Monday, June 30, 2008

Reading from Mark's Memorial Service

Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other,
that we still are.

Call me by my old familiar name.
Speak to me in the easy way
which you always used.
Put no difference in your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effect,
without the trace of a shadow on it.

Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same that it ever was.
There is absolutely unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?

I am waiting for you,
for an interval,
somewhere very near,
just around the corner.

All is well.

--Henry Scott Holland
Canon, St. Paul's Cathedral

Eulogy from Mark's Memorial Service--by Liz Gold

I’m honored to say I have been a friend of Mark’s for almost twenty years. Everyone here today has been touched by Mark in some way, and carries a little piece of him in your heart. He was a very private person, so there are parts of him none of us will ever know. But I wanted to share with you a little bit of the Mark I knew.

When I first met Mark, I was leaving an unhappy marriage and just beginning my own personal journey. I had a lot of darkness inside me, and I was drawn to him because he wasn’t afraid of that—it was something we shared. Somehow sharing the darkness cast some light into our lives. About a year after we met, my brother committed suicide, and Mark hung in there with me as I plunged into my own darkest hours.

In those days Mark’s life revolved around being a dad to his daughters, Jessica and Rachel. They were his world, and he loved being a dad—well, most of the time, except when playing referee to the never-ending inter-sister battles. But there was a lot of laughter, too—the girls cuddling up to him in the morning on his bed, making a “dad sandwich.” In fact, his bed doubled as the living room since he gave them the only bedroom. He was a full-time dad, attending teacher meetings to advocate passionately for his daughters, taking them ice skating and to movies. We’d go to Time Out in Westlake and as we ate our burgers they’d run around checking in with all their friends at the other booths. Even doing laundry was a weekly family affair since they never had a washer or dryer, and Mark did his best to make it fun.

Living in Westlake wasn’t always easy. One time, after the girls were grown, Mark was walking home carrying a big laundry bag on his shoulder, and a policeman pulled up to see if there was stolen merchandise in the bag. (People in Westlake don’t walk to do their laundry!) Mark’s Audi spent a lot of time at the mechanic, and at one point (when for some reason I had two cars) he borrowed my '66 Volkswagen beetle. The girls made him drop them off a block away from wherever they went so no one would see them in it. For a joke, he made sure to honk and wave anytime he saw them walking with friends. So they would duck whenever they heard a Volkswagen coming.

Rachel was always bringing home animals, from palm-sized kittens fed hourly from a bottle to lizards and snakes. She had amazing skills in raising and doctoring animals, but, her love of animal life ran smack up against Mark’s obsessive cleanliness, and most critters didn’t get to stay long. Jessica’s maternal instincts ran more to human babies, and it was good that she often found toddlers to babysit since Rachel was intensely resistant to being mothered by her older sister.

Mark was neat to a fault, as his daughters will tell you. He wore out a new vacuum cleaner every 6 months. When Prozac first came out and Mark’s doctor prescribed it for him, it gave him insomnia, and he was up half the night cleaning behind the refrigerator with a toothbrush. The scary part was that neither Mark nor any of the rest of us were sure at first if there was anything abnormal about that behavior.

Years ago, after Mark had made an earlier suicide attempt, my partner and I rushed to find him in the ER. He had tubes pasted all over him but his beard was trimmed and his hair was perfectly combed. Moreover, his bills were paid and his apartment was in perfect order.

Mark had the soul of an artist, which meant that he was a complete failure as an independent contractor because he wanted to make every construction job into a work of art, which ended up putting holes in the wallets of both him and the client. The back door of my old house in East Austin needed some work because the wood frame was rotted. Now it has a fancy Greek pediment over the doorway even though no one will ever see it unless you climb up and look over the 8-foot fence.

When the girls got older and moved out, Mark finally did turn his hand to art—in fact, he turned his apartment into a combination art studio and aviary--with not so much as a chair for visitors. Amazingly, even his very first sculptures—whether in wood, clay, or stone—were breathtaking. Unfortunately, he never finished these works and we never managed to steal them before he had a fit and destroyed them. As you may have noticed in the slide show, we did find two unfinished works of his, one on a massive rock in the wooded area near his apartment, not far from where his body was found.

He was also an artist with a story. Many of us spend a lot of time in rooms where each person gets a few minutes to share. Mark often waited until near the end of the hour to speak, but when he did, his stories were beautifully crafted, rich with humor and metaphor, treats to take home and savor for days.

He loved his job and his coworkers, and if any of his colleagues are here, I want you to know that in that part of his life he was the happiest in the last few years that we ever saw him. It was funny—he avoided getting close to people and yet he loved people. He was hilarious at imitating the way people talked. At one point he taught woodworking at Marbridge Farms to developmentally disabled men. Mark adored the way these childlike adult men were so incredibly open-hearted and loving, and he told wonderful stories about them. Maybe he was so guarded with his heart because really it was just like theirs.

