A eulogy for my father

Following is the eulogy I wrote and presented at my father’s funeral on December 7, 2019. Although it was written to be spoken, I hope you can hear the tone with which it was delivered.

My father, Joseph Amicangelo, was born on January 14, 1922, in the small village of Pacentro in the Abruzzo region of Italy. He was the youngest of four children born to his parents, Caesare Amicangelo and Carolina Lalama. He is the brother of the late Carlo Amicangelo, Philomena Pompeo and Louis Amicangelo.

He was married to my mom, the late Rose Petix, for 61 years.

His devoted daughters include Linda (Ismael) Rodriguez, Laura Thurman, Carolina (Franco) Greco, and me, JoAnn (the late Paul Kwasniewski) Amicangelo.

He was the proud grandfather of Angela (Anthony) Maicki, Jennifer (Jamie) Thiede, Marisa Greco, Matthew Rodriguez, Zachary (Katie) Amicangelo, Lisa (Steve) Nazoyan, Rachel Rodriguez, Gino Greco, Emilie Kwasniewski and Elise Kwasniewski, and my stepson, Joe (Karysa) Kwasniewski.

His great-grandchildren are Andrew Thiede, Gabrielle Thiede, Francesco Swinney, Averi Thiede, Enzo Swinney, Carina Greco, Gabrielle Kwasniewski, Mia Kwasniewski, Alexander Nazoyan, Matthew Amicangelo and Rafael Maicki.

He made his living as a tailor in the women’s alteration department at J. L. Hudson’s for more than 45 years. His passion for music was legendary. He played the clarinet and mandolin and sang anywhere he could. He loved to entertain people with his music and with stories from his past that would make his listeners laugh ‘til they cried. He made everyone he knew feel special.

My father died at his apartment in Allen Park, Michigan, on Tuesday, December 3, at the age of 97.

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My sister, Linda, and her daughters, Lisa and Rachel, posted beautiful eulogies on Facebook about my dad, sharing their memories of him and acknowledging the great privilege it was to be his daughter and granddaughters. As Lisa said, he was not only the patriarch of our family, but our “Italian Stallion, our Silver Fox, our adoring fan.” 

Last night at the funeral home, Carolina’s daughter, Angela, and others offered their memories and made us laugh and cry.

This morning, I’d like to share with you something about my dad that I only recently came to understand. Something that made him such a special man who touched so many lives.

I was reading scripture one morning earlier this year when I landed on the 13^th chapter of First Corinthians, the passage that Lisa read earlier. I’d read it dozens of times, heard it recited at weddings even more, but when I got to the final verse in this passage, a light bulb went on. Verse 13 reads:

Three things will last forever – faith, hope and love – and the greatest of these is love.

I Corinthians 13:13

My dad came to mind as I read that, and it was suddenly as clear as day to me, that faith, hope and love were the keys to my dad’s charisma, to his zest for life. They were at the heart of his ability to have an impact on the people that knew him. They were the God-given gifts that drew people to my dad and what gave him the sense of fulfillment and joy he had in his life here on earth.

Joseph Amicangelo was a lot of things – a tailor by trade, a faithful husband, a loving father, a doting grandfather, a talented musician and singer, a proud Italian American, and veteran. He was a hard worker, giving his all, his best, to whatever he did. He enjoyed gardening and fixing things around the house.

And he was handsome and charming and even a bit of a flirt. Okay, a really big flirt.

But more than that, my dad was a man of faith, a man with great hope, and a man whose love for God and others was unstoppable.

He may not have been able to quote scripture or fully understand the doctrines of his faith, but he had no doubt that without a faith in God, we are lost souls. He found his faith through the Catholic Church and developed it over the years through the best and worst of times.

He demonstrated his faith by serving in the church, singing the mass at Holy Family Church in downtown Detroit for 60-some years.  

I remember waking up on Sunday mornings to hear him warming up his vocal cords:  La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la. Although my mom and sisters and I went to the neighborhood church, every so often I got to go to Holy Family with him. I would sit near him in the choir loft, high above the congregation, listening to him sing the liturgy in Latin. Though I had no idea what the words meant, nor had I grasped what it meant to be a Christian, those moments with my dad planted some of the first seeds of faith in my life.

My father’s faith helped him to believe in the power of prayer. When in the mid-70s, my sister Linda was in the hospital battling a brain infection and her life was hanging in the balance, he knelt at the altar at Holy Family and asked God to heal her.

As he tells it, he said, “God, if you heal her, I will sing for you in this church for the rest of my life.” And God healed her, and he kept his promise until around 2012 when, at the age of 90, we wouldn’t allow him to drive there on his own.

God gave him the gift of a beautiful voice and my dad gave it back as an offering to his God. He sang for hundreds of funerals and weddings, and he sang on Christmas Eve.

Ave Maria, Panis Angelicus, Agnus Dei.

Classics of the faith that speak to our souls about the majesty and glory of God. Whether singing solo or blending his voice in perfect harmony with his dear friend, the late Adolf Bufalini, or directing a choir of young voices as Holy Family Church grew, my dad gave himself to his music and to his faith.

And he had no qualms about sharing his faith. I remember the time he struck up a conversation with the owner of a sandwich shop in east Dearborn where we were having lunch. It wasn’t long before he was asking the guy if he was a believer, whether he prayed or went to church.

While I cringed at such a personal line of questioning with a perfect stranger, my dad went on to explain how our lives are better when we have a faith that can carry us through good times and bad. I remember hearing the guy thank my dad for his concern, watching them shake hands and then hug each other as we left.

And I remember feeling so proud of him and, frankly, challenged as a Christian who isn’t always so bold in sharing my faith.

