https://www.facebook.com/31110231/videos/2012358055602333/

Companions on the journey,

Per my mother's request, I am publishing Dad's eulogy here (punctuated and writen for live presentation - which can be viewed about 3/4 the way through the above facebook link of the funeral Mass):

James Herbert Probst Eulogy

February 3rd, 1947 – March 20, 2022

When Valerie Ann Voris first saw Jim Probst she thought, “There he is. That’s who I have been waiting for.” She, to this day, speaks glowingly of the first siting . . . how she noticed how handsome and strong he was. The muscles! She was smitten. She knew. The only awkward part . . . she was on a date with his brother.

Ambrose John, being a living saint then and now answered all my mother’s many questions about his big brother that night, patiently, kindly.

Later, my dad, being a man of integrity, much to my mother’s impatience, waited until it was clear Valerie, and his brother John were no longer dating before entering the picture.

Valerie Ann Voris was and is the love of my father’s life. When he found out he had this terrible cancer, she was first on his mind. Providing. He wanted to make sure she had a place to live, people to love her, that she was safe, that we would all look out for her. Like Jesus on the cross telling a well-loved disciple to please take care of his mother, Jim designated many of us to be a St. John for his Valerie.

Of course, over the past year, I have admired my mother and her strength. While she will need love and support, I also know and have witnessed a woman of great faith, strength, hope, determination, and love  . . . who accompanied her husband incredibly gracefully and well on this last journey, and their life journey.

*

When I asked dad “what was your first impression of mom  . . .”  he said, “Talkative.”

Dad read the comics on Sunday. At some point, he cut out one that especially struck him as amusing and apparently mailed it to me because it was in my file folder of special letters entitled “DAD.” I do not have the accompanying note that must have been with it but here is the context: The comic strip he cut out shows two people in an elevator. Unfortunately the elevator gets stuck. The one gentleman says, “Gosh since we are stuck here together, we might as well get to know each other. This first gentleman proceeds to tell the other man his life story. From the “tyrant he works for” to his official title of “Assistant Manager for Tea Cozy sales” to his final story of “and that is how I met my wife”, the first gentleman finally says, “Gee, I’ve gone on for nearly an hour! Tell me about yourself!” And the other man says, “No hablo ingles.”

When dad cut that comic strip and mailed it to me he did so with love. He saw Valerie (and perhaps some of his daughters and son) in the elevator but also knew that Valerie wouldn’t have waited for the elevator to get stuck . . . to reach out to the stranger … to start talking … and that mom would have been just as interested in the other person’s life very early in the conversation. She would have looked for connections, found ways to relate, figured out why that moment in time was meant to be. Jim saw the blue-eyed, brunette, vivacious Valerie with her guitar and voice and courage and kindness . . . and simply and truly loved her . . .  because she takes each moment and lives!

Our Dad believed in sanctuary. From his office to the combine, to his morning bible readings; time spent in silence was a necessary part of his being. This is also something he needed during his battle with cancer. Especially as he became more noise sensitive, he sometimes had to remind us to give space, give silence, give peace. Being a pig farmer and being from a family of 5 girls and two boys and having fathered 4 daughters and one son, dad also for better or worse… perhaps a bit worse … , at times likened us women to gilts in the same pen who would start cycling at the same time. Let’s just say, there were times of the month where dad spent even more time in his office taking care of bills and business or reading sacred scripture … probably praying for us … or perhaps himself.

He did have a prayer that he loved to say. He wrote about it in a letter he mailed to me when I was on a high school retreat. Our dad writes,

“[…] Lord, hold me, fold me, mold me.” I have a tendency to rattle this prayerful plea to God, especially when things get a little rough. The expanded version <which dad wrote himself and he worries in the letter it might be corny>  goes like this:

Lord may I:

Hasten whole heartedly into your hold

Fall firmly into your fatherly fold

Be made mercifully mighty in your mold

For love is the totality of your teaching we’re told”

…  not corny at all  is it …  no Daddy, poet, farmer, husband, father, lover of sanctuary, believer in holy ground  … who apparently won the English Award at Teutopolis High School two years in a row?!? …  your English teacher mother-in-law would have been proud!!! ……  this prayer poem you wrote is beautiful and a prayer we will all cherish alongside your “go to” meditational plea for tougher times of  …. Hold me. Fold me. Mold me.” and your more recent Padre Pio mantra of “Pray. Hope. And Don’t Worry.”