Then there were the birds. I never really understood birds until I was around Mark. Mark’s ex-wife, Catharine, tells me that Mark had birds all his life. The first one I knew was Dagwood, the cockatoo, who would cuddle with Mark in his arms in his bed as he made these amazing bird noises. I think maybe Mark was part bird—a little vain about his appearance, reserved, coyly looking down or to the side instead of straight at you, disliking it when people poked their fingers in his cage, walking with effort as if maybe flying would have come more naturally. The last few years, he called the birds his “boys,” and he couldn’t ever come visit me because he couldn’t leave “the boys.” He loved beauty so much, and intense colors—I think maybe deep inside he had an inner, flamboyantly beautiful macaw.

I’ve been hearing a lot of people say they would like to have known Mark better, and would have been happy to help if only they’d known how much he was suffering. But the fact is, Mark ran away from people, and you had to be really persistent to be his friend. I was his best friend for years, and every week he and I would go to the same 12-step meeting, and every week we’d go for coffee afterward. Yet at the end of every meeting he’d scurry out to the parking lot—looking like he was barely moving but gone in a flash—and I’d have to run after him or he’d drive away. He always seemed surprised to see me there again the next week—and yet I know he loved me. When I moved to New Mexico a few years ago and then got cancer, it was hard to stay in touch because I couldn’t run after him to the parking lot anymore.

I don’t think he was afraid of being hurt, but of hurting us. A few months ago, when he started having problems, he called me. He told me there was a young man who was trying to be his friend, and he was worried that it wasn’t a good idea. I think he knew that he might have to leave. He was trying to protect us from himself and from his demons, which he thought the rest of us couldn’t handle. And maybe he was right. Mark had the courage to look unflinchingly at the darkness inside himself, and how many of us can say that?

Mark witnessed a terrible crime in his childhood. It was not the kind of thing a person ever “gets over.” My grandaddy was in World War I, and a shell exploded right next to him, putting a hole in his head. He was never expected to live, and his whole body was full of shrapnel—sharp fragments of metal. When they started putting security in airports, he had to carry a doctor’s letter, and I can remember seeing a security guard wave a metal detector wand over his shoulders and back and arms and legs, and there was metal everywhere—the wand was squealing like crazy. I think Mark had emotional shrapnel, and every now and then it would break loose inside and start moving around and tearing him up. During those times he really questioned God, a God who could permit such terrible things to happen as he had seen. But he always came back to the conversation. And no one worked harder than he did at staying alive—going to therapy, going to meetings every single day. He worked it.

When someone takes their own life, we tend to blame ourselves, to think of things we might have done that might have changed the outcome. Or sometimes we blame other people or institutions—anything to feel like somehow we could have had some control over death. But with Mark, I think of it in a different way.

When my granddaddy—the one with the shrapnel—was 80 years old, he would still shake his head, saying he was never supposed to have lived, and he was grateful for every one of those 80 years because every one was a gift from God. And that’s how I think of Mark. I think it’s amazing that he lived to 2008. It’s a miracle.

And I think it’s because of each one of you that he made it this far—because of your love for him and his love for you. He stayed alive long enough to see his daughters safely delivered into womanhood—as you can see, they are both beautiful young women. The girls remember that when they were little, they used to take turns walking around in Mark’s big old cowboy boots, and I think now they can finally fill those boots, and each of them carries a big part of Mark inside her.

And yes, he hurt us by leaving, as he was afraid he would. But my life is infinitely richer for knowing him. And it’s our job now to honor him by proudly carrying the memory of him, and the lessons he taught us, through the rest of our lives. And, like it says in the passage that Mary Ann read, he’s right here, with us, and he always will be.

Friday, June 27, 2008

I met you, Mark, at Teen and Family when your Jessica and my son were in out-patient treatment. They kept telling the parents "if you want to help, go to Al-anon", and so, for once in our adult lives, we both followed directions and did. We went every single day that we weren't at Teen and Family; we do love our children so. We wanted them all to have healthy, happy, contented lives. We each shared from our hearts, and I learned of your sad family of origin history. I shed many tears over the terrible hurts you had to endure as a child---alone. We each became part of the Westlake recovery family-- to listen and empathize and celebrate and sometimes pat each other on the back.

I remember your sadness when Rachel moved to Georgia with her mom to have a new and different life. I remember your understanding that it was the right thing for her, and you were glad for her that she followed her heart. I remember you telling about phone conversations with Rachel and how dear she was to you.

I remember your stories about your birds and your self-effacing sense of humor about your humanity; we all understood. We all cared. I remember the swells of anger you would be ambushed by--often at work; we all understood why. We all cared. I remember your angst as you watched your Jessica careening through her teenager-ism and early twenties; we all understood. We did all care. I remember your pure joy when she began to stop; she stood and looked about, deciding she would claim her own life after all. Of course, we as parents don't agree with every decision our young adults make, but you knew your little girl was safe and had confidence that she will indeed stay free and can choose her own healthy path. We all understood and shared your joy about this. We all cared still.

