Dad's Eulogy

My name is Gina DiMarco.  Ray Cline was, is and forevermore will be my father.  For good, for ill... for pride and for humility... I and my siblings are a product of who he was and who he wanted to be.

The temptation to wax poetic about those who have passed is strong; however, while my father did not espouse many virtues, he respected honesty, and it is vital that we are all honest about that for which Purgatory exists.

I say this fully recognizing my own eventual need for the grace of Purgatory.  For the uninitiated, Purgatory is that grace-filled place where a soul awaits the promise of Heaven.  Think of it as a shower-station for your soul.  Sins are expiated here, burning away in the same way gold is purified through fire.  Catholics believe that through prayer and fasting, we can participate in the saving power of the Cross, helping Holy Souls in Purgatory reach their final destination.

Thus, may whoever is given the task of eulogizing me speak not of any positive thing I may have haphazardly done in this world; rather, may they focus on every grievous fault that would prevent my entrance into Heaven.  I want the entire world to know precisely how sinful I am so that those I leave behind understand the desperate need for prayer I will have upon my death.

Friends and family, my father needs our prayers.

Born in 1954, he was the son of Evelyn and Raymond Cline.  He had an older sister, Linda, who, I'm told, welcomed him with glee.  Unfortunately, his mother- who clearly loved him dearly- passed away when Dad was about 12 years old.  This loss profoundly altered the course of his life, something he was reticent to admit.

He didn't have the best relationship with his own father, especially after his mother passed away.  Dad found himself on the wrong end of a jail cell more than once throughout his adolescence.  One time, as a teen, he remembered being in a jail cell and wishing for his own death.  He saw no point in life and demanded to know why God would allow him to live in a world that was so void of meaning.

God, much to his frustration, didn't seem to answer him, and he continued on with his self-destructive patterns, almost daring God to prove He cared.

He fathered a baby- my half-sister Jeanne- when he was still a baby himself.  He ran- hard and fast- from his responsibilities as a partner and father.  Years later, he met my mother, a young school teacher on a field trip with her students.  Dad, working at Clementon Amusement Park at the time, was smitten and passed along a note to her through one of her students.

My mother's example called him to something more.  She and her family exemplified the stability and hope he never had but so desperately wanted.  He immediately fell in with my grandfather who recognized a broken young man in need of a mentor.  Now for those of you who don't know my paternal grandfather, the man was and is a saint.  He was probably the first true example of what Christian love looked like for my dad.  Dad made a LOT of mistakes in his life, but he always wanted to do right by Grandpop.

Once, when he thought he was alone, I overheard him call out to Grandpop in exasperation after Grandpop had passed away.  Grandmom wasn't doing well, and he said "Dad, could you just help her (meaning Grandmom) and Celeste?"  Celeste is my mom.  Not long after he said that, we got the call that Grandmom had passed.  I remember being so taken aback, because it was the very first time I realized my father wasn't an atheist.  He not only believed in an afterlife, he actively prayed to Grandpop - even if he didn't realize that's what he was doing.

It was a shocking revelation, because up until that point, I thought he believed all religion was a farce.

He stumbled into this faith through my mother, and for all the turmoil of their marriage, the Sacrament did do the job of bringing him closer to Christ, albeit kicking and screaming.

I could write a treatise on the marriage of my parents, but that's not my story to share.  Suffice to say that for all their struggles, my mother was heroically faithful to her vows and my father, for his part, while failing a million times, always tried to provide for and protect his wife and children.  In his own way, I know he loved us.

He worked for SEPTA for 30+ years.  He knew his health insurance there was unparalleled and would take care of Mom as she battled cancer.  When our house was broken into, he adopted a "scary" German Shepherd, Sean, to become our guard dog.  Turned out Sean was a lover, not a fighter, but the point is, my dad tried.  He always tried.

In total, my mother gave him five children: Evelyn, Ray, me, Maria and Shannon.  While not perfect children in any capacity (except maybe Evelyn... she was always on the straight and narrow), when we were younger, we all had stars in our eyes for him.  I can remember us all lining up for kisses before work, smelling his aftershave and feeling the stubble of his beard as we fought for extra kisses as he walked out the door.  I remember learning to make his coffee with cream and sugar so that I'd get to bring it down to him in his little cave in the basement.  I make my coffee the same way to this day.  I remember fishing and getting water ice, campfires and "shin digs" at the trailer, and I remember summers spent up in the Poconos.  While my mom would take my siblings and I to the pool or beach, my dad would stay back at the house, painting.