My dad was a man of faith, and he was a man with HOPE.

Hope in the goodness of God, in the resurrection, too, but he also lived with an expectation for good things to happen in his everyday life. He was a glass-half-full kind of guy. Knowing there was more to life than big bank accounts or fancy cars, he was grateful for what he had, and he was all the richer for it.

He approached each day with a sense of anticipation. He looked forward to things, whether an upcoming music gig or tackling a project around the house. He was energized by the hope that he would bring people joy through his music or find a sense of satisfaction and pride in a job well done.   

He thought the best of people, until they gave him reason not to. And even when they hurt or disappointed him, he was quick to forgive. He knew the danger in holding grudges. When his siblings weren’t speaking, he urged them to reconcile. He had enough hope to believe that we could all get along if we really tried.

He also hoped that everyone had the same passion he had for music. He was thrilled to meet someone who played an instrument and would encourage them to practice, practice, practice. He enjoyed organizing jam sessions with fellow musicians and playing for hours on end. Just days before he left us, after singing Christmas carols with Gino’s daughter, Carina, he said he wanted to get all the grandkids together as a choir so he could teach them to sing as one.

Yes, my father was a man of faith and a man with hope, but more than anything, my dad was a man who knew how to love people.

Laura’s daughter, Jennifer, said it well in her reflection about her Papa’s passing, “You loved your family and friends with every part of your soul! Your infectious smile and laugh lit up the room. When I look back at all of our times together, every single moment was positive and memorable!”

She’s absolutely right. He made friends wherever he went – with people he rode to work with on the bus each day and with his co-workers. He made friends with the neighbors of Argyle street and with the men with whom he played bocce on Chase Road back in the day.

His love for people moved him to ask how they were doing and then to listen to their responses. He initiated conversations – with the waitress at Leon’s, the cashier at Kroger and the medical professionals who took care of him in the hospital. Wherever he went, he was looking for opportunities to share some love with others.

He asked their name, which almost always led to, “What nationality are you? Italian? Wonderful! Lebanese? My neighbors are some of the best Lebanese people you could find. Spagnole? Ah, beautiful. It didn’t matter. He’d have something to say about how wonderful their country of origin was and note the similarities their culture shared with his.

He loved on the people at Maple Heights, the retirement community he lived in for nearly two years. It didn’t take him long to capture the hearts of both staff and residents alike.

When his caregivers walked into his room, he would reach out his arms from his chair and hug and kiss them and thank them for their help. Of course, he also asked about their lives and gave them his unsolicited advice, not because he was a know-it-all or busybody, but because he truly cared about them. And his love for them fueled their love for him.

His zest for life and his love for people got him elected as Prom King not long after he moved in at Maple Heights. He was a rock star there, greeting residents from his front row seat in the dining room. Throwing kisses to the ladies and welcoming the men as they entered the room. Some of the staff said he brought an energy to the community that hadn’t been there before.

He amazed me at how faithful he was at regularly checking in on family and friends with a phone call. And he called everyone on his phone list on special holidays to wish them the season’s best.

My dad treated people the way he wanted to be treated – with kindness, respect and love. He loved others and they in turn loved him.

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In my memories of growing up, my dad is more of a shadowy figure. My mom is clearly front and center. I went to her with my concerns. As I got older and moved out, it was my mom I called to talk with. My dad was there and involved, but in a less tangible way. I suppose he was busy working hard to provide for his family and caring for things around the house. His time was limited, and he used the time he had to take care of business.

But as he got older, and especially after my mom died, he turned his attention to us. I think my sisters would agree with me when I say that these last 11 years have been some of the best years we’ve had with my dad. I was there on Mondays and Tuesdays. Linda on Wednesdays. Carolina on Thursdays, Frank on Fridays and Laura on the weekends.

Yes, there were times when he needed us more and our caregiving took its toll, but we wouldn’t have traded our time with him for anything. He gave us more than we ever could have given him.

We have never felt so loved, so cherished by my dad as we have in recent years. He adored us, lighting up when we walked into the room. He never failed to thank us for our help, often worrying that he was becoming too big a burden. He hugged us and kissed us and told us how much he loved us.

He liked to play the “love you more” game. I’d say, “I love you, dad,” and he’d say, “I love you more.”  “I love you a thousand times more,” I’d say. “I love you ten thousand times more,” he’d respond. Back and forth we’d go until we both grew tired of the one-upping or burst out laughing at the silly game.

I will always cherish the special moments we shared, just the two of us. I especially loved taking him out, whether to the store or the doctor, to hear him say as he got into my van, “God bless Chrysler,” for putting a handle in just the right place so he could pull himself up and into the seat. It was our thing to stop at McDonald’s for a 99-cent ice cream cone before returning to his place after those outings.

He was my biggest fan, touting my latest piece of writing or grabbing my face while introducing me to someone and saying, “She’s my baby.” He did something like that with all his girls, making each one of us feel so special, so important to him, in some unique way.

My sisters and I have talked about how different our lives will be now that he is gone. But that last verse of today’s second reading gives me some hope.

“Three things will last forever – faith, hope and love – and the greatest of these is love.”

My dad is gone from us, and we will miss him terribly, but the essence of who he was lives on.

He has left a hole in our hearts, but it’s a hole filled up with the faith that he passed down to us. It’s a space in our hearts that will always hope in our being reunited again. He loved us so well that his love remains with us and we now carry it forward until it’s our turn to cross over from this life to be by his side.

And so, I say, as he taught us all to say, Ciao, ciao, Poppy. Farewell. Arrivederci, I look forward to seeing you again.