Reflections on My Dad’s Example


Norb Kwiecinski, my dad, knew how to make you feel completely comfortable.

Oh… he could make you squirm, too. Make no mistake! Don’t forget. He was also the toughest guy I ever knew.

And I may have provoked his “tough guy” side a time or two over the years…

But at his core, Dad’s enormously compassionate heart shone through.

Today, I took some time to reflect on Dad’s disarming, loving example. Please take some time to watch:

#dadupdate – Funeral Arrangements


Sometime during the first overtime.

Reality walloped me.

Right in the back of the skull. Like an accelerating two by four.

Like a battering ram. Reality came crashing through the walls of my defenses.

We got home around … hell, I don’t remember … 10:30? It was the third period of the hockey game. That’s all I know.

Sharks and Preds. Game four. Round two.

That’s how I tell time during the Stanley Cup Playoffs. I’m not joking.  The world sorta stops for a few hours almost every single night for two months. A playoff game is on!

And it’s thanks to Dad that I watch with such fanatical fervor.

Like a kid. Still. Almost 58 years old.

That’s a topic for another time. More later.

But this week… and more particularly on this night… things are different.

I sat on the right edge of the bed. My side. TV on. Hockey game on. Kathy sawing logs behind me.

I’d taken my contacts out, so I was pretty much blind. Didn’t bother finding my glasses. I sat there and stared at my smartphone.

I looked at some Facebook notifications, posts and comments that Facebook decides are important to me. I saw Doug’s post about Dad’s funeral arrangements. Then Stephanie’s post.

I  shared Stephanie’s post on my Facebook page. Then I decided to share the actual obituary.

Earlier in the evening, before we left Mom and Dad’s house, I made the last-minute decision to cancel my appointments this morning.

It was too late to call anyone. I have a rule not to call a client after 9 PM. I sent texts and emails to cover all the bases.

One client acknowledged me immediately via text and asked for details about Dad’s services. I wanted to share a link to the obit.

The obit on the funeral home’s mobile website didn’t appear to be shareable. Before I shared it with my client, I tested it out to see what page opened when I typed the address into my browser.

It took me to a generic page for Simkins Funeral Home.

“Well, that’s no good. I want to give him information, not send him on a wild goose chase. He’s being very kind.”

I wanted whatever I sent to be complete information… didn’t want to make him work to answer his own question.

There was a link to the full website. That’s what I was looking for. Clicked on the obits. Clicked on Dad’s name.

There was his obit. With that great picture.

Was the link shareable? That was the most important part of this experiment.

I tested it.

Yes. That link took me directly to Dad’s complete obituary.

I sent the link to my client.

So there I was, sitting on the bed. After sharing Stephanie’s Facebook post, I decided to share this direct link to the full obituary.OI2047625967_Kwiecinski

Countless numbers of people have replied to Facebook posts and have sent me personal messages.

I haven’t seen most of them. We’ve been too busy with funeral arrangements, the cemetery, funeral Mass prep, fighting traffic…

As I sat on the edge of the bed, TV no more than four feet away (all I can see are shadows without glasses or contacts), I read some of the messages.

All of the emotions of the words written by friends and family welled up inside of me as I read and responded.

But none of the words hit me harder than gazing at that picture of Dad’s smiling face.

I’ll never see your smiling face again.

I’ll never hear another smart-ass wisecrack.

Doesn’t it look like he’s got one on his lips?

One look at that picture and tears flooded my eyes. I sobbed hysterically. And I pretty much haven’t stopped since.

I’ll never hear him tell me “Love you, Dave” again.

I’ll never hear his voice. I’ll never hear his laugh.

I’ll never kiss his puckered lips again.

Yes, we kissed each other on the lips.

Men, if you don’t kiss your Dad, start. Look directly into his eyes. Tell him you love him. While looking directly into his eyes.

And give him a kiss. Doesn’t have to be on the lips. But if you kiss your Mom on the lips, find a way to start kissing your Dad on the lips. Or on the cheek. Make it tender. Make it loving. Make it heartfelt.

I’ll never get to do it again.

Here’s Dad’s obituary:


Fifty Years Ago…


Fifty years ago today, May 1…

(Happy 12th anniversary, Aunt Bernie and Uncle Stan, by the way! 50 years ago, it was their 12th, that is.)

I made my First Holy Communion.

Ascension of Our Lord Church.

Evanston, Illinois.

Sunday, May 1, 1966.

Pastor: Rev. Edward Mika.

