Thoughts on the Way to a Funeral
Write Answers Only - Part 7
This is part 7 of a limited series I’m running called “Write Answers Only” in which I reflect on hinge moments in my vocation as a writer—and offer them to you for your own vocational journey.
Around the time this message hits your inbox on Saturday, March 1, I’ll be on my way to a funeral. I’ll be somewhere on I-95, en route to my alma mater, Fairfield University, and the Egan Chapel of St. Ignatius Loyola. I’ll be going to celebrate the life of a dear friend and mentor, Carolyn Rusiackas.
Carolyn was the campus minister overseeing all things liturgy for the four years I was at Fairfield. But her tenure in that role began in 1992 and went well into the 2010’s, after I’d graduated. She was beloved by all, and a fierce friend.
Carolyn’s office was always adorned with photographs—images that captured moments and faces from her decades in ministry. What was most striking about this collection was Carolyn’s ability to recall exact details about nearly every person in every photo. She plucked these facts out of the air with a practiced ease, handing them to anyone who would listen like little gemstones. She wanted to bridge the gap, build a community across space and time, encourage and connect her students—her friends—through these shared stories.
When I was newly returned from my post-graduate service in Bolivia—off-kilter and unsure of what should come next—Carolyn was one of the people who stepped into the breech. She gave me names and numbers and email addresses and insisted I reach out to folks who she knew had wisdom to share.
What I remember most about Carolyn’s particular brand of networking was that she insisted that I never end a conversation without asking for another name. That might sound like basic networking advice. But for Carolyn, it was something more. In Carolyn’s vision of a beloved community, there is no end point—only a next step. And there is no competition, only joy-filled sharing and the building up of one another.
Carolyn was a huge supporter of my writing. (Admittedly, she did wonder aloud during one of our conversations if perhaps I’d leaned in too far with the Star Wars stuff, that I was losing my audience and maybe a bit over my skis; this was in 2023, and I responded by telling her that I was hard at work on a book on Ignatian spirituality and Star Wars—and that I was sure she’d love it. I could hear the skeptical yet supportive smile on the other end of the phone.) When it came to my writing, Carolyn wanted to make sure I was connected with other writers, that people had a chance to read my work and I, theirs.
I’ve been reflecting on Carolyn’s immense role in my life and vocation. And particularly, I’ve been reflecting on what Carolyn’s example can teach me about the writing life.
The writing life can be lonely and it can be competitive. It’s one in which I often find myself fighting with other writers I don’t even know, just trying to grab a few more eyeballs, clicks and pre-order sales to keep my books and articles pleasing to the algorithmic gods—all while sitting by myself in my office.
I can’t help but think that such an approach is anathema to everything Carolyn stood for. I go back to her expansive sense of community, an unfurling invitation to trust that each person you connect with can and will show the way to an even greater community.
Carolyn challenges me even now to set aside that competition and instead embrace collaboration, to write not to get ahead but to share and to build together. For someone who so valued the specificity of a story individually shared, I wonder what it might mean for me to focus more on the interpersonal effects of my writing life rather than the widespread social media broadcast that often feels so necessary to “successful” writing.
And I wonder if the legacy of my friend, Carolyn Rusiackas, might not also be useful to you, too, in your own creative life. Because it doesn’t have to be lonely; it doesn’t have to be self-oriented. Our writing—our creating—can and should build up God’s dream for the world. We necessarily go to God together; we reveal God to one another.
What happens if we start acting like it?
And another thing:
“My Life with the Jedi: The Spirituality of Star Wars” officially turned one-year-old this past week on February 27th, 2025! Did you know Amazon is having a killer sale on it? Maybe you want to finally pick up your copy? Maybe you want to buy a few for your friends and family? (Just imagine me waving my hand in front of your face, Jedi Mind Trick -style.) Go ahead—click here.
As luck would have it, I stared last week at the Jesuit parish in St. Paul, Minnesota. There I gave a talk about being wounded and beloved, pulling on some threads from both Jedi knights and mystic saints. Here’s a photo of me—I’m pretty sure though who can remember—trying to silence the twenty-minute-long standing ovation.
(Oh—what’s that? You can clearly see that no one is standing or applauding? Oh! That’s right. I just talk a lot with my hands.)
This is beautiful, Eric. I'm reading it at 6 o'clock Saturday morning. Prayers for safe travels and a profoundly sacred day.