet still it's His design.

So I thank God for the chance He gave—

The chance to call you mine.

© 2013, Alan Kornacki, Jr.

 

Fatherhood revisited

Though happy chance, my father is here in Campbell Hill along with my mother this Father's Day. It's been over a year since we've been able to see him, as his new knees kept him from traveling and we had concerns that the Terrors--er, Twins--would be rough on him during his recovery. My dad turned 65 this past year, and it's so strange seeing him age. At 36, I am now the same age he was at when I really started paying attention and remembering things in detail. I remember how, even then, he seemed to be easygoing and had a simple confidence and competence. (How I wish I had received that as a genetic inheritance!) My father has always been a cornerstone in my life, and I pray he is able to continue in that role for some time to come.

The same day I became a husband, I also became a father. Or maybe I became a father seven years ago yesterday, the day I asked Faith to marry me. Alexis was 6 when I met her, and though I had been working with kids since I was pretty much still a kid myself, being a father is something different. Every day since I began to think about asking Faith to marry me, I've tried to figure out the job description of a father. Every day I try to figure out how to be the best father I can be. Every day I look at the kids and try to figure out how God could entrust them to a man with so little patience and skill. As always, God knows what He's doing, but He hasn't explained everything to my satisfaction! Nevertheless, my children have been a great gift from God to me, surpassed in earthly matters only by the gift of my wife.

Watching my own bumbling attempts at fatherhood has helped me to appreciate all the more the heavenly Father. He has marked me as His own child (I gladly say it!) in the waters of Holy Baptism. He has given me all that I need to support this body and life. When in my human weakness I give half-hearted thought to sacrificing my kids to the gods of peace and quiet, it is comfort and joy that the Father spared Abraham's Isaac and my own children and even me, sacrificing instead His own Son, Jesus, for the sake of all the rest of His children. We see in our own fathers--as through a mirror, dimly--the great goodness of the Father.

A blessed and happy Father's Day to all you dads out there--especially to my own Dad and to my grandfathers, one of whom I will meet for the first time in heaven. And Happy Father's Day to the heavenly Father. May I learn to be a father more like You in the years ahead.

My Daughter the Theologian

The longer I practice my vocation as father, the more I realize that the teaching of some bodies of an age of accountability is complete and utter nonsense. Let me give you an example. Tonight I was trying to put the Terrible Toddler Twins (tm) to sleep. For some reason it took more milk than usual to put them out, so I had to warm up some more. Since Michael will scream and cry if we leave him in the room without us at night, I had to carry him with me. That left Molly alone in the room. While I was making the milk--no cow or cud jokes, please--Molly hid the remote. Now, she knows that she's not supposed to do that. How do I know she knows? She said to me, "Daddy, where's the 'mote?" I reached to where I'd left it, and it wasn't there. I said, "I don't know, Molly. Where's the remote?" She looked me straight in the eye and said, "I don't know, Daddy." And then she hid. (As in, "We realized we were naked, so we hid.")

You can't tell me that Molly didn't know it was wrong to hide the remote. And you can't tell me that she wasn't covering up something she knew was wrong by first playing ingenuousness and then by lying to me about it. She's not yet three, but she knows.

Behold, I was shapen in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me. The Word should be enough; but if it's not, just ask my daughter. She knows.

Fatherhood

It's 5:23 AM as I start writing this. That's because my son just went back to sleep, having woken me up a scant hour and a half after my daughter went back to sleep. I'm tired, but I can't go back to bed just yet. Well, I guess I could, but if I don't wait a few minutes to see if Michael is really asleep and not playing possum, I could be back out here in two minutes to pick him up again.

Some days, the vocation of "father" is more difficult than other days. It's not just the exhaustion . . . though, God knows, there's plenty of that. I haven't been able to sleep through the night in two weeks now, and it's beginning to take its toll. But I've noticed that, when I'm tired, my patience wears thin. This is not a good thing when dealing with toddler twins in their terrible twos. (Like that alliteration? I was an English major for nearly two years. Can't help myself sometimes.)

I like to think I'm a good father. Doesn't every father? I mean, I work a full-time job to support my family, and then I come home and I play with and watch over my children. I play with them. I help feed them. I change their diapers. I kiss their boo-boos. I nibble their toes. I help put them to sleep, and then I take night duty, holding them and sometimes feeding them back into insensibility and sleep. Not that I'm looking for kudos or anything. After all, isn't that what a father is supposed to do?

