“In the end, we all die alone”. Last November, Greenwich Democratic Town Committee Chair Dave Roberson started off his tribute to his recently deceased father challenging this view. He spoke about those who cared for his father in his final hour and he spoke of his belief in that “great cloud of witnesses” that Saint Paul talks about.

Monday, Dave challenged that view again. The newspaper reports talked about a witness who saw Dave’s car veer off the road as he suffered an apparent heart attack. They talked about the EMTs that pulled Dave from the wreckage and tried in vain to save his life. They did not talk about the angels or the great cloud of witnesses that I am sure God sent to be with Dave as he moved from this world to the next. Perhaps some of my sleeplessness Monday night was not due to the stresses in my own life, but my spirit longing to be near an old friend as he moved on as well.

Dave had a lot of friends in politics. He was a cheerful, dedicated, hard worker. As I think about his life and the crowds that will gather to memorialize it, I remember a scene from the movie Norma Rae. In it, Reuben Warshowsky, a union organizer, talks about his own father’s death and those that came to the funeral

On October 4, 1970, my grandfather, Isaac Abraham Warshowsky, aged eighty-seven, died in his sleep in New York City. On the following Friday morning, his funeral was held. My mother and father attended, my two uncles from Brooklyn attended, my Aunt Minnie came up from Florida. Also present were eight hundred and sixty-two members of the Amalgamated Clothing Workers and Cloth, Hat and Cap Makers' Union. Also members of his family. In death as in life, they stood at his side. They had fought battles with him, bound the wounds of battle with him, had earned bread together and had broken it together. When they spoke, they spoke in one voice, and they were heard. They were black, they were white, they were Irish, they were Polish, they were Catholic, they were Jews, they were one. That's what a union is: one.

That is also what we, the friends of Dave Roberson are: one. We became his friend through politics, through church, or many other activities. We might not all share the same religious beliefs or political beliefs, but we share an important kinship, or friendship with Dave Roberson and hopefully that will spur all of us on, to work for a better country and a better world.

I will miss Dave.

Note: For those of you who have not seen Dave’s tribute to his father, I am including it below the fold.

In Tribute to John Royster Roberson
7 November 2009

Lately you often hear people say, “In the end, we all die alone.” I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean. To my ear, it rings with a certain pseudo-profundity characteristic of our cynical age. It’s demonstrably untrue in many cases. But I have learned something interesting this past week. When my father left this world behind, it was scant minutes after my mother and I left the hospital. This is not uncommon—many people have told me that their loved ones departed, as if by choice, the one day they did not visit, or in the quarter-hour they took to get a meal. Perhaps the dying wish to spare us that moment, even though we may feel cheated or guilty. Or perhaps they’ve learned some secret too majestic for the living to bear. In any case, when my father went there was a nurse named Allison there, and when my mother and I got back to the hospital room, we found two angels by his bedside in the form of Mary Jane Huffman and Bruce Winningham. And fortunately my sister Kathy was close enough by that she could join us there by midnight.

So for those who belong to a community of believers, you won’t be alone. Even in the event none of your fellow mortals are on hand, if you live in the hope of the resurrection and the life to come, you know that you are surrounded by what Saint Paul called that “great cloud of witnesses,” never more so than at that hour. And we are so, so grateful to our friends, family, and this church family for your love and support, especially this last week.

Now I’d like to tell you a little story of my father’s from his travels. When he was a young man he worked for a travel magazine called Holiday, and one of his assignments found him in Argentina, looking to cross over the Andes. He hired a car to drive over a certain mountain pass, and as they were about to leave, the driver told him, “Senor, maybe you have heard the reports of the bandits up in the mountains. Very troubling. But don’t worry. I am Hungarian, and not afraid of such men. My son will come with us too, so there will be three of us, and we will show them!” Dad didn’t know quite what to make of this. As they drove on up into the mountains they encountered more warning signs. Perhaps the government had posted notices, or driving into the last village before the pass they saw bullet-holes pocking the buildings. Maybe they heard what sounded like shots echoing down the mountain walls. The driver assured him that if he wanted to continue, he and his son would take him all the way, because they were Hungarian, and ready for anything. Dad wasn’t so sure about this anymore, but didn’t want to lose face in front of these men. So when they saw a very old man sitting in the village square, he had an idea. “Why don’t we ask this old man over here about the bandits, and see what he says?” he said, thinking surely he would be more sensible. So they put the question to the old man, and he said, “Señor, it’s true, there are cruel bandits up there in the mountains. And the pass is lonely, and far from help. But, I am Hungarian! I say we stand up to those bandits, and I will go with you.”

We don’t know exactly what happened after that. Certainly he lived to tell the tale, and tell it he did, at cocktail parties in Manhattan in the late ’60s, and in Greenwich in the early ’70s. So often that eventually my mother stopped him, saying, “John, everyone’s already heard that story.” But that meant that I didn’t hear it until I was maybe twelve.

It would not have been out of character for my father to have said something like, “Well I’m not Hungarian, so let’s get out of here.” But I like to think that he continued, with three generations of Hungarian men in the car, and made it over that lonely pass.

So that’s my wish for everyone here, my prayer for you. Some day we will all have to face that last journey, over a frightening mountain pass into the undiscovered country. When that time comes, I pray that you will find some brave hearts, like those Hungarians, to be with you.

—David Hale Roberson