I’ve been having trouble keeping my eyes dry for the last few days. The reasons are complicated, but have everything to do with the fact that my uncle, John Milton Lee, passed away on Friday morning.

John was my mother’s “baby brother,” and at age 67, he was in better shape than most men 20 years younger. Once a sergeant in the U.S. Army, he stayed in fighting condition his entire life. He was everything that I thought an honorable, upstanding man should be, and he shared many of the qualities I respected in my own father. To say that I looked up to him, to say that I respected him, and to say that I loved him would all be shining examples of understatement.

We left New Bern on Sunday to drive to a small town in the southwestern portion of Virginia where my mother’s family has lived for many generations. We went to gather with family and friends to say goodbye to John. His minister and friend for over 30 years, Jim Morris, led a solemn ceremony that honored John’s life, and after a short procession to the family cemetery on a hill above the family home, John was laid to rest among his brothers, sisters, parents and relatives. Military honors were provided by the local VFW post.

John leaves behind his wife, Linda, a wonderful woman I’ve always liked immensely, and his son, Jonathan. Linda is, of course, lost without the husband from whom she has been inseparable for more than four decades. Jonathan, whom I’ve known since he was a baby, has grown and matured to become a tall, red-haired version of his father. One need know nothing at all about my uncle to know the sort of man he was; just meet his son and you will know him.

I have not been close to my family for many years. Starting in the early 1990s, my life and all that surrounded it took some disastrous turns. It was my own hand on the helm that steered me into the troubled waters, but I did it in the presence of clear signs. People told me I was a fool; I knew better. People tried to reach out to me and I pushed them away. I was a bad son to my mother, a bad brother to my sister, and barely managed to be a friend to myself by the time all was said and done. My mother passed away. My uncles, Jim, Lucian, and Bruce did, too. I loved these people. As I began the slow process of pulling my life out of its terminal dive, finally admitting that everyone had been right and that I was guilty of criminal stupidity, all I could feel was regret. I was ashamed, and I felt I’d lost any chance at really knowing my relatives ever again. My sister even gave me a lecture after my Mom passed, reminding me how the cold shoulder I was getting from everyone was something I’d brought on myself. I knew that.

My respect for John and his relationship with my mother always made me feel he was a benchmark. If John could look on me with respect, if I could pass muster with him, I might be worthy as a Lee. As the man most responsible for taking care of Mom during her decline, making sure she had what she needed, and as the man who witnessed daily the sadness of my mother over her seemingly lost son, he could not have felt a great deal of respect for me. I know he loved me, as he loved his entire family, but I didn’t know how to redeem myself in his eyes. I didn’t even know where to start. So I didn’t.

Now I can’t. The finality of that haunts me. There is a part of me that hopes beyond hope that he somehow understood that even though I thought he walked on water, and respected him more than most anyone on the face of the earth, I couldn’t talk to him. I couldn’t bring myself to open a dialog, so ashamed was I of the way I had behaved and failed to behave.

I tried desperately to hold myself together through the moments leading up to the funeral, the ceremony, and the graveside gathering. I managed to maintain my composure through the family get-together afterward, even managing to take a few minutes to talk with Jonathan and Linda, expressing my regrets and how much I had loved John. I spoke with my sister and hugged her; she was beside herself with grief. Sharon was quite young when my father passed away, and John had been like a second father to her, even walking her down the aisle when she was married.

When I told Jonathan that his father had meant the world to me, he replied that my mother had meant the world to him, too, and that we owed it to both of them to keep in touch. No truer words were ever spoken.

When Allison and I began the long drive home last night, I was a wreck. Most of the time I was visibly holding together, but it was still hard to talk about John and my family without sobbing. I didn’t really notice how much energy I had been expending in trying not to fall apart, particularly in front of Jonathan and Linda.

As we rounded a curve on US 220, headed south out of Roanoke, a little cardinal (Virginia’s state bird) was feeding on something on the edge of the roadway. Startled, he flew right into my path, only a few feet ahead. I had braked hard, but it was too late, and the poor creature struck my grill with a sickening sound. There was nothing I could have done to avoid it, but I screamed out in anguish as my emotional dam broke and I lost all control of myself. I got the car off the road and leaned on Allison for a while as everything came rushing out in an uncontrollable flood. Eventually, she insisted on driving, which was a good move. It took a long time for me to regain some semblance of calm. She talked to me, got me to work crossword puzzles with her on my Kindle, and was there for me. No wonder my family seemed to like her.

I am hoping that, as Allison has suggested, a quiet, close evening at home will be therapeutic. I need to get myself in order. I need to keep in touch with my family, particularly with Linda and Jonathan who are going to need a lot of family support as they deal with the loss of the man who was the center of their lives. They are already in my thoughts and prayers, and I hope, my friends, they will be in yours as well.