Earlier in the same letter, Dad speaks of tougher times ( … when we were teenagers might have been some tougher times for him as a parent … just maybe … ) In the letter, our father speaks of these tougher times and retreat, and God,

[…]  “God’s always available to hold, love and nurture us throughout life’s journey. It’s important that we realize this even when the sky is clear and we’re sailing along ever so smoothly. We all have the tendency to put God in “our ship’s” storage compartment and then expect to yank [God] out when the sea of life gets rough and stormy. Instead, we should strive to keep [God] by our side at all times even when the weather is bright and shiny, and everything is rosy. We must keep in mind that [God is] always available, but […] does not force […] us. It’s up to us to ask for […] guidance and assistance. As you remember, “Knock and the door shall be opened, ask, and you shall receive.”

Family was something incredibly important to my father. He was and is the rock of our family. The person in our lives who we could rely on especially when times were tough. From rescuing us from accidents, inappropriate parties, bad dates gone south, and countless other mishaps, he earned his grey hair with incredible patience, some justified holy anger, and also, mercy and grace. As my sister Lucy remembers, he offered that mercy and grace to others too. . . . After she was pulled from a party that … might have been just down the road from the farm…, my dad said, “Alright everyone. I am going home and will be back in 10 minutes.” Of course, when he returned to check, the party had cleared, and peace had returned.

It wasn’t just us he rescued. Countless drivers broke down on the interstate, in pre cell phone days they wandered to the farm seeking help. We knew to help. ‘Cause that is what dad did. One Thanksgiving dinner a farm worker showed up and announced to the entire house and the entire Thanksgiving party, “Whelp  . . . Mama [needs help again]. Jim, can I have an advance to [help] her out?” Dad said, “how much?” then asked no further questions, went to his office, his sanctuary, and wrote a check.

Last night during the visitation, a farm worker said, “Sarah, some of us didn’t have dad’s at home who showed us how to be good men [humans]. Your dad helped us understand how to be better men [humans].

Dad was a yes man. And, when we wanted a horse, he said. “Earn enough money to feed it and care for it and buy it and yes, you can have a horse.” If we wanted “pet pigs” in the herd, “Sure, pick one out. You will need to pay for the feed bill.” If we wanted to go to a camp or adventure he helped make it happen. I have a letter he wrote on one of my “yes adventures.” He wrote this then but when I read it I felt like I was writing the same letter to him right now:

“Dear [Sarah] Child,

Miss you! Both refrigerators are quickly filling with left-over food. Something <someone> is missing! Feels like a part of me is gone. Better change the subject before I start crying. Still trying to plant the last of our soybean crop at Lake Sara (darn, I was trying to change the subject) Has never been dry enough in that area to get all the crops planted. Maybe we will get them in just in time for you to be able to walk them when you get home.”

Walking beans. How many Jim Probst bean walkers do we have in this sanctuary? On this holy ground? Go ahead, don’t be shy. If you baled, or walked beans, or worked with my dad in the fields or on the farm stand up!

[acknowledgement . . . apppreciation of all who stand]

Right .. . . We walked with him on soil, not dirt . . . this was his holy ground. For bean walking, he would start the truck early and drive around Sigel picking up kids who wanted to earn money for a bike, the church picnic, or college.

He would line us up in a specific order. He would give us two rows, four rows, or even six if you were especially reliable. Not a future farmer, Ann Sudkamp remembers being placed by me, given two rows, and that I was told to “growl at her” if she missed any of the smaller button weeds. (Ann, hopefully I didn’t growl).

Jason for sure was a six row sometimes eight row sort of guy. Jason was someone my dad trusted well from the beginning. I remember being so jealous when Dad asked Jason to walk beans in the 4th grade. I was in 3rd grade. In this jealousy, I had a whole lot of “Probstiness” fuming and this bean walking just wasn’t going to happen without me.

So that night I set my alarm and snuck out early and climbed in the back of the bean walking truck and hid in a corner. When Dad stopped at the Ordner’s to pick up Jason, Jason climbed in back and said, “What are you doing here. You aren’t a 4th grader.” I put my finger over my mouth to shush him and sat quietly in the corner as we stopped at more homes and all these big kids were added to the group. When we arrived and Dad discovered me, a 3rd grader on the truck uninvited, he helped me off the truck, told me I had to pull weeds ‘cause I was too young for a sharp hoe, and assigned me two rows on one side of him and Jason two rows on the other side. Over the years of bean walking, I kept track of how many rows Jason got because I wanted just as many . . . And as years passed, Dad  did assign him more . . . and my brother too. Jason wanted to farm with his uncle. Ted wanted to farm with his dad.  And I . . . I got to be his pig vet. . . . It all worked out. And it wasn’t always smooth sailing; but we walked together, we worked through it, and it was good. Jason and Ted, thank you for walking holy ground these years with our dad and uncle, each other, and all the employees. Your hard work and dedication to the family farm was and is an incredible blessing.

