The Power of Love

Twenty years (and two months) ago -- January 26, 1989 -- my father died.

It was sudden, yet not unexpected. I had been to see him the night before, and, while each successive visit had undoubtedly marked a further deterioration in his condition when compared to the previous one, it had seemed so slight that I falsely envisioned him little changed from the day seven months earlier when back pain, a urinary blockage, and breathing difficulties had sent him first to the hospital and then into permanent seclusion in the house where I now reside.

For a confirmed hypochondriac who had never let a minor ailment escape the commiserations of family and friends nor the immediate attention of an extensive roster of on-call physicians, he had accepted his fate with courage and grace, and had functioned surprisingly well during his two-year bout with lung cancer: motoring to and from radiation treatments at Lynchburg General Hospital (where, incidentally, he was ministered to by the vivacious beauty whom I was later to meet and marry -- but that's another story); holding court at Oakwood Country Club's Memorial Corner; vacationing in Myrtle Beach; traveling to High Point and Atlanta to shop the Furniture Market (well, he didn't really shop much in those days; mostly he wandered through the halls looking for friends and socializing); entertaining enraptured audiences with his raucous brand of humor, now flavored with a dash of illness-induced gravitas; and even planning a summer cocktail party around his beloved pool, until the sobering reality set in.

His mobility was restricted to a wheelchair; he required the assistance of one of his full-time sitters to get into and out of the bed where he spent most of his time; he whispered through an unsightly breathing tube which had been inserted in his throat after the removal of an obstructive tumor -- a grievous situation for a man who loved to talk -- yet he was still the Bert Schewel I had lived and worked with (or for) for forty years. To this day, I am envious of the thick brown mane that crowned his noble visage until the end, a stark contrast to the thinning gray stubble beating a hasty retreat behind my overly aggressive forehead.

Often after these visits, when he looked no worse than a normally healthy man suffering from a bad case of the flu, I used to imagine him rising from his bed, yanking out his catheter -- he once lamented to me the sorry state of his sexual organ -- donning a well-worn dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons loose, revealing a forest of wiry chest hair, striding briskly out the door in his spindly, bowlegged gait, firing up the newest iteration of the flashy convertibles that kept him eternally youthful, and cruising down Rivermont Avenue, his luxuriant locks blowing in the wind -- a bittersweet dream that continued to haunt me many months after his death.

Although one of his sitters later told me he was not passing fluid -- and indeed it was his lungs filling up that killed him -- she failed to warn me that any day might be his last. I may even have gone out of town that morning; for some reason, Reidsville, N.C., comes to mind, although I may be confusing the death of my father with that of my maternal grandmother, whose own occurred four years later, at the ripe old age of 94. Nevertheless, wherever I was, when I received the inevitable call, probably from my mother, that my father had died in bed, one hour after having been wheeled into the kitchen for his lunch -- he rarely missed a meal -- I hurried to his home, arriving just in time to see the body being rolled out the door on a stretcher.

While many persons, when confronted by the loss of a loved one, will find comfort in their religious beliefs -- in their faith in God and an afterlife -- my reaction was the opposite. The spark, the soul, the spirit -- the mysterious power that had invigorated the composite of chemical elements that now lay inert before me -- had expired, evanesced, dissipated into oblivion, at least in my mind, although true believers, whom I wholeheartedly respect, will protest that it lived on in some ethereal Neverland. For me, this life, as grand and glorious as it was, was over.

Except, of course, for the memories that persisted in the minds and hearts of those who knew and loved him -- and even of those to whom he was a total stranger, like the acquaintance sitting next to me at a dinner several years ago who regaled me with some elaborate, improbable tale about Bert Schewel -- the details of which escape me -- and then concluded with the trenchant comment, "And you know, I never even met the man," confirming once again that he was, indeed, a legend in his own time.

Gazing upon his lifeless form -- saddened, resigned, contemplative -- I saw a man who had made the most of the sixty-nine years which had been granted him, who had chosen not to waste for one minute the multifarious talents and exceptional abilities with which he had been blessed but instead to leverage them to realize his full human potential and to lead and encourage others to do the same, and who had faced the challenges and disappointments of life with the same good humor and enthusiasm with which he had savored its pleasures.

But beyond that, like an alarm clock jarring me to self-awareness, the moment sounded a wake-up call, as I reflected that perhaps at age forty, with mortality staring me in the face, it was time to recognize and accept some uncomfortable obligations which I had cavalierly avoided.

