[Congressional Record Volume 142, Number 110 (Wednesday, July 24, 1996)]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Pages E1355-E1356]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




                   TRIBUTE TO MONSIGNOR ROBERT BLAIR

                                 ______
                                 

                        HON. STEVE C. LaTOURETTE

                                of ohio

                    in the house of representatives

                        Wednesday, July 24, 1996

  Mr. LaTOURETTE. Mr. Speaker, Monsignor Robert Blair, who passed away 
last month, was a clergyman in the Cleveland diocese for more than half 
a century. While many were saddened by his death, so many more were 
enriched by his warm heart, his full life and his unparalleled devotion 
to the church.
  At his funeral last month, Auxiliary Bishop A. James Quinn delivered 
a thoughtful, uplifting address that captures the spirit of Monsignor 
Robert Blair. I wanted to submit it to the Congressional Record as a 
lasting tribute to a remarkable man who, in the words of Auxiliary 
Bishop Quinn, ``used well the time God gave him.''
  What follows are the June 11, 1996, remarks by Auxiliary Bishop A. 
James Quinn.

                   Tribute to Monsignor Robert Blair

       We are not here out of sympathy. Another mood prevails.
       When someone like Monsignor Robert Blair leaves the rest of 
     us behind to join the Lord in heaven, it leaves me with a 
     sense that something must be said in terms of gratitude about 
     graces that came to us through one of God's very best.
       We give thanks to God, therefore, for the life and 
     friendship of Monsignor Robert Blair, in our lives and in the 
     lives of all touched by his priesthood.
       The readings Bob chose for his funeral speak eloquently of 
     the spirit of his life and the vision of his priesthood.
       His readings reflect a priest who walked by faith, not 
     sight. He faithfully served four bishops, but only one 
     master. From simple things like birds and wildflowers, or 
     coins and horses, he drew lessons of what to run after, with 
     the wisdom of one who trusts in the Lord, knowing he has a 
     dwelling place awaiting him in heaven.
       When I was a kid hanging around an old fire house on West 
     112th Street in Cleveland, I came to understand how pairs of 
     boots became sentimental to firemen. The boots of those lost 
     in the line of duty or curbed by injuries were revered, not 
     wasted or neglected. Firemen's boots, as hand-me-downs, met 
     respect, like numbered jerseys in halls of fame.
       They especially respected those who died with their boots 
     on. To die in service, in the line of duty, being what they 
     were trained to be, putting life on the line! Such values 
     involve commitment, faithfulness, loyalty, dedication... and 
     lots of love of who you are and what you do.
       Let's ``rap'' a bit about Monsignor Blair who cherished his 
     priesthood and couldn't quit, not even in retirement, because 
     of who and what he was.
       The story of his vocation.
       I think of Frost's ``The Road Not Taken.''
       ``Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.
       And sorry I could not travel both.''
       Bob, and his brother Ted before him, must have wondered 
     what path in life to take, knowing ``how way leads on to 
     way'' and there is ``no coming back.''
       Two roads diverged in a wood, and Bob took the one less 
     traveled. And that made all the difference! For him, and for 
     us, it made a difference when young Bob Blair chose 
     priesthood.
       The Story of every man's vocation?
       I venture Bob could have been anything he wanted. He had 
     smarts, personality, wit, enthusiasm . . . even good 
     connections. But Bob chose priesthood . . . more than once 
     because he found himself in several classes due to 
     tuberculosis.
       Bob chose priesthood, and, hand to the plow, never looked 
     back. Bob gushed the great grace of conviction that he had 
     chosen well. Actually, it was God who chose Bob. But Bob 
     accepted God's call, thank God.
       We all have stories to tell.
       Bob Blair added color and fun to life, but never at the 
     cost of responsibility or pastoral care. He spent himself on 
     people and on projects that prospered people. With all his 
     wit Bob was serious minded and had volumes to preach about 
     things of moment, things that make a difference.
       In some ways Bob was a visionary, but a realist, too. He 
     knew how not to let a vision sink over someone's ``Why 
     bother.''
       His blend of wit and wisdom kept his visions soluble in 
     reality, so not to curdle into some forsaken sediment of 
     impracticality.
       Other higher up might get the credit, but we know Bob made 
     things happen. He made a difference!
       Like you, I'll miss Bob because he was a friend, not just 
     one of those acquaintances we make in life, but a friend who 
     understands what is literal in life. He good naturedly 
     absorbed sharp edges and burrs that surface what is me and 
     you.
       For all his fun loving ways Bob was a gentleman. Not formal 
     or fussy, not stiff or starched, but a fun-loving gentleman 
     who saw the best in life before he let the worst get him 
     down. A touch of class wrapped in laughter!
       Like you, I account it a great grace we met. I thank God. I 
     learned. I laughed. I struck it rich to be included among his 
     friends. And so did you, I suspect.
       These days since Wednesday past I skim a book of memories 
     that run deep, and swell my estimation of the value that is 
     friendship, a friendship that I pray is friendship ever more.
       I treasure the measure of time we worked together, at the 
     old Archbishop's house, in the Chancery and Cathedral.
       I hope future years will not allow this brook of memory to 
     trickle out of speed except to soak deeper into the recesses 
     of gratitude. After all, old friendships are best because 
     they withstand the tests of time and cross currents and 
     counter-currents of life. As surely as the golden sun melts 
     down to night, gold here can never last. But good friendships 
     last forever in resurrection life.
       Speaking of friends, by now Bob's paired off with Frank 
     Carney. He liked Frank: the