My father, James Herbert Probst died on St. Herbert’s day which is also St. Herbert’s death day. St. Herbert was a hermit on an English island who dedicated himself to prayer. We can’t find what he is patron saint of… However if my dad is designated to be patron saint of anything, I would suspect it might be Patron Saint of Teenagers. I think he was such a good solid teenager daddy because he made some questionable choices himself at the same age. Reportedly, Grandma Stella often relied on Aunt Mary to “make sure her brother, Jim, got home safe.” In Dad’s final hours, we found ourselves telling stories of teenage confession. Molly talked about the piano bench she hid underneath to sneak out, Emily remembered how dad handled her car accident in the cornfield and how a picture of Jesus popped out of the trunk, a family friend remembers a super nice note Ted wrote them after being counseled by dad, and Lucy remembered the party down the road at the Ordner house. Lucy was upstairs talking with Tommy when dad walked in to get Lucy and give everyone his 10-minute warning of return.

Here is another note, my dad wrote a teenager who had a bit of a holy rage going at times. Although this letter was addressed to the teenage version of me, I am going to address it now to his talented teenage grandchildren and soon to be teenage grandchildren . . .that’s all of you. . . . we will blink and then you will be teenagers . . .  and really the message is wonderful in this time for all of us . . . .He writes:

Dear child <Sarah>,

As I sit down [this Thursday morning] to write you, I can’t help but think of the words to a song from the sixties. The words in part were “slow down you’re moving too fast…. Take time to make the moment last.”

You went storming angrily out of the house and raced your car down the lane to get to school on time this morning. I said a quick prayer that you would get to school safely and that no one would get hurt. Since I haven’t received a phone call indicating otherwise, I assume you did make it safely to school.

[…]

Sometimes, we all get into too big a hurry and don’t take time out in life to let God take the lead. Remember, when things don’t go your way and you get stuck on the bumpy side-roads of life, God is always there to pick you up and pull you through the rough times. We all feel we know what is best for ourselves, but when things don’t go our way, we need to place ourselves in [God’s]  hands and let God hold, fold, and mold us. Slow down and make the “morning of your life” last.

[…]

Your Proud Papa

Another poem dad liked to give to teenagers (he was a high school religion teacher) goes like this:

Choose only a date

Who would make a good mate

<let me pause here to say sons-in-law, daughter-in-law how much my dad loved you and how grateful he is that you are a part of his children’s lives. I know my dad loved and respected each of you: Matt, Ivan, Todd, Mandy, Kerris> Let me start over.

Choose only a date

Who would make a good mate

Do not let your parents down,

They brought you up.

Be humble enough to obey,

You may give orders someday.

Be master of your habits

Or they will master you.

Choose companions with care

You become what they are.

Guard your thoughts.

What you think, you [may become].

Do not let the crowd pressure you;

Stand for something or

You will fall for anything.

Remember the Lord’s Day.

Do not be a show-off when you drive;

Drive with safety and arrive.

Serve the Lord Faithfully,

[God] has a good retirement plan.

When I asked Dad in the hospital what his favorite church song was, I thought he would say Hosea . . . Hosea was the theme song from his first Cursillo weekend. The words say, “Come back to me. With all your heart. Don’t let fear keep us apart. Trees do bend. Though straight and tall so must we to others call. Long have I waited for your coming home to me and living deeply a new life.”

This Cursillo retreat changed my father’s life. After his first weekend, he started his Saturday morning prayer group . . .6 AM and coffee was the formula and over the years, children and eventually grandchildren woke up to the prayers and laughter and stories of men and stumbled bleary eyed in our pajamas into the gathering of these early morning visitors.

And the tree verse in Hosea has always reminded me of my dad. When the trees had to come down to make room for the beautiful home mom and dad are building, dad asked me, “Sarah why are you so sad about trees?” I said, “Dad, because these oak trees remind me of you. Strong, reliable, always there, protecting the family. . . “ Then he understood. And I did too.

My dear fried Renee sent me a note after dad died . . . she had been sitting in Mass last Sunday evening as a eucharistic minister when a solo guitarist started playing a song. She suddenly got the feeling that something incredibly important was happening and took a picture of the song, Hosea. Renee sent the picture of the song to me not knowing the significance of the song to my father. Considering the timing of everything the song played in her church in Massachusetts about the time my father passed. When she realized this, Renee wrote, “Sarah, [Probst Family], Don’t ever question your father’s homecoming-ever!” Renee wanted to share this “God wink” with you.