20160501_134045Could be among the oldest stuff that I own that’s actually my stuff.

20160501_134112Because it’s important to have my home address in the Mass book… and apparently, my name is simply too long.

20160501_134145Back side of the “Take and eat” holy card. From Aunt Bernie. With the names of my six cousins inscribed. Yes, only six ‘country cousins.’ In 1966, Mary was still only a twinkle in Uncle Stan’s eye.

20160501_134219I’m not sure who gave me this gift. Was it from the school/church? I don’t remember and didn’t see any marking on it.

20160501_134245But this one was from Babcia and Dziadzia Konieczka. Now, the question is, was it Mom’s Mom and Dad, my grandparents? Or was it Mom’s Babcia and Dziadzia, my great-grandparents? Hmm…

20160501_134324I love these books. The Mass book (Jesus Make Me Worthy) is dense! Much helpful information packed into almost 300 pages. Short, simple chapters. A wonderful explanation of the Mass, from the perspective of the pre-Vatican II liturgy, when the priest faced the altar and tabernacle at the back of the sanctuary, away from the congregation, in reverence to the Blessed Sacrament.

The confession book asks very simple questions of a child about behavior. Each Commandment has an illustration that makes right action and behavior even more understandable for a child.

20160501_134349Yeah, the tie actually fit.

20160501_134440A sample page from the book, preparation for First Communion. Among the densest of the pages. And Mom’s handwriting in the book given to me by Babcia i (“and”) Dziadzia Konieczka.

20160501_135444The end of the book. How’s this for a simple explanation for how a child should live?

Thanks, God, for the memories.



That’s right.

We’re all gonna die.

So then… what’re you gonna do with your one guaranteed opportunity TODAY?


Short message today, gang.

There’s plenty to be pessimistic about.

I heard some words from Saint Augustine this morning (thanks, EWTN!) about what God does with evil. Consider what Jesus did when Judas betrayed Him. He merely used it to save the world.

How cool is that?

We’re all gonna die.


That’s not meant to be a downer. It’s a fact of life. It’s the one certainty.

If we rely on anything on Earth for our ultimate happiness, we will be disappointed.

If we rely on Christ, we will always have hope.

Let’s just pretend that you know — with certainty — that Jesus Christ is the Savior of the world.

(That’s for those of you who either don’t know, don’t believe, or have doubts.)

If that’s the true, what other hope do you have?

If that’s not true, do you have any hope?

What if?


Again, let’s just pretend that you know — with certainty — that Jesus Christ is the Savior of the world…

(I know — with certainty — that He is, but just in case you don’t…)

… then what are you going to do today to bring the hope and message of that certainty to somebody else?

You don’t have to be an evangelist. You don’t have to get in their face with “God Talk.”

You merely have to radiate your belief.

That’s it.

(And if you don’t truly believe right now, just pretend. And see what happens.)

Dave’s Morning From Hell, 2016 Style – Take 2


Why, oh why I ask in earnest…

… and I mean in the earnestly utmost in earnestness…

… do these things seem to happen in pairs?

I’m praying it’s not in threes!

It all began last night…

(cue the flashback music and the weird fade)

“Bye, Stephen. Yeah, probably see you tomorrow. I’ll be asleep by 8:20.”

That’s Dad humor. It was 8:18. I was sprawled on the floor in the bedroom, laptop on the coffee table, legs splayed out, one under the coffee table, one out to the right side, face nearly planted on the keyboard. I couldn’t keep my dang eyes open.

Too many nights of four hours of sleep. Depression setting in with no Blackhawks hockey to watch for the next 147 days

— and then we’ve gotta endure that godawful World Cup of Hockey in Toronto before the real games commence (yeah… and hope and pray that nobody gets hurt while the boys “play for their country.” Before the season? Are you frickin’ kidding me???).

I was a tired, exhausted, sleepy little boy.

I’d already scraped the filthy, protein-rich (oh, and goozhy!) contacts off my eyeballs, so that chore was done. Cats were fed, although they were still protesting outside the castle gates, feigning starvation.

Crawled into bed sometime around 8:30. Kathy was already sitting on her side of the bed, hogging all the good pillows (“here, let me give you your pillows…” uh huh… sure).

And right on cue, as soon as the lights were out, Martha calls her.

Why is it, when someone is talking on the phone in the bedroom when the lights are out,

(and who else might be in the bedroom with the lights out? Again, I digress…)

… it seems like they are using a megaphone?

Pillows slammed against my ears, to no avail. As the seconds ticked by, I was feeling more and more wide awake.