In many ways I have followed in my father's footsteps, though by no means filling his shoes, an utter impossibility: growing up in the same town, attending the same college, pursuing the same career, marrying a woman of the same Jewish faith (the first time), raising two sons and a daughter, and now living in the same house he and my mother built fifty years ago.

For two decades I worked for and with him, and witnessed his social interactions, community involvement, and business endeavors. He was a powerful, influential, and intimidating presence in my life. I admired and respected him -- like so many others did -- and at times foolishly and futilely sought to emulate him. The true measure of his preternatural genius as a manager, mentor, and parent was his unbounded confidence in me -- despite my immaturity, insecurities, and missteps.

But, ultimately, as I was serendipitously reminded this morning by a teacher celebrating the special nature of his Bat Mitzvah charge, we are all unique and different from one another. Even if he hadn't been "one in a million," I could never be the person my father was. In fact, once the superficialities are dismissed, our personalities are as far apart as New York and Texas.

He was extroverted, spontaneous, garrulous, and gregarious. I am introverted, reserved, introspective, and cautious. He never met a stranger, whereas, I, frankly, often forget the name of a person I have known for years.

He could take command of a gathering with an endless repertoire of irreverent humor and biting commentary -- like the evening Schewels opened its store in Roxboro, N.C., and he and Gus Zoref, a manufacturer's representative, traded barbs and ripostes for two hours, and I laughed so hard my sides ached -- while I struggle to make small talk.

He could captivate an audience with an impromptu recitation of jokes and stories -- like the night he roasted Best Products founder Sidney Lewis for his "Isro" hair style and congratulated himself for partnering with Mr. Lewis to donate $8,000,100 to Washington and Lee University -- while I stand speechless without a complete text in front of me (although I have improved in recent years, thanks to myriad opportunities to practice in front of my six hundred employees; I also believe I have inherited a healthy dose of his wit and a modicum of his impeccable timing).

Which is why, looking back and applying some retrospective self-analysis, I had been content to defer my responsibilities as a useful citizen and a prominent businessman to my father, who excelled and exulted in such avocations.

On the other hand, if I was to learn anything from this man in whose shadow I had walked for so long, it was that now it was incumbent upon me to sharpen, polish, and employ the talents and abilities I did possess to further my own growth and development and to benefit other individuals and organizations in the community -- in ways unique to me and totally different from my father.

I took up the mantle gingerly, of course, but it is significant that my fund-raising, community service, and public speaking activities -- careers may be too strong a word -- were launched the day after he died.

That evening, as the house overflowed with a steady stream of friends and neighbors who had come to pay their respects and express sympathy to the family, I accosted a contemporary of my father, Richard Samuels, now deceased, who had assumed the chairmanship of the Lynchburg Jewish Community Council when poor health had compelled my father to resign the position.

The Lynchburg Jewish Community Council raises money in the local Jewish community for Israel and related Jewish charities. My father had chaired this organization for twenty years, and, although the duties were hardly onerous nor time-consuming, they did require the chairman to solicit contributions, preside at committee meetings, supervise the record-keeping, co-ordinate an annual banquet, and, the most daunting to me, at that latter event, make a vocal, impassioned appeal for funds. Since I had the secretarial resources at hand to manage this miniature enterprise, it was only natural that I take the reins.

No doubt Mr. Samuels was shocked that I would make such an offer -- obviously no one had ever volunteered for such a job before -- but he quickly recovered his composure and joyfully acquiesced.

It was the first of my many forays into fund-raising, which I am still mindful of now, twenty years later, since no one has as yet come forward in response to my annual plea for a successor.

I was late arriving at my mother's because that morning I had retreated to my office -- next door to my father's, then vacant, as it had been for seven months and was to remain so for another five or six, until I garnered enough motivation to take down all his pictures and move in -- to compose a eulogy. Other than some brief remarks I had made at employee meetings, it was to be the first speech I ever gave before a large, unfamiliar crowd.

I had been thinking about what I wanted to say for some time, but, like a lackluster student hoping that the day of reckoning would never come, I had intentionally procrastinated.

Considering the oppressive atmosphere, I wrote it in a relatively short time, four or five hours, by hand, after which I dictated it to my assistant. I practiced it numerous times, almost memorizing it, because I did not want to break down when I delivered it two days later to three hundred mourners who filled the sanctuary and recreation hall at the Agudath Sholom Synagogue. (I did give a copy to my sister and asked her to be prepared should I falter; I believe tearful emotionalism detracts from rather than enhances talks like that.)