[[Page E1356]]

     repartee was always suburb. While different lights led them, 
     both were equipped for friendly mental combat.
       As you know, Bob enjoyed placing an occasional wager on 
     some nag a tout or two would recommend as fast of hoof. But 
     down the home stretch of Bob's own distance, his pace was 
     slowed by sickness. Bob was thoroughbred fast until the 
     evening of life when strokes struck, sight flexed and 
     diabetes reaped its toll.
       It's painful to witness a worker bee in health's gloaming. 
     Disability plays treason to future hopes and dreams. In 
     sickness, life's space became so confined that Bob could 
     scarcely enjoy a view except from a wheelchair.
       Bob had to count on family and friends who love him so, 
     good friends like Bob Cronenwett and Maggie Patton and his 
     dear, fond Brigade of Captain's Men, so loyal and true. 
     They'll miss him, sure.
       Time takes its toll. Why, what is inland in nature becomes 
     ocean isle, with eddies swirling around what once was 
     mountain peak. Why not time's toll on man?
       Time levels snowy peaks to running brooks. No wonder time 
     took its toll on Bob. Ah, but Bob used well the time God gave 
     him. He enjoyed the blessings of today, every day, not 
     wasting the joy of a moment on what was past or could be 
     future.
       Perhaps most importantly, Bob didn't entrust to time 
     anything he would need forever. That is to say, he was not 
     only kind but generous. He once said to me when I spoke of 
     his personal generosity that he sometimes thought it scary, 
     how when he gave away, God returned him twice or more. Of 
     course God said it would be so. Bob teaches me, and you, to 
     trust and give more.
       Even now Bob's priesthood is not silenced but speaks 
     through the beauty of this Cathedral he loved and served. The 
     Cathedral he embellished marks the site of his priestly 
     ordination and final funeral rite. How very fitting!
       His priesthood speaks, too, at the airport chapel, his 
     beloved Regina Caeli.
       Looking back, Bob dusted our days with the pollen of 
     cheerful conviction that there is plenty of work to do. He 
     needn't be told ``what'' because Bob was a self starter who 
     foiled challenges with wit. Challenge was invitation. The 
     impossible intrigued him. And success was his hallmark, be it 
     a parish festival or a million and more in renovation.
       Who else would tackle an airport chapel and the ACLU? 
     Others would say: ``Why bother?'' I think heaven gives a 
     glimpse of vision, don't you, to those who risk the strength 
     of God to do what they can't do?
       Labors of love? The cathedral renovation and the airport 
     chapel, while not the most of what he did in ministry, should 
     install him into the diocese's Hall of Fame.
       Bob Blair was a modest coin collector who knew how to 
     option short gains into capital investment. His racer's 
     instinct at the mutuals gave him an edge at the bank. Really, 
     God was his broker and the Church was his escrow.
       Bob retired, but never retired. He worked on.
       Then, like a farmer at planting time, working, came the 
     call that dinner is on the table! A feast and he's expected.
       How leave off work with so much to do and time's light 
     dimming? It's not easy to yield to the drift of age or 
     illness, nor to bow and accept the end of labors love.
       Yet the planter reluctantly thrusts his hoe into the ground 
     and heads for home, the home from whence he came. The Master 
     calls.
       We hate to die. Only in faith do we deny the lie that dead 
     is dead. In faith, the grave that draws the living avows new 
     life beyond.
       Then, again, Bob always liked fresh starts. I wonder now 
     what new projects will rise in heaven?
       I pray Bob up there continues to remember us whom he served 
     so well in ministry and friendship. We all have projects that 
     could use his vision, wit and wisdom. I pray he will 
     strengthen our resolve and even excite fresh ideas of what 
     can be done with gifts God gives us.
       Soon enough, when we break through the pane of time and 
     wade ashore on heaven's side, Bob will meet and greet us. No 
     doubt introduce us to his new visions, this time beatific in 
     size.
       Tomorrow has come forever to Bob who breezes with Ted and 
     Frank and even Solomon in all his glory.
       Folks, in retirement, and from a wheelchair, Monsignor 
     Robert Blair died with his boots on. Big boots to fill. Empty 
     boots now that challenge us to fill.
       When two roads diverge Bob, with wisdom and wit, often took 
     the one less traveled by. That made a difference. He made a 
     difference.
       Sympathy aside, today. Quite frankly, we gratefully thank 
     God that Monsignor Robert Blair made a difference in our 
     lives. And now we pray, God rest his soul until we friends 
     come the path he traveled by.''

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