an open letter to father foster

Dear Father Foster,

It seems unreal--how can you be gone?  It seems just yesterday that I saw you walking down the hallway in your cassock.  I was surprised that you were wearing it--you were coming to the office to get your picture taken for an article celebrating your 50 years as a Carmelite.  That same photo was to serve as your Salpointe obituary.

I have to admit, Father, that I didn't consider you my friend when I came here.  This was not your doing--you were always friendly and kind to me.  But you believed so strongly in your faith, even when it ran counter of today's understanding.  I asked you, just to be sure, if Episcopalians could receive communion in the Church.  Without a pause, you said that we couldn't.  I was shocked.  I knew that we could--I was just double checking. For several years afterward, I would do my best to avoid being in your line for communion.  I didn't want to meet your eyes as I received the host.

Then came Kairos. I had been so looking forward to it--my first chance to really get to know Father John Malley!  I had not known him before.  I'd seen him in the lunch room, but I'd only talked to him once before, after seeing him as he was walking back to the monastery.  Just that small chance to speak with him opened my eyes to his goodness.  Then, working with him in accreditation, I realized what a learned man he was.  You know what happened next.  We got one meeting with him before he died--and you graciously stepped in.  I was thankful and disappointed at the same time.  You understood, though, and accepted the loss that we were experiencing.  I thank you for that.  And I loved serving in Kairos 223 with you.  You became my Father then.

I remember our talks, Father Foster.  It came as a shock to me that we shared many beliefs that were outside the ordinary.  Speaking with you about them made me realize how I'd misjudged you.  I was going through a desire to return to the Church--a desire that has yet to be realized--and I now wonder whether God gave me that desire so that I could now openly worship with you.  God gave me a true blessing that day.

Father Foster, I know you are in a better place--a place you've longed for.  But I miss you.  I miss your smile, your happy "Hello", your stories, and most of all, your love.  I appreciate you so much--your willingness to stand up for your fellow teachers when we could not stand up for ourselves, your genuine love for Salpointe, students and teachers alike.

Father Foster, today we'll all meet together with you in the gym one last time.  One last time we'll all participate in the Mass you loved so much.  We'll all sit together and listen to one last story--this time told of you by someone else, and I'm sure that many of us will weep.  Please realize that we don't weep for you--we all realize that you have gone to your true home.  You're with your family, your friends, and the Lord you gave up your life to serve.  We weep for ourselves--for the overwhelming sense of loss that comes when a true friend goes to the other side.

Father Foster, I know that you won't read this.  I hope you realized through our meetings and our talks how much I loved you.  And I'm so sorry that I waited too long to visit you.  I wanted to tell you one last time how much you mean to me.  But this is all I can do, and if you won't hear it, many of your friends might.  Father Foster, Godspeed.  May you quickly realize your dreams there in the place you've worked for all your life.  Tell Father John hello for us, and please pray for your school, your students, and your teachers.  We all love you.

Yours,
Meg