Then, my poor tummy. No apparent reason, my stomach started aching something fierce. Not sure why. Body probably wasn’t used to me being in bed before midnight. The only plausible explanation.

At some point, I did manage to forget about the tum tum. Or perhaps the agony took its toll and made me pass out.

I woke up, wide flippin’ awake, at 3:05 AM. And it wasn’t even nature’s call.

Oh, I’m sorry. Too much information?

Wide awake. I must’ve fallen asleep sometime around 9, which meant that I got my six hours of sleep. On a good night, that’s usually all I get. I have a real hard time sleeping longer than six hours.


I had listened to a webinar earlier in the evening about the Divine Mercy.

You didn’t think there could possibly be a faith tie-in to all of this, did you?

During the webinar, Father Seraphim Michalenko of the Marians of the Immaculate Conception was speaking about forensics work that had been done to determine the approximate time that Jesus rose from the grave and said it was likely around 3 AM.

What else do you think about at 3 in the morning but that? So… of course I was wide awake recalling that he had said that, and knowing that my alarm was going off in less than an hour.

— at 4 AM… Read that? FOUR O’CLOCK A.M. —

I pondered my options.

“Well, I might as well start saying a Chaplet of Divine Mercy. That’ll put me back to sleep.”

I’m sure I’ve mentioned before that repetitive prayer is the best sedative in the world. Cures insomnia. Like that.


See? Just like that.

I started praying.

“Our Father, who art in heaven…”

And then, I must’ve dozed off. I was sure I made it through the first decade of the Chaplet. I started from where I thought I left off.

And it happened again.

And again.

“DING ding-ding DING DING….”

(I won’t bore you with the details of the tune.)

OH MY GOD! That’s Kathy’s phone alarm! OH, NO!!!!!!!

I leaped out of bed (that doesn’t happen often any more), grabbed my phone.

IT WAS 5:13!!!

I’m sure a few choice words passed through my lips.

I had 17 minutes to shave, brush my teeth, shower, do other necessary things…

Oh, I’m sorry. Too much information?

… make my oatmeal and feed the cats if I was going to get out of the house on time.

Oh! And reinstall the filthy contacts. See yesterday’s morning from hell.

17 minutes.

30 (ish) minute drive to Lake Forest.

6 AM appointment.

My morning was slammed. Back to back to back to back appointments. No room for wiggle.

(Wait… that’s not exactly how the saying goes, is it? Hey, gimme a break. I’m still groggy.)

I give myself 90 minutes in the morning. 60 if I am really, really, really, really tired. Like… after a four-hour night. Like most nights lately, actually.

Not this morning. SEVENTEEN MINUTES!

My poor little babies got the short end of it today. Not a lot of TLC from Daddy. But, hey, they got fed (and a little extra food, too, for their inconvenience) and got fresh water. Not a very tidy eating area, though.

And although it took me 27 minutes to get out of the house, the traffic gods were kind (notice: small ‘g;’ play along with me) and I got to my client’s house at just about the same time I arrive every morning.


Threw everything off the rest of the morning, though. Felt a little out of sorts as I went about my business.

And here’s the punch line. After I finished my appointments, sitting in my car, I scrolled through the notifications on my phone.

“You missed an alarm set for 4:00 AM this morning.”


I missed it? Me?

The bloody radio never turned on this morning! Alarm was set properly. The iHeart Radio app never turned itself on.

Fun with smartphones. You gotta love ’em. You gotta hate ’em.

Well, I guess you don’t gotta.

I gotta.

I also gotta set the alarm clock on the good ol’ fashioned clock radio tomorrow.

Me, sometime between 3:05 and 5:13 this morning.

Me, sometime between 3:05 and 5:13 this morning.

Dave’s Morning From Hell, 2016 Style


So… how’s your day going?

Here’s how mine started.

I awoke in a fog. No, not a hangover. I don’t drink. Well, not enough for that anyway. And no alcohol last night. The Blackhawks game was enough of a depressant. My eyes… my vision was blurry… was it pollen?

Uhhhhh, no.

Realized that I slept with my contact lenses in. My really old last pair of contact lenses that have to last until I get my @$$ in to see the eye doc.

Realized it after I rubbed my eyes furiously to get what I thought was the inordinate amount of goozh (yes, goozh… pronounce it as you see it) outta my eyes.

I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed. And how I didn’t rub the lenses right out of my eyes or tear them to shreds I’ll never know.

“It’s a miracle!”