He wasn't an artist, mind you.  He was painting the rafters.  He was painting walls.  He was painting the doors.  He was removing seventy thousand wicker baskets from seventy thousand nails and trying to figure out where they all went after the paint had dried.  I later realized, when I was much older, that this was how Dad afforded a nice, week-long vacation in the Poconos every summer.  He would do hard labor so that we could play in the sand.

Words of Affirmation, Physical Touch, and gifts weren't his love language, friends, but acts of service?  Acts of Service were his bread and butter.  Quality Time was a close second.

And then there was his sense of humor - he loved making people laugh.  Normally, he'd crack a wholly inappropriate joke at a wholly inappropriate time, and rather than laughing at the joke, you'd laugh at the mischevious look on his face.  Well into his sixties and he still had a boyish rapscallion look about him when he'd drop a ridiculous joke.  

He also loved technology.  He introduced us all to computers before computers were even a thing.  Floppy disks, back when they were still floppy, were coded with little games that taught us how to point and click the mouse.  My brother, the savviest of us, birthed his fascination with all things technology-related right then and there.  He now owns and operates an incredibly successful IT company thanks in no small part to my dad's early days of fighting with DOS.

He also loved all things military.  He was endlessly transfixed by fighter jets, tanks, specialty rifles, submarines and drones.  He and I would watch hours of History Channel specials highlighting various battles or showcasing declassified military secrets.  He also loved shows like MASH and Mail Call for the same reason.

And speaking of television, his guilty pleasure was anything and everything paranormal-related.  Some of my earliest memories involve me sitting on his lap watching Unsolved Mysteries- Robert Stack's voice still haunts my nightmares.  But he could tell you all about Area 51, the Bermuda Triangle, hauntings in Gettsyburg, and conspiracy theories about how aliens built the pyramids.  I don't think he actually believed any of them, but it tickled him to entertain the possibility.

Finally, and most recently, he's been into restoration videos on YouTube- mainly of old cars.  I think there was something personally therapeutic for him in these videos...

A vlogger would find a broken-down rust bucket in the middle of nowhere, haul it back to his garage, and painstakingly cut away decades of neglect, sanding away chipped paint, rusted edges and missing rivets, slowly rebuilding each piece until, weeks and even months later, it was revealed in pristine form- like it was brand new.

And there's something to be said for seeing such a transformation like that, right?  We all feel broken down and forgotten from time to time, and I know, especially towards the end, that my father keenly felt this.  To see these cars brought back from the dead so to speak... to see them given a second shot, fully restored to their former glory... I can't help but wonder if dad was living a little vicariously through those videos.  I know, in my heart of hearts, that Dad wanted to change for the better.  He never wanted to be the victim of his own vices- who does?  But change is incredibly hard... even harder when you feel it pointless... and in the end, he remained stuck in his ways.

Luckily for him- and for all of us- God is the master craftsman.  He can take each one of us and buff away the things that weigh our souls down.  He can clear the mud, the sin and the hopelessness away, revealing the people we were always meant to be.  Even in the last moments of life, He awaits our acceptance of His love for us, and yes, even in the last moments of life, He can remake us whole in His Image should we consent to it.

And so, I pray, it was for my father.  It is my fervent hope that, in his last moments, he was given the grace of recognizing the Divine Love that drew him into this world almost 70 years ago.  In those last moments, I pray that he finally understood that yes, he WAS loved, he WAS precious, and he WAS able to find healing and unconditional acceptance in the arms of his Creator.  And I pray that, in God's mercy, we will rejoice together at the gates of paradise.

I ask, friends, that THIS be your prayer not only through this service, but each time you think of my father.  Ask that God, who is not bound by time nor space, grant my father the grace of perfect contrition and perfect knowledge of God's unconditional love so that he never despairs of God's mercy.  May we all be granted such grace.

​Thank you.