Wally Lenseigne
September 12, 1938 - March 15, 2023
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and when the time comes to let it go,
let it go.
- Mary Oliver, “In Blackwater Woods”
For over 84 years, at least for the ones among those we were alive, we have loved what was mortal, held him tightly against our bones because we always knew our lives depended on it and on him, and when the time came to let him go, well, we did just that.
At 4:41 A.M. on Wednesday, March 15, Dad's strong heart took its last beat as he died peacefully while embraced in the warmth and love of the family he loved. We held hands with Dad as he breathed his final breath; every wish of his, and ours, fulfilled. With heavy yet grateful hearts, we have let Dad go; and now, finally, he's let go too.
Born to Ida and Victor Lenseigne on Sept. 12, 1938 in Yakima, Dad grew up always close to the soil. With his sisters Rosalie and Agnes, and his brothers Larry, Richard, and Paul (the only surviving sibling now), Dad grew up as his family grew hops. And he never left. Dad was a lifelong and proud farmer in the Yakima valley (Moxee!), and when asked what he liked most about that hard, hard lifestyle, Dad said "Everything." If he could live his life over, he would not have changed a single thing.
At the age of 26, Dad met Annie (Mitzel) Cronkhite, a widowed wife and mother of three, we believe on some long lost dance floor in Yakima. They met, they danced, they fell in love; and in November of 1964, they married and began together a shared life devoted to family and farming. Together, they raised five children (Clary (Gloria), Toni, and Terry Cronkhite; and then Kert (Kristin) and Trevor (Kendra) Lenseigne among the hops and amid the core values of kindness, humility, hard work, and faith. Faith in farming, faith in religion, and faith in family.
Upon his "retirement" in 1995, Dad began his march toward Elderhood and devoted patriarch to "Wally's clan." And upon the death of his beloved Annie, in March 2016, and with his newly acquired companion, Dementia, Dad began his slow decline upon his Journey Home. But as he did so, he became, in his characteristically humble and quiet way, the Elder we all needed and still need.
An Elder, one who is eldering us to allow into our lives a more sacred way of holding death, our own and the one's of our beloved, which at the same time honors the sacredness of life even more, would say that that is what life itself demands of us: to let go what was mortal after having held on to it so strongly, and so closely, for so long. Eighty four years, six months to be exact.
We've complied with life's demand, and we've been changed forever.
From everything we were able to bear witness to, Dad died much in the same way he lived: with his characteristic grace and humility and kindness and quiet dignity. If he ever looks back, and we kinda sorta don't want him to, preferring that he simply just keeps going forward; but if he does, we believe Dad will look back with pride at the beautiful family he created and left behind here on earth. He'd likely consider THAT to be the most important thing he grew. And he grew his family very well.
Dad died after living a full life that included a lot of hard and heart-breaking work, sweat, and selfless, quiet devotion; he's physically left us now after dying into a beautiful death that included family, Hospice, comfort, and the warmth of love. We are so grateful, and fortunate, that circumstances arose precisely in a manner that allowed us to provide for Dad the fulfillment of his wishes: that he die at home, surrounded by family, with only love present. There is sadness here now, of course. And there is the beginnings of a new kind of grief that we will welcome, embrace together, and allow into our lives so that we can live fully into it for a spell—this new grief evidence of the depth of our love for our Dad. But there is joy here too because joy contains within its gladness all the pain, hurt, and sadness in a life—that is, after all, how we come to know and appreciate authentic joy. One cannot know the lights and heights of joy without also knowing the darks and depths of sorrow.
None of us here have ever experienced a life on this earth without Dad in it. Every waking moment of our world has had Dad some place, some where, probably working out in the middle of some field on a Ford tractor discing up weeds into the soil—or dreaming of doing so. So even though we've spent time imagining what this way of living might be like without him, these are new and unique times for us. It is said "nature abhors a vacuum;" right now, we cannot yet imagine how the void created from Dad's dying will be ultimately filled; but we're all pretty sure it will involve ample joyful memories, fun stories of Dad and farm life, mental pictures of Dad on a dance floor, and plenty of internal pride in having been raised by a truly wonderful and decent man; and, simply, gratitude. Lots and lots of gratitude for the family life he gave us and for the example he set on how to be in this world with integrity, humility, and kindness.
With these words, we realize ... we are starting to fill the void already.
Our Dad is survived by the memories we all keep of him within our hearts. THAT is the place he resides now—and we carry him forward now to touch all the futures he will never know except through the experiences we will have, provided we have them with tender and broken open hearts. We didn't "lose" Dad. We know exactly where he is. If you were to ask us, we'd point to our hearts.
Dad's legacy to us all is his kindness; that was his superpower. So to honor him and his legacy, you do not need to send flowers or send money to a charity (although you could hoist a beer in his honor, even a non-alcoholic one—this lifelong farmer who's entire life was squarely centered on "HIS" hops!). No, the most appropriate way to honor our Dad costs you nothing—but has the potential to be priceless for all others beings. Simply... be kinder.
We all can be more kind.
And Dad was the kindest of all. There was no one else quite like him. We all could stand to be a little more like our Dad.
We love you Dad.
Always love.
For more about our Dad as our Elder: https://kertlenseigne.substack.com/
FUNERAL INFORMATION
Rosary at Holy Rosary Parish: Friday, April 14 at 6 p.m.
Funeral Mass and Reception: Saturday, April 15 at 11 a.m.
Holy Rosary Catholic Church, 201 N. Iler, Moxee, WA 98936 USA
The family will hold a private Service of Inurnment later at Holy Rosary Cemetery in Moxee.