![]() ![]() If we were able to joyfully, vehemently argue today, as we did so many times, I might just concede Patrick – just this one time – the last word. I am grateful for that, as for many other things. But I did wish him as peaceful, swift, and merciful a journey as the difficult circumstances permitted. I told Patrick’s wife, Mary Ann, that this infidel won’t insult Patrick by pretending to pray for him. We should all hope that his efforts – at last review, a prologue and epilogue that threaten to exceed the actual text – see publication. And, of course, in his final days, he was still refining his thoughts on exhaustively interpreting Churchill’s Savrola. It is no accident that the night before he died, Patrick was grading the work of his students. This, and the ripple effects, are a quietly sublime and worthy immortality, irrespective of any other. I expect Patrick is unable to tally the number of minds he has touched and kindled, prodded and provoked. Here’s what I know – and what I hope he knows/knew (as the metaphysical case may be). He would likely tell me to find faith and stop simply looking for answers. I would ask him if he might do me the courtesy of letting me know what he has found and how he finds it. If we could speak again, I would tell him that he now has the opportunity to settle the question for us. Regarding faith, I like to think I had a sense of what Patrick believed. This made me laugh out loud, because I knew that Patrick would have relished my being at an uncharacteristic loss for words. Later that day, I wrote to Patrick’s wife some of what I share in this post. ![]() I confess to a terrible selfishness this, more than anything, truly left me feeling bereft. When I learned he was dying, it hit me that I had argued with my friend for the last time. It was our habit to announce at the beginning of a phone call whether we were constrained for time, since we both knew that phone calls would otherwise last and wend far beyond whatever pretext prompted them. With vigor, pointedly, and with the edge-of-insult directness that two intellects who love to argue and truly regard one anther can apply without worrying about offense. He may be the only person I know who could tell me both that he just learned he is dying and that he is “Grateful for everything” in the same message. After a few days of my prodding, he responded, uncharacteristically via text, and shared his terrible news. ![]() I was planning to visit him in January and pestering him for approval of dates. I learned of Patrick’s bleak and imminent prognosis not many days after he did, on 13 December. What I wish to say here about Patrick, I say as a friend. So many students, whom he engaged and provoked, challenged and inspired.Īmong Patrick’s admirers, there are many more capable of writing traditional obituaries, which have already been composed and read. He leaves a wife and sons, relatives and friends and colleagues, but, perhaps most of all, students. Patrick Powers spent more than half a century teaching at various Catholic colleges in New England. ![]()
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