There was some old commercial where an older lady said that line. Don’t even remember the product. And miracle was pronounced “MAR-a-cle.” As a matter of fact, the way I remember it, she said the sentence something like “Et’s a MARacle!”

That’s kinda like goozh, I guess.

(Should it be gooozh?? Hmm…)

(But I digress.)

So after unsuccessfully ripping the unsuspecting contact lenses from my eyes, I doused them with eye drops that specifically advise removing contact lenses before using.


Last pair.

Really old pair. And my glasses are worse. Truth.

Think it’s time for a trip to the optometrist? Yeah, I think so.

“Would be prudent,” to paraphrase Dana Carvey’s George Bush.

So after unsuccessfully ripping my eyes out, I proceeded to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for our little darlings.


Smoky. She’s really a lot more pleasant than this photo might otherwise suggest.

And of course, a trip downstairs for Smoky’s bowl. She’s the antisocial one. She keeps her distance from the other little darlings and eats alone.

Reaching for her bowl, I discovered Smoky had puked right next to her food dish.


While cleaning that up, I realized that she also puked in her bowl, on top of her leftover food.

Glad I noticed that before dumping it in with all the other leftover food.

Yes. Our cats eat leftovers.

So I took time to clean and disinfect her eating area.

Upstairs again to rinse out the bowls and toss some food in them. And race out the door. It was getting late.

Stepped over to the sink and dipped my toes in water.

That’s odd.

Was it pee?

Nope. Water.

Okay, I’ll wipe it up with a paper towel.

Put paper towel on floor. Paper towel is soaked through in milliseconds.

What the … ?!?

There’s a small lake on the floor.

Did the new dishwasher leak?? Don’t tell me…

Puddle only on the right side of the cabinet. Dry from the dishwasher. Hmm…

Open the cabinet, garbage disposal is leaking like a sieve. All over the already water-damaged floor of the cabinet. And draining onto the floor.

The kitchen floor....

The kitchen floor….

This day is starting well…

Old towel from the linen closet. Prop up a makeshift water basin under the sink.

I look at the clock. I should be walking out the door right now.


I usually listen to the daily readings and some other prayers while getting ready in the morning. It beats the trash on the radio. Yeah, I know… it’s more than that, but I don’t want you to think I’m some holy roller.

‘Cause I ain’t.

So I grab my phone (all that good stuff is on my phone) and notice that my low battery light is on.

Tornado narrowly missing Kirkland, Illinois last year.

Tornado narrowly missing Kirkland, Illinois last year.

What the … ?!?

I had the blasted thing plugged in all night! Or did I?

No. I swear I unplugged it when I got outta bed…

Well, anyway. The phone battery was pretty much dead.

All this before 4:30 this morning.

Oh. And today’s high temp? About 30 degrees colder than yesterday. Must be the start of another Cubs’ homestand.

But at least we dodged the severe weather.

And no tornadoes.

God never promised us it would be smooth sailing.

They stoned Paul and dragged him out of the city, supposing that he was dead.   –   Acts 14:20


My day was not that bad.

Of course, I’ve yet to return to the homestead and don my Mr. Fix It cap…

“The Thrill of Victory, the Agony of Defeat”



Eight days ago, Danny Willett wasn’t going to play in the 2016 Masters. Nicole, Danny’s wife was, expecting. The baby’s due date? Today, the final round of the Masters.

Zachariah Willett was born March 30, eleven days ago, just five days before Masters Week commenced.

Today, on Zachariah’s original due date, new dad Danny Willett won the 2016 Masters.

Congratulations, Danny, on a magical two weeks.

You don’t have to be a sports fan to celebrate a story like this.

In the aftermath of victory, 22-year-old Jordan Spieth, winner of last year’s Masters and leader after every single round the last two years of this tournament, was leading today’s final round by five strokes with nine holes to play.

Just three holes later, Jordan Spieth trailed by three, an eight stroke swing.

Jordan made a valiant comeback. He was within two strokes of the new leader with three holes to play. But he couldn’t complete the charge back to the top and finished tied for second.

Add to the agony of the collapse, as last year’s winner, Jordan had to congratulate and participate in the traditional presentation of the Masters Green Jacket to this year’s winner. Quite a humbling scene for a 22-year-old. He handled it with class and humility.

You’ve got to feel for the young man. But perhaps the fates had a hand in the events of the day.

As Jim McKay used to say so dramatically at the beginning of the ABC television show, Wide World of Sports,

“the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat.”

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