Lately your and my meetings haven't overlapped much. Now they tell me you were struggling so. Trying so hard to hang on. Trying so hard to do the next right thing. Trying to stay here for your daughters.

I wish I could have told you how much all of us loved you, Mark, and how we understood. We would have stood by you--if there was a way to do that. You were not alone, and there are solutions. I know you did the very best that you could. Last night when I found out what had happened I cried and cried. I cried for all the childhood pain I know you endured. And I cried for your beautiful daughters. And I cried for the loss of one of my family.

I will miss you, Mark. We won't forget you. You are right; today your girls are safe. I hope Jessica will stay secure within our Westlake home for years and years. You were a good dad. You loved your daughers with your whole heart. They are safe from the kind of pain that you endured because you protected them. You were a good dad. Thank you for being part of my family. I do so wish you could have found relief in this life, AND I am glad to know you are at peace---at last--now.

Your sister in recovery,
Julie B.

Mark Hilton Shular

August 11, 1954 - June 24, 2008

Through his art Mark expressed his creativity and uniqueness; his birds brought him joy and reflected his nurturing self.

Our daughters, Jessica and Rachel, were his love, and his positive gifts will live on through them.

I believe that Mark has now transitioned to peace. He will be missed.

Catharine Cato
Jessica and Rachel's mom, Mark's former wife
In Honor of Mark
Did you know you were admired, did you know that you were loved
Did you know you touched my heart, did you know I was on your side?
Did you know you were courageous, did you know that I cared
Did you know you touched many lives with the honesty you shared?
Did you know that you were special? Did you know that I would cry?
Did you know I'd feel such saddness, did you know I'd miss your smile
Did you know I'd never forget the strife&compassion I saw in your "Dancing" Blue Eyes?
Did you know you're important and I saw how hard you tried?
Did you know, my friend, I'd want to thank you, and it's hard to say goodbye.
Jessica you are in my prayers
8:00 Alanon

My Uncle! Wish I new him better!

I am sorry Mark that I was not a part of your life as much as I should have been. I know in spirit we are chasing some of the same demons and fighting to stay here everyday. Well I found out that you have decided to change the fight and release your soul to a new place to start anew. I feel with my life the way it is and our separation from the family the way it has been we have similar paths to cross. Maybe your decision in transferring out of this body you will come and help me with my fight for a while and be a guide for me in the future. Since you are now no longer in body you can travel anywhere at anytime so I ask that before you leave this place for a fresh start take time to talk to you daughter Jessica and help her through this trying time in her life. You were her love and happiness and someone she could believe in whether you knew it or not. To everyone who knew my uncle Mark Shular thank you for being there for him as long as you were and helping him in his own struggle in life. My heart goes out to ya'll as well and hope you can find joy and solace in this saddening time. After you have mourned in your own hearts take time out and celebrate the life that was my uncle. I will miss him even though i did not know him as well as I should have. Maybe if I did he might still be here fighting with me today.

Sorry I will not be able to afford to travel back to Texas at this time to be present at the memorial but know that I am there in spirit and will take time out of my day to add strength to all who need it. I loved you uncle Mark and still do! Always know that and always remember me as your crazy little nephew!

Michael David Shular

Thursday, June 26, 2008

One of our family

I just want to say that I'm sending prayers to family and friends of Mark. I've seen Mark come in meetings for yrs, fighting with his demons. He has become one of our "family" at the 5:30's. He fought hard.....especially this past month. I'm glad he is no longer suffering, but he will be missed at our 5:30 meetings daily.
No more more suffering.
It will be hard coming in and seeing that empty chair. But I know you are here in spirit.
Prayers to all,
5:30 Westlake

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Sending my heart to you ...

I wanted to write a short note sending my prayers, thoughts and love to Mark's family. I saw Mark a lot around Westlake and, while I admittedly didn't interact a lot with him, I saw a man who truly was committing himself to healing and wholeness.

As I write this, I am aware of how much inner pain Mark was enduring. Now he endures no more pain.

Jessica, I hope and pray you find comfort and peace in the coming days and weeks.

Grace and peace,

Joe Rutland
Austin, Texas

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Sending Love and Prayers

Just want to say that I'm sending love and prayers, both for Mark and for Jessica, who has tried to help keep him in this world for so many years.

And sending love and prayers to everyone who knew and loved him. Surrounding all of you with light.

He was there for me when I first showed up at Westlake, nineteen years ago, and helped get me through my darkest hours. We shared the darkness, and it shed enough light to keep us both alive all these years.

No one has ever fought his demons any harder than he did. He showed up every day for his own life with courage and a great sense of humor.

Mark, my brother, I'm just happy that you are relieved of all suffering. Fly away, bro, fly away free.

We'll love you always.

Liz G.
Chimayo, NM