Birth date: Feb 5, 1934 Death date: Oct 1, 2018
Patricia Irene Malinsky, 84, of Dunedin, Florida, passed Monday, October 1, 2018. Patricia is survived by her loving family and friends. Moss Feaster Funeral Home, 1320 Main Street, Dunedin, Florida (727) 562-2040 is in charge of Read Obituary
September 2017, the twins were dancing a jig at the Villages. May Mom Patricia's spirit live in all of you forever.
https://www.facebook.com/ruby.whelan.5/videos/1119518331435584/?t=13
Kaddish Yatom
When I die, give what’s left of me away
to children and old men that wait to die.
And if you need to cry,
cry for your brother walking the street beside you.
And when you need me, put your arms around anyone
and give them what you need to give me.
I want to leave you something,
something better than words or sounds.
Look for me in the people I’ve known or loved,
and if you cannot give me away,
at least let me live in your eyes and not your mind.
You can love me best by letting hands touch hands,
and letting go of children that need to be free.
Love doesn’t die, people do.
So when all that’s left of me is love,
give me away.
Deliverance
Lead me, my Lord, to where my stillness is.
I seek my Father's Everlasting Arms
Which I alone can never hope to find,
For I am frail in seeking and in love.
Idols will come to hold their halting hands
Before me on my lonely journeying
Which will forever bar the way to me,
And I will faint in an illusion's grasp.
But come you with me and I cannot fail
To find my Father's house. As we approach
The holy gate, illusions shudder back
And angels come to offer us their wings.
I am the least and yet the greatest. I
Who hold your hand have Heaven's might with me.
I go in glory, for you walk with me.
Deliver me into my Father's Arms.
The Gifts of God Helen Schucman
My very first memory of my mother (and I've probably rewritten this in my head over the years) is of her glowing face as she sang down to me, my two-year-old naked and feverish body wrapped in some sort of afghan or baby blanket, as she cradled me to sleep. Apparently, it was touch and go that night, the doctor telling her I might not make it into the morning. Probably some common disease brought home from school by one of my older siblings (thanks, guys!). So there we are, toddler and mother, sitting in one of the semi-antique chairs that we kids were never allowed to play on. ("It's for show, not for blow.") The soft light of the antique lamp gently caressing my mother's already beautiful features. And me, enthralled by her simple yet elegant voice, as she whisper-sang her little boy to sleep.
And the thought occurs to me now.
The amount of worry she must have had at that moment, staying up with her sick child.
And then multiply that worry by seven children.
And multiply it again by over sixty years.
You might end up with a monster cloud of worry.
And my one wish, my only wish, is that the amount of worry my mother encountered over her lifetime was dwarfed by the amount of joy her children brought her.
I want to believe this is so.
