No matter how many times I've done it, I still hate public speaking. All the self-talk in the world does not preempt the almost audible drum beat of my heart from reaching, what I'm convinced, are cardiac arrest levels. I suddenly find I can't swallow; my throat vibrates, which makes my voice sound as though I'm under water.

He would tell me that if I started out admitting my nervous condition, this would buy me, at least initially, a sympathetic reception. So, I always start off with some self-deprecating joke and then proceed, feigning the picture of comfort and ease.

But this speech had even more anticipatory dread because it was to be given in celebration of Advent at St. Owen Church. St. Owen is the parish that my dad joined shortly after my mom died on Dec. 26, 2000.

He left St. Regis for the unspoken reason that the memories of he and my mother in the back pew as daily communicants and, too, of his decades-long membership in the choir, were too painful.

He never sang again after she died. He could not listen to his favorite symphonies -- music and emotion being too intertwined. He'd not only lost the love of his life but his mission in life as her constant and unwavering caregiver through her long decline from Parkinson's disease.

And so he sought a geographic change at St. Owen, but what he got was a renewed purpose in life. He felt at home with the rosary group after mass, even joining "the girls" for coffee in the parish center afterwards.

He'd quiz his grandchildren with personal questions about sex, what TV shows they liked, did they really feel God listens to prayers, so that he might really break through the adolescent defenses in his classroom.

He gave communion with the church ministers to the sick in hospitals, joined their Meals on Wheels program, drove the homeless in the church van to and from their shelters, took theology courses at the seminary and forged a deep friendship with the pastor.

This parish embraced my father and made this humblest of men feel worthy at a time when he really needed it. And so my brothers and I have always felt indebted to St. Owen for gleaning, in a relatively short period of time, all the qualities in him that we'd spent a lifetime admiring.

My dad died almost a year ago. I knew, if just driving down Maple Road, past Wing Lake, near where his house used to be, chokes me up, well, walking into St. Owen with Christmas approaching would mean a dismantling of the highest emotional order.

But, thankfully, so were the women in the audience. All fears that I am a sentimental sap along the lines of John Boy and George Bailey were realized.

As a grown woman, with children old enough for us to be worried about college funding, I know I should be beyond feeling left behind, adrift in the ocean of life. I should not feel as if the world is too cruel for me to have to fend for myself now.

In the talk, I said that when I'm low on courage, I miss my dad the most. When I'm low on patience, I miss my mom the most, which is to say that I find myself missing her a great deal of the time.

My brothers, I think would say, that the loss of dad was more severe than our mother's because she'd been so sick for so long and we grieved her loss long before she died. But when I long for my mother, the vision I have is of my mom when she was healthy and full of fun.

I suddenly realized that I wasn't that nervous anymore, forgot all about the microphone. I realized I was speaking to a group of like-minded women with a propensity for tears and a total disregard for social graces because when talking about being blessed with an abundance of love, none of that matters anyway.

Driving home, I realized I'd been feeling apprehensive for a good month or two, over what I did not know, like I'd been bracing for some precipitous event. Giving this speech helped me put my finger on the source of my trepidation: This is the first Christmas without my parents.

Yes, it will feel weird at points, maybe even surreal. Yes, I will hold my breath at the dinner table where tradition holds that dad fails again at his attempt to get through grace without choking up.

But it will be a beautiful Christmas. I know this because my mom told me so when I got home that night and let out the dogs. In the stillness of the black night, she said as much in the distinct ringing of wind chimes that I heard when there was no wind, when, in fact, there were no wind chimes at all.

Home life You can reach Marney Rich Keenan at (313)222-2515 or mkeenan @detnews.com. Read her columns each Thursday in The Detroit News Features section and every Saturday in Homestyle.

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