Submitted for the May 2020 issue

“One lives in the hope of becoming a memory.”  ― Antonio Porchia

There has been a great deal of death as of late.  Every day and night we’re reminded how many people have drawn a last breath.  It’s now impossible to ignore the reality of mortality when once so used to doing just that very thing.  Maybe the constant grim reminder is a twenty-first century phenomenon; we’re inundated with relentless, digital messaging pulsating wirelessly through the universe. A hundred years ago, most wouldn’t even know until long past. Oh, the good old days…I think?

Years ago, a family friend passed away leaving quite an impression on many people and specifically my father.  The deceased was once very close to my Dad.  They met working for the same company back in the early seventies, were about the same age and both family men, married, two boys and a girl, each. Our families had a lot in common and shared much time together. Years later my father’s friend blew up his marriage and things were never the same. The friend remarried and Dad continued a relationship with his friend. They still shared the same career paths until the friendship ended over a financial arrangement when the friend selfishly walked away leaving my father in a costly position. Needless to say, the two never spoke again until many years later. However, the friend now living in the Pacific Northwest continued to reach out to both myself and my brother.  I never understood why until the day he asked me to arrange a casual get-together with my parents.  He knew my folks came up to visit a couple times a year and hoped he’d have another opportunity to see my father.  I arranged it with Dad’s grudging approval.

It was awkward and won’t pretend otherwise but both men were professional schmoozers in the best corporate sense and didn’t let the conversation wane. After the evening was over, Dad said it was less painful than anticipated although his friend had not addressed the proverbial green gorilla in the room. It was clear the friendship wasn’t any less dead but at least both had the opportunity to meet face to face.  I didn’t know then why Dad’s friend didn’t use the brokered moment in time to make things right. He died a couple years later.

The friend’s memorial was a day’s drive away.  It just so happened Dad was up on a fishing trip with his youngest son that week. I was planning making the drive up and asked if he’d go with me.  The expressionless stare into nowhere told me Dad did not. Letting the offer marinate a while, he must have figured the one on one with me was worth whatever he’d have to endure.  We drove up early the next morning arriving just in time before the service started. Met by the friend’s two sons, just boys when my father last saw them, now middle-aged men almost unrecognizable to us.  They were full of love and extremely gracious to us, especially Dad.  I could see my father’s heart begin to soften as we entered the large, beautiful church to take our seats. The sanctuary was packed, standing room only. The deceased was a devout atheist and not shy to tell you so one can only imagine what was going through my father’s mind watching hundreds of mourners pour into church to celebrate the life of his former friend.  Both sons and daughter gave rich tributes, each unique to the individual relationships they shared with my father’s old friend. The pastor addressed the large congregation telling the story of the man for whom so many came to pay their respects. It turns out my father’s friend showed up one day a couple of years previous filled with gnawing doubt, seeking redemption. Regret for hurting people along the way, especially those he loved, haunted him.  The pastor explained it was a common tale, more common than most could ever know but the fact his heart was able to still feel pain of remorse and the weight of regret every man carries but not all dare to acknowledge, there was still hope.  Redemption had not forsaken him, nor had forgiveness or salvation. There was still time.  My father’s friend grabbed on to that hope, accepted the gift of forgiveness, finding real peace. His life changed that very moment. The reason why many hundreds of people showed up to celebrate this man’s life was because my father’s friend made it a point to personally know each and every person walking through those church doors every week without fail.  He greeted everyone with a big hug and followed up with genuine interest, a true expression of his love and gratitude to a forgiving God showing him so much grace.  I guess the skill of schmoozing for self-interest morphed back into the original gift of hospitality and loving on people.  My father’s friend had literally touched hundred of lives in the last short years of his life.

There was not a dry eye in the house, not even my father who is not akin to tears.  The family opened up the service to those wanting to speak about how this man affected their life.  A hundred people spent the next hour lining up to tell how my father’s friend touched lives. Dad’s internal struggle over whether he should speak was palpable but, in the end, stood and told a great story about the man he once truly loved. My father can really hold an audience. I saw both sons holding on to each other, tears streaming and cherishing every word from Dad’s lips. There was more there than we’ll ever know. The boys invited us over for a BBQ and we spent the next two hours getting caught up just like old times, as if no time had passed between us.

The drive back was long and quiet.  Dad was deep in thought and I left him to it.  A couple hours down the road, Dad started telling a story of another friend, a man I also knew growing up. This particular friend died just the last year and Dad made the trip back east to pay his respects. The experience was quite different from the one we just witnessed. Aside from the immediate family and my father, no one bothered to show to his friend’s memorial, not a single one. Knowing this man, I understood but this particular friend was not atheist but rather a ‘church-going’ man most of his adult life and not shy to tell you!  This explained the quiet in the car.  If that doesn’t strike a sharp note in the heart of everyone sitting in the pews on a Sunday, nothing will. Silence continued once again until we were home when Dad turned to me and said it really makes one think about those who will show up on that day and what will be spoken. Will they speak at all?  He thanked me for taking him and was grateful for not missing the opportunity to say a true goodbye to an old friend.

Happy Easter.