Often my brother John would ask young restaurant servers this question: “Who was Winston Churchill?”

If they did not know the answer (and they usually didn’t), John would hold forth on the loss of historical knowledge among America’s youth.

We, his siblings, would laugh at our brother’s habit and gently chide him for placing requirements like this on people much younger than he. But we also recognized his concern for future generations to be informed about historical events and personalities.

This is only one of the many memories I will keep of John as I mourn his death and celebrate his life. The first of my five siblings to leave this world, he died on February 10.

For me, his death brought a whole lot of unaccustomed feelings. To see such immense vitality brought to en end was more than I could readily handle. On the evening of his wake, I experienced a deeper fatigue than I can ever remember previously.

John was three years younger than I and when we were children the gap seemed enormous. I am thankful that the difference in age did not keep us from good brotherly relations.

John was much more lively in moving around the neighborhood than was I. His list of pranks and exploits soon surpassed mine –  –  – and perhaps showed signs of his greater imagination.

He possessed a dazzling variety of talents, as well as the courage and initiative to put them into practice. Early on, he was a remarkable journalist. After a start with the Boston Post, a major newspaper which our father served as editor, John founded and managed several trade papers in the food business.

In this capacity he pulled no punches when those in the business were dishonest. As Tom Stemberg said of his friend John in a Boston Globe obituary, “If there were a given operator who was doing bad things, unethical or just bad form, he was never scared to point it out.”

And it did not make any difference if the offender had advertised in John’s paper.

John’s family was the center of his life. Nobody could be unaware of Mary Rose, his wife of fifty-eight years, and their seven children. Their home in Dennis was a hub of activity and high spirits.

John was devoted to the Dennis community, serving as selectman, even getting elected once without running. In honor of that service, during his wake a Dennis fire engine stood outside the funeral home.

Among John’s home talents, woodworking loomed large.  My wife and I still cherish the handsome table he made for us as a wedding present.

I was the object of his generosity in many other ways as well.  When I left the Jesuits and had virtually no money, he offered whatever help I might need.

This kind of generosity came from deep inside him and made me proud to be his brother.  Of course, his great heartedness was his best legacy of all to his children and grandchildren, all of whom were close to him.

I was deeply moved to see how they responded to him during his last illness.

During his funeral Mass, I continued to be struck by the strength of his family life. The liturgy echoed with the voices of his children and grandchildren offering Bible readings, music, and eloquent words of appreciation.

Looking now at this break in such a solid family as ours, I wonder about my own future.  My hope, of course, is that no one of my two brothers and two sisters will die before I do.  It’s already enough for it to have happened to one of us.

At this time, I feel the special importance of my spiritual tradition. I have never been able to believe that anything so vital as a person stops existing after death. But how that life continues, remains the great mystery of our being.