[Congressional Record (Bound Edition), Volume 147 (2001), Part 11]
[House]
[Pages 14955-14956]
[From the U.S. Government Publishing Office, www.gpo.gov]




   JO OBERSTAR: A TESTIMONIAL, ST. BARTHOLOMEW CHURCH, JULY 30, 1991

  The SPEAKER pro tempore. Under the Speaker's announced policy of 
January 3, 2001, the gentleman from Minnesota (Mr. Oberstar) is 
recognized during morning hour debates for 5 minutes.
  Mr. OBERSTAR. Mr. Speaker, 10 years ago my wife Jo succumbed to 
breast cancer after an 8-year struggle with that disease. Today in her 
memory I deliver the eulogy testimonial I offered in St. Bartholomew 
Church on this day.
  Marshall Lynam, well known to Hill denizens, tells the story of 
Lyndon Johnson who, on learning that his secretary of many years had 
been diagnosed with breast cancer, called the chief executive officer 
of the Mayo Clinic and said, ``I am sending my secretary out there, and 
I want you to cure her, hear?''
  The awed and startled, to say the least, CEO responded: ``We will be 
glad to treat her, Mr. President, but you have one of the greatest 
cancer research and treatment centers in the world, the M.D. Anderson 
Clinic, in Houston.''
  ``You are right,'' said Lyndon. ``I will send her there and make them 
cure her.''

                              {time}  1245

  Jo got the best care there was. But cure was not in the forecast. I 
want--as she wanted--her doctors to understand that, for the Christian, 
death is not defeat. The medical community is so focused on heroic 
efforts to extend life that sometimes we forget that death is a natural 
consequence of having lived. What matters is the quality of both life 
and death.
  From the spiritual perspective, all of us were focused wrong: it 
wasn't the cancer that needed healing; it was our empty hearts, 
yearning for meaning, for purpose and love, which needed healing and 
filling.
  Jo called us to that vocation of prayer, of love for each other, 
especially love for the least among us. Countless were those who said: 
``I don't pray very often or too well, but I will for you.'' And they 
did. They felt better for it and were healed where it counts most: in 
the spirit.
  Jo had the roomiest heart I ever knew. She made space in it for 
everyone, concerned always and first for the well-being of others.
  She found the good in everyone and expanded it, as in: ``That dear 
sweet John Dingell'' or, ``Bob Roe is such a honey.'' (To which I 
muttered: ``Yes, but you're not trying to get a bridge out of him.'')
  Why does a person die at the height of their powers, with seemingly 
so much life yet to live? Why a long, lingering illness with so much 
suffering?
  If you die at 90, there is a sense of life fully lived and people 
reflect back on ``a job well done.'' But when death comes to one so 
young and vibrant, there is a sense of promise unfulfilled, of life yet 
to be lived. Maybe the answer is that we appreciate more fully, more 
passionately, the contributions of that young life so untimely taken.
  The other question persists just as stubbornly: what is the purpose 
of so long a suffering? I believe suffering can only be understood in 
the spiritual sense. We had the privilege of suffering with Jo; to be 
spiritually purified by that suffering, and the opportunity to heal 
ourselves. It also gave us time to say good-bye in real ways.
  Two years ago, the Speaker appointed me to the President's Commission 
on Aviation Security and Terrorism, the Pan Am 103 Commission. Our 
inquiry took us to Lockerbie, Scotland, where the constable of Dumfries 
told the commission members of the many long hours he and his staff 
spent with family members responding patiently to their myriad 
questions about that senseless tragedy. When I asked why he felt it 
important to spend so much time with the family members, the constable 
replied: ``They never got to say good-bye to their loved ones. Talking 
to us was a way for them to say good-bye.''
  Jo personified an inspiring, faith-centered humility. Whether it was 
a parking space suddenly opening up on a crowded street; or the sun 
breaking through a gloomy day; or one of her U.S.-Canada legislative 
change programs working out just right, her instinctive response was: 
``You see, God is good; glory be to God.''
  She knew more members of the Canadian Parliament than most Canadians 
and more members of the U.S. Congress than most Americans. Yet she 
always thought that they needed a two-page letter of invitation to the 
sessions and a full page thank-you letter afterward. She also 
remembered to thank the least store clerk for a kindness and the lab 
technician in the oncology unit for inserting the needle gently to draw 
blood. As my Grandmother Oberstar said: ``She appreciates.''
  Last Thursday, a remarkable event occurred in the hospital room after 
a communion service with Father Bill George. Jo sat upright in bed, 
oxygen mask full on, and proceeded to what I can only call a 
commissioning. To son Ted: ``I want you to clean up the database on my 
computer, clear out the unnecessary information, and these are the 
codes . . .'' which she began reeling off rapid fire. ``Ted, you're not 
writing this down; you won't remember it all.'' And then, ``Ted, I want 
you to organize the liturgy for the Mass of Resurrection--and remember, 
Ted, I want it to be a Mass of celebration; I want trumpet music.''
  Then, turning to our eldest daughter: ``Noelle, there are a lot of 
family photographs around the house that I have never been able to 
organize and to display. Please, see that they are mounted and arranged 
throughout the house to remember and celebrate our family. Be sure to 
finish your education, or I'll come back to haunt you--and that goes 
for Annie and Monica, as well.''
  ``Jim, I want you to go through all those boxes of my various 
programs for the Centre. Send to Ottawa the program documents; throw 
out the unnecessary papers, and burn my personal notes, those spiral 
notebooks.''
  To which I responded: ``Of course, I'll take care of all that, but I 
think I'll just take all those papers into the Hill where we have a 
good disposal system.''
  ``Did you hear me? I said, burn the personal note!''
  ``Yes, dear!''
  Then, turning to nephew Tim Garlick: ``Tim, the most important things 
in life are faith, family, friends, and love. Your family has given you 
solid values; live by them, or I'll come back to haunt you, too. 
Complete your education; get your degree; but remember, at the end of 
life, when you're dying, degrees won't come and hold your hand.''
  The Scripture teaches us--it was St. Paul--``These three remain: 
faith, hope, and love; but the greatest of these is love,'' Jo had all 
three of those qualities in abundance; and indeed, her greatest quality 
was love.
  Her test is now over. St. Paul also said: ``I have run the race; I 
have fought the good fight.'' Jo taught us the purpose of life and 
showed us the meaning and dignity of death. The test now is for us, 
Ted, Noelle, Annie, Monica, the nieces and nephews, and all whom she 
met and loved--to be better than our talents and good as her God-
inspired example.

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