You know, I never thought I'd be a father. Not that I ever had anything against children, but I never thought I'd get married. No wife? No kids. I had some vague notion about someday possibly adopting a teenager when I was in my 40s, but as I said, it was just a vague notion. I went from being a bachelor to being a husband and the father of a seven year-old in a matter of minutes--well, in less than a year, anyway. (My wife and I had a whirlwind courtship.) I was never prepared for all this.

On the other hand, I've had three wonderful examples in fatherhood. My own father worked two and sometimes three jobs to support our family, but he always made time for us. He read me bedtime stories. He coached my baseball team. He knew when to be just and when to be merciful. If it's any indication of the kind of father he was, he was the best man at my wedding.

My vicarage Bishop is another. He's the father of seven--though I imagine it seems like 30 sometimes, with all the friends running around the house. He's an island of calm in the middle of the fury that is his family. He seems almost effortlessly to balance his various vocations: husband, father, pastor, mentor, etc.

And then, of course, there is the perfect Father. He's the Father who sent His only-begotten Son to atone for the sins of the world. He's the Father who perfectly answers every need of His children. He's the Father who loves wayward children who love to rebel against him. He's the Father who loves us to call him "Father". He heals our ills. He comforts our griefs. He provides "all that we need to support this body and life".

Time will tell what kind of father I end up being. God willing, even if I'm not a great father, at least my children will grow up knowing I love them and have done everything I can to take care of them. It's now 5:50 AM, and I've got to be up in another hour or so, but Michael seems to be sleeping soundly. What more could I ask for? I guess Daddy can go back to bed now.

Father's Day and Pop Culture Go Together Like Fathers and Sons

It's Father's Day again, which means our thoughts turn to our masculine authority figures. Of course, for someone like me, it also turns to cultural references concerning said masculine authority figures. Today finds me pondering a certain episode of M*A*S*H where Hawkeye's father sends him a letter saying that he's going in for surgery. He doesn't give details, and Hawkeye gets the letter the day of the scheduled event. He's trying desperately to get a hold of his father, and when that fails, he tries to get details from the hospital. Meanwhile, Charles, who is usually an aloof character, actually becomes sympathetic. The line that strikes me most (and which makes Charles a character for whom I can, for one shining moment, have sympathy) is when he says to Hawkeye, "You're lucky. While I have a father, you have a dad." Finally it all comes right when Hawkeye learns that his father has come through his surgery okay.

So I leave you with the final lines from the episode, which Charles and Hawkeye exchange as a toast, in honor of Father's Day. (And I hope you won't mind that it's just a slight bit sexist in that it leaves out the womenfolk.)

Charles: Here's to our fathers.
Hawkeye: And their sons.

This is how I want my children to grow up.

There was garbage on television Sunday night, so I was watching SportsCenter on ESPN in the twins' room. Most of it was the usual highlights and scores, and they did this feature on LeBron James. But all through the show they were talking about this home run that everyone is talking about.

Sure enough, they did another feature, this time about a home run during a Division II women's softball game. This girl, Sara Tucholsky, hits a home run--and it's the only home run she's hit in her 4 year career. She's running the bases, and she misses first base. She goes to turn around, and she blows out her knee. The way the umpires on the field interpreted the rule, it seemed only two things could happen.

1. The trainers could run out on the field and help her, and she'd be out.
2. She could make her way back to first base, and they could put in a pinch runner. She'd have a two-run single instead of a three-run home run.

But then a third option arose. One of the players from the other team, Mallory Holtman, walks up to the umpire and says, "Could we carry her around the bases?" And sure enough, Mallory and one of her teammates picked up their opponent and carried her around the bases, allowing Sara to touch each base with her good leg. Mallory did it just because she felt Sara deserved to get what she'd earned. It was the right thing to do.

This is what I love about sports. Sports, when played the right way, are (and please, my female friends, pardon the expression) games for gentlemen (and ladies, I suppose)--not for "playaz" and "ballaz" and selfish people. Mallory Holtman is a wonderful example of what's right with sports--what's right with the world. This is how I want my children to be when they play sports.

And yes, I did get weepy when I watched the report.

Here's the video:
http://sports.espn.go.com/broadband/video/video?id=3380875