Subduing my stubborn trepidations, that day I spoke with a nascent confidence, first, because I cared passionately about my subject, so much so that I felt my listeners would be sorely deprived, deficient in knowledge, if they didn't hear it, and, secondly, because I realized that the audience, as in most settings, certainly at a funeral, was programmed to receive a meaningful message, no matter how simple or esoteric it might be, and thus disposed to be sympathetic and charitable towards the bearer of that message. Whereas I formerly regarded that audience as my enemy, I intuited that it was very much my ally, willing me to success, whether my objective was to teach, preach, or evoke laughter.

This eulogy pricked my consciousness about six months ago, when I attended a funeral at which a friend of mine spoke about the deceased, his own father, in words which eloquently and elegantly captured the spirit and substance of the man. After the ceremony, we agreed that they would stand the test of time, as I hope the following ones have, delivered January 29, 1989, to which I have, twenty years later, appended the somewhat pretentious title "The Power of Love."

And to those astutely critical readers who will no doubt seize upon my reference to the Almighty as contradictory at best, hypocritical at worst, I submit that it was merely an attempt to engage the sensibilities of the congregation and that this was, after all, a religious service.

"During the past six months, while Bert was seriously ill, the love that people felt for him frequently materialized out of thin air, and in the most unusual places.

"In August I took a trip to Myrtle Beach and stayed at the Sheraton where Bert liked to go on vacations. As I was riding the elevator up to my room, a bellman named Walter asked me, 'Aren't you Mr. Schewel's son?' I said, 'Yes.' He went on to say he had met Mr. Schewel on his many trips to the Sheraton, that he was a good friend of Mr. Schewel, and that he had heard that Mr. Schewel was sick. He said he wanted to take a trip to Lynchburg to see him and talk to him.

"Walter never made that trip, but I felt that the moment he told me he was coming he was absolutely sincere. A few chance meetings in a hotel lobby had made this man a close, life-long friend of Bert, which was how it was with everyone he met.

"About a month ago I was at a cocktail party having a conversation with Charles Hammer, the general manager of the Grand Piano furniture stores in Lynchburg. Charles and I talked about a few things we had in common, and then Charles asked me how Bert was doing. When I told Charles that Bert was not doing well at all, he said, 'I'm so sorry. I love that man. He did a lot for me and he is the best competitor I have ever known.'

"I have heard many fine things said about Bert, but that was the first time I had ever heard that one. It really got to me, and I thought to myself, what a wonderful compliment and a fine tribute, to be called 'the best competitor I have ever known.'

"Last Friday evening another of Bert's friends, Frank Murphy, the bartender at Oakwood Country Club, came over to the house to answer the door and to greet visitors. About nine o'clock, I went up to Frank and told him that it was getting late and that he ought to go home. Frank said he would go or stay, whatever we wanted. Then he said that Bert had done more for him than any person he had ever known in his life, and that being there at the house could not begin to repay Bert for what he had done.

"I do not know the circumstances he was referring to, but it doesn't matter. It is just another example of the many people who were touched by Bert in his lifetime, in ways that most of us will never know or comprehend.

"Walter, Charles, and Frank knew Bert when he was healthy -- vigorous, outgoing, genuinely interested in their lives and activities, and eager and anxious to help them in any way he could.

"But I want to tell you about another person who came to know Bert only after he was sick, confined to the bed, unable to perform simple daily functions for himself, frustrated, often angry, and demanding constant attention. Her name is Phyllis Barnes, and she is one of the sitters who stayed with Bert during his illness. Phyllis, too, came to love him, and the fact that she did so when he was incapacitated and couldn't do things for himself tells me a little more about Bert than the other incidents I have related.

"About two months ago I was sitting in the kitchen in my mother's house talking to Phyllis. That's when I learned that she has watched five members of her family die from cancer and expects to die from it herself.

" 'Some of them were good people and some of them were bad,' she said. 'It's very hard on everybody, both the patient and the family. But, you know, Mr. Schewel is such a good person. I've only known him for a little while, but I've really grown to love him. He is such a sweet man.'

"Bert couldn't do things for Phyllis like he did for Walter, Charles, and Frank -- or for many others we will never know about. He couldn't physically perform acts of love and generosity. All he could do was lie there and talk to her day after day, and give her a few instructions. But the goodness of the man was so strong that it shone through and enabled Phyllis to love him the way so many others have.

