I was honored to be selected as one of those speaking, but it was a tough assignment. I didn't know how to say what he'd meant to my life; how to distill our complex, long-term relationship into words. I spent several days beating my head against the keyboard. I'd write a few things, but the words wouldn't flow. The sentences were stilted. disconnected. forced. shallow. Argh!
I finally stepped back for a minute and asked myself why he'd asked me to talk, and what I'd say if I only had five words instead of five minutes to speak. The answer came quickly.
I miss my best friend.
With this thought in mind, I went back to the computer. I had it written in an hour.
I found the service to be beautiful.
Song. Reading. Testimony. Repeat.
I really hope he was somewhere listening; knows how deeply he was loved.
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“Be compassionate, as your Father is compassionate. Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Pardon, and you shall be pardoned. Give, and it shall be given to you. Good measure pressed down, shaken together, running over, will they pour into the fold of your garment. For the measure you measure with will be measured back to you.” Matthew 6: 36-38
Friend
Bob has been one of my closest friends for several decades, and since he died, I have missed him; missed him something fierce.
I miss his laugh. His hearty, uninhibited, inviting, laugh. If we were in a group of people, and I heard his laugh from across the room, suddenly, no matter how interesting the conversation I was currently having, his was the more enticing. Whatever they were talking about, it had to be better than whatever I was talking about, to have brought forth that joyous sound.
I miss the dinners we shared. He loved to cook. I love to be cooked for. It was a match made in heaven. As he cut and chopped and seasoned and stirred, I would sit and watch, helping as needed, but mostly just keeping him company as we talked about life. Politics, religion, the books we were reading, family, work; we covered all the bases.
I miss his hugs; I know I have a lot of company in this room when I say this. When I was having a hard day, he’d give me a hug – not a half-hearted, a-frame, shoulder-patting pretense of a hug, but the kind that, as I’m held, makes me feel like a precious child of the God Who Loves. And I’d begin to feel better.
I miss just talking to him. One of the cruelest parts of his dementia journey was that it took his words first. My eloquent friend, the one who used to say he was overly fond of two things – his own cooking and his own words – lost first the ability to express himself.
I didn’t meet him until he was middle aged, so I didn’t know him as he went through his life’s ‘firsts’. But I was honored to walk with him as he tallied up his lasts.
Many here know furniture refinishing was his avocation. He loved nothing more than to find a neglected piece of solid wood something at an estate sale, haul it home, and then spend hours restoring it to its former beautiful self. He would then either give the item to someone he loved or donate it to a church auction. I helped him to refinish his last piece. He had a workshop set up in my garage after he moved to the city, and he came over several times. He no longer knew what steps he needed to take, but he was willing to follow my direction (for once), and together we sanded and applied the finish to a tall, beautiful, walnut plant stand.
I was there last spring when he took his last walk outside. As we were making our way back to the door of the facility, after our usual stroll around the neighborhood, he had some sort of a mini-stroke, and almost couldn’t walk. As I began to reach for my phone to call for help, the nurses inside saw us and came running out to assist. We made it safely inside, where he took two Tylenol, a long nap, and woke back up with little knowledge of the incident, seemingly (though I know this isn’t true) no worse for the wear.
I was there for his last mass, last summer. It was for a congregation of four. A lot of his words were missing by then, but when we got to the consecration, he had all the words he needed. I swear I felt the Spirit come into the room and settle down behind him, holding his shoulders as he blessed the bread and the wine, turning it, one last time, into the body and the blood of Christ.
I remember the last conversation we had when his mind was almost all there. It was late last September, and he was talking about the wedding of one of his favorite people, his niece, Colleen. His voice was alive with the memory of how he’d worked with Colleen and Don to create a service which met both the requirements of the Catholic Church and the desires of their hearts. His eyes twinkled, his laugh rang loudly in the quiet courtyard where we sat and talked. My heart was full.
I wasn’t there when he took his last breath, but I was there the day before. I’d been sitting with him for some time, and shortly before I was ready to leave, the nurses came in to tend to his care. As they worked, he woke, grabbing the air in alarm. I held his hands, so he had something to grab onto. Once they finished and we were alone again, he quickly calmed down, then met my eyes. At first, there was no one inside that vacant gaze. But then I saw his awareness return. He didn’t know me, but he knew he was not alone. Then, recognition dawned, and I could see he knew who I was. I spoke softly to him. I told him of my love. I told him it was time for him to fly free of his gilded cage, time to find out what lies on the other side. I smiled. He tried to smile in return, then closed his eyes.
Bob, I hope your words and your lost memories have caught back up with you. I hope you have found your people and are laughing with them, freely and often. I pray you have met up with the Christ Jesus you served so long and so well; that he told you, “Welcome home, my worthy servant.”
Bob, I miss you.
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