Precious People

Back in 2003 I took a job at a hospice organization.  When you work in hospice care, your life becomes one huge metaphor.  There's always talk of death and dying, talk of quality of life, pain, family dynamics, cultural norms.  In the days before Facebook memes with beautiful pictures of waterfalls,  spiritual and philosophical quotes were words we lived and witnessed in some way every single day.

Over the last few days one of those metaphors has come back to me in a most profound way.   It's about the ripple effect, when you throw a stone into a lake and watch as the water ripples around the point of impact.  A couple of mornings ago, I followed those ripples backwards in my own life, to the point of impact.  Ever since then, I am overcome with, I don't know what, perhaps awe, at the simple, yet intricate ways all of  us touch the lives of each other.

One night about ten years ago I went out to dinner with a close friend.  We sat in a booth at a local restaurant and talked, ate, drank wine for hours.  At one point later in the evening when things had slowed down, our server came over at sat at the table with us.  We were already acquainted, since this was our usual hang-out, but until that evening we had never had a real conversation with him.  His name tag said "Joe"  but I came to know him as Joey.  He was tall and lanky, had a goofy laugh and an even goofier sense of humor.  He told me that he had a son on the way and I could literally feel the excitement radiating off of him. My friend and I told him we worked for hospice and he told us his story of loss.  His mother had died a few years prior, and coincidentally had been cared for by the same hospice organization.   The more we talked the more common ground we found between us.   It was easy to feel comfortable around him, and I could see us being friends.  It was a cold November night, and although he lived close by, he asked me for a ride home so he wouldn't have to walk in the cold.

When I dropped him off, he thanked me for the ride and wondered aloud if we'd ever run into each other again.  I told him, "I'm sure you will if you're still working at our hang out."  I drove away, not thinking for a moment that what transpired that evening would send ripples through my life, in both good and bad ways, for years to come.

In the end we did become dear friends.  He was troubled at times, he struggled.  I struggled.  At times, we struggled together.  We were protective of each other but also tough on each other.  I didn't let him get away with much, and he was quick to call me out whenever I needed a reality check of my own. He often referred to me as his "best friend" and I loved that role, even though I knew he had a ton of "best friends" in his world.

Through him I met new people. We would go out together on weekends with a whole gang of crazy, fun folks.  They were kind and accepting, the kind of people who took chances on others.   Those people became my friends eventually as well. They've been a source of strength and encouragement to me more times than I could count.  I would never have known them, had I not known Joey.

Joey died in 2009.  He was 27 years old.  His death was tragic and avoidable, and it traumatized so many people who loved him.  After his death I met his son's mother and his brother, James.  James was wrestling with grief over the loss of his little brother.  He was tall, like Joey, and sometimes I swear I could hear Joey's voice when he would talk.  We spent time together, we talked about the pain we shared.  James and I ended up knowing each other longer than Joey and I had.  We bonded over a loss, and that bond of friendship carried us both through some rough times.  He always had an encouraging word for me, even if his own life seemed to be falling apart.  He offered me hope and reassurance and I tried to do the same for him.

James was different.  He was serious about life much of the time, but had the wit and timing of a comedian.  He had dreams and goals that he strove to reach, but somehow he always managed to sabotage himself.  It was painful to watch and difficult to accept at times, but I knew from experience that every person has to find his own way.

About 2 years ago I went to his wedding and teared up as he said his vows.  I felt such joy for him and the new life that lay before him.

Two days ago I got a phone call from Joeys son's mother early in the morning.  I could hear in her voice that something wasn't right.  When she finally told me James was gone I thought I wasn't hearing her correctly.  Even now, as I think back over our friendship and recall our last conversation, I can hardly believe I'll never see him again.  It's hard to accept that there will be no more funny voice mails left on my phone, no more surprise calls at work just so he can tell me he loves me.  I'll never get to try to outwit him in conversations where he is ragging me about my age.  How can all of that be gone in just an instant?

I didn't know, way back on that November night when I got to know Joey that I was taking a risk, but that's exactly what I did.  We risk something every time we open our lives up to someone new, whether it's a friend, a lover or even a new job.  If you truly want to live, risk is inevitable.  I put my heart into friendships and those friendships tore my heart into pieces.  They are pieces I try desperately to keep together, at least all in one place, though I know I'll never get them all to fit perfectly together again. These two brothers have sent ripples through the little world I live in. Ripples of pain, ripples of regret, ripples of sorrow.  Those ripples  just keep coming as I try to wrap my head around yet another loss and try to hold close all the ripples of joy, friendship and wisdom they've left behind.

There are people in this life who are precious to me.  Some of them are my own flesh and blood; others are my kin in spirit only.  A few of those precious people are grieving with me now.  They are the ones who share these losses with me.  They're the ones who, like me, took a chance on loving two brothers who weren't long for this world.  In all of us, they live on.  They are in the laughter we share and the memories we recall together.  They live on in the lessons they taught us about humanity and in the simplest of moments when the thought of them scurries through our minds.  They live on in the eyes of their sons and in the hearts of all who loved them.  For me, they live on in the friends I've made because I took a chance when I allowed them into my life.

It's so easy to get comfortable with where you are.  I haven't taken many risks in life lately.  I've been all too consumed with finding people and situations that were a sure thing, and while we all need stability in our lives, we cannot afford to stop taking chances on new people, new places, new ideas.  Some of those risks will end in pain, and some will lead us to bliss, but we never know the true merit of our human-ness if we never open ourselves up to the experiences that make us human.

My friend James was convinced I didn't believe in Heaven.  He tried to talk me into believing it many a time.  I'm not saying I don't believe, but I struggle to believe consistently.  Right now I am hopeful that there is another life after this one, where we can be reunited with the people we love.  Right now, I want to say I love them, not that I loved.  My faith is weak, but I know his was strong and if there is a paradise somewhere, I know he's there, kicking back with his brother, maybe even looking down at me saying, "I told you so!"  This is one time when I really hope James gets to be right.