My dad was not a winker, but one of his last motions that he could do was a wink. Mom got A LOT of winks from Dad over the past couple of weeks! So did Father Ery when he came to give last rites . . . but perhaps, most incredibly, God kept winking at us. And vulnerable, we opened our hearts to hear God’s voice because we needed to hear and feel and be accompanied. We saw robins, a bird special to dad’s parents and our family everywhere--when Cousin Tommy passed a flock of robins visited Aunt Susan, another flock of robins attended Tommy’s funeral--, Dad’s first nurses in the ER at Sarah Bush were Sarah and Emily. Dad was airlifted to Barnes by a Jason. Near Barnes, we took refuge in a house first owned by a Lucy and now owned by James Russell who is a descendant of many Jim’s and James. In the hospital, we found out dad’s confirmation saint was St. Patrick, and we experienced an especially blessed St. Patrick’s day of sunshine and warmth . . .  it was the last time Dad was surrounded by all his children at the Evelyn House. We were visited by a Father John at Barnes (Father John Titus was beloved by dad as well as his brother John--also suffering from melanoma who needs our prayers) and then a Father Gerhard, Irish German priest at Evelyn House (Gerhard a great grandfather with the same hands and build as dad. . . . strikingly eirly alike in photos..died at about the same age . . . .also look at the pelican image above the doorway at Sigel St. Michael's--sponsored by Gehard). Molly was flown from Qatar home by her neighbor friend and pilot, Harvey (Harvey, IL was the location my father was born) and the pilot Harvey even came to check on Molly. Dad was visited by Teddy the therapy dog—his owner said he liked to be called Theodore— (brother Ted, grandson Theodore--My brother, Ted, always wanted to be callled Theodore--hence his youngest son's name), The lovely lady next door to us at Evelyn house was Priscilla (We didn’t tell her that Priscilla was the name of my first pig that my dad gave me) . . . We searched for a rainbow in the rain and sun at the Evelyn House and  didn’t see one ... then Wendy Ordner let us know there was one over the farm,  And then the incredibly touching and “dad-appropriate” homily we heard on the virtual recorded Mass from Our Lady of the Lake in Mahomet that we did together on the day our father died . . .  to dad being more miraculously with us during the sign of peace in that last Mass, to dad letting us know early on that he saw his soul leaving in sunsets, to the pair of geese that stayed with us the day dad died who flew into the sunset after he passed, to the spring equinox moon who accompanied us home to the farm that night . . . and so many more messages . . . . we have been held, accompanied . . . and a higher power clearly wanted us to know it.

But it wasn’t Hosea that was his favorite song. When asked, instead…, he immediately said…, “Amazing Grace.”

My dad believed in miracles because he received them.

One of the worst days, probably the worst day in my father’s life was the day Tommy died on our farm. The fact that his nephew, his sister’s child died in a grain bin on his farm, the family farm, broke him into a million pieces. And all of us were shattered too. I sense, … the woman who inspired the love of this song was dad’s sister Susan . . .a woman of tremendous faith and strength who while broken and shattered herself did not scatter all the shattered pieces, but rather, pulled family miraculously together. And that is Amazing Grace.

*

For this, my dad was and is eternally grateful.

*

What dad would have wanted most is for his death to bring people together and for love and forgiveness to reign and abide. He cherished family. He cherished you, dear companions. He would want all to know that from the broken comes resurrection and growth and beauty, but we have to allow God to “Mold us, fold us, and hold us” in these times. And being a farmer, our father, neighbor, brother Jim suggests even during the tough times to continue to plant seeds …  and hope.

The rain will come. The sun will shine. And when they merge . . . there is the miracle of a rainbow . . . .

*

I think Molly summed it up best when she called dad before she flew, she said, “Dad if you need to go, don’t wait for me. Answer the call. You don’t have to wait for me.” Of course Dad was going to wait, but she released him with great love; and then said, “Dad you are a part of me. And I am a part of you. Forever. We are a part of each other, forever, and you will live on in all of us.”

*

The kingdom of heaven is within us, we are taught . . .  and that is so very true when our eyes, ears and hearts are open enough to receive.

*

Let us end by hearing again the words of our poet farmer:

Hasten wholeheartedly unto your hold

Fall firmly into your fatherly fold

Be made mercifully mighty in your mold

For LOVE is the totality of your teaching we are told.

*
In the hospital, we also asked dad what he wanted to be remembered for.

He said simply, “Love.”

And that, is what remains.

Peace be with you dear Companions,

Amen.