"Although love is what I want to talk about today, I want to digress for a moment and mention two other qualities about Bert that never ceased to intrigue me and made me realize just how extraordinary a person he was. Perhaps these qualities will amplify my final remarks on love and Bert's life.

"First, Bert had a prodigious memory. He read the entire newspaper every day and could recount the pertinent facts of every article. He always remembered people's names, and, of course, we all know he never forgot a joke.

"About a year ago Bert was asked to speak at a trade show seminar that was being held in Florida. He spent a day or two preparing some rather detailed remarks about furniture retailing, Schewel Furniture Company, and the nature of our business.

"There was a dinner the night before the seminar, and when he arrived at the dinner and looked at the program, he discovered that he was the keynote speaker for an evening of fun and laughter. Bert had several drawers full of material for occasions like this one, but, unfortunately, the drawers were in Lynchburg and he was in Florida. During the meal, he excused himself, saying he didn't feel well, went to his hotel room, made some notes, came back to the banquet, and delivered a rip-roaring and entertaining talk that was written up in a furniture trade journal as the highlight of the entire week.

"The second quality I will always remember was his tremendous creativity, which I became aware of while working with him for twenty years. He was visionary, innovative, and developed a host of concepts and ideas that were later copied by other people. He had a dream for many years of operating a large chain of stores, even before companies like Heilig-Meyers started acquiring and opening stores at a rapid rate. He saw the potential of the waterbed business at a time when many other furniture dealers were turning away from it. He introduced numerous products and services that made the company more profitable. He originated and refined many types of sales and promotions that were often imitated. He never lost his appetite for doing something new.

"In May, one month before he got really sick and had to spend some time in the hospital, he read an article about a family-owned department store in Emporia, Virginia, that was closing after ninety years in business. He had one of his friends take him to look at the building, and Schewels subsequently opened its 34th store. Sadly, he was not well enough to see that old department store transformed into what he really loved: a furniture store full of customers.

"When I knew Bert was going to die, I tried to think of some statement or belief or philosophy that could explain to me what his life was all about. I found it in a book called 'The Road Less Traveled' by Scott Peck. Many of you may have heard of or read this book; it has been on the paperback bestseller list for two years.

"In his book, Dr. Peck speaks of the spiritual evolution of individuals as a difficult and strenuous process by which they overcome their natural laziness, grow, become better human beings, enjoy the fruits of their growth, and give these same fruits back to the world and to other individuals.

"This laziness, which Dr. Peck calls 'the force of entropy,' is very strong in individuals. It is the inherent inclination in all of us to preserve the status quo, to cling to the safety of old habits, to take the easy path.

"When I talked about Bert's memory and his creativity, I was talking about qualities that counteract this inclination, this laziness. It's easy not to remember names or jokes or newspaper articles. It's easy not to innovate, not to try to change the way we do things. It's hard work to conquer this innate resistance to our spiritual growth.

"Dr. Peck goes on to say that the force that pushes us to overcome our laziness is love; love is the effort to extend oneself for the purpose of nurturing one's own or anothers spiritual growth. It is through love that we elevate ourselves. And it is through our love for others that we impel them to elevate themselves.

"I believe this was the kind of love Bert projected on so many people, which in turn was reflected back upon him.

"I believe every person has an infinite capacity to love. But only a few have the strength, courage, and will to exercise that capacity to an exponential degree, to nurture the spiritual growth of the dozens of individuals they come into contact every day. It just takes so much energy to extend oneself beyond the realm of his intimate family unit and circle of friends.

"But I think all of us are here today because Bert Schewel was special -- someone unique. It is only fitting to ask 'What made him that way?'

"I believe he was special because he exercised his capacity to love beyond what most people do in their lifetimes. He would focus his total attention on any given person at any time and care about that person as if there were none other in the universe. He made each one feel like he was someone special.

"When you were with Bert, you felt better about being in the world that day and better about yourself.

"Every day in his life exemplified what man can accomplish in his struggle against the natural laziness that resides in all of us. He loved people every day because he had the boundless energy to work at it.

"And what is the ultimate goal of our spiritual evolution, of the constant pushing towards greater wisdom and greater effectiveness? Dr. Peck says the ultimate goal of man's spiritual evolution is to become God. And who but God has the energy to love each and every one of us as individuals?

"As we expand our capacity to love -- as Bert Schewel did, as he proved by his living that it could be done -- we grow closer to God.

"We loved him and we miss him. Let us remember him as a friend, humanitarian, and philanthropist, who touched so many people in his lifetime, and who showed what man can become as he approaches the goal of his spiritual evolution."