Tuesday afternoon at one o'clock our merry band of Homeless Lunch volunteers boxed up the leftover clothing, crated the lonely shoes, and rolled in the carts of sack lunches we would save for next week. And then we all stayed. Normally at one o'clock we all hustle to clean up and be on our way, having spent the last four hours or so working together. But not this past Tuesday.Instead, this past Tuesday we finished cleaning up and then gathered in the parlor in a circle, all sixteen of us. Pastor Denyse led us in prayer and then we took a moment. See, most of us aren't there all together, at the same time, on a Tuesday at one o'clock. And we weren't even all there.
But Tuesday we gathered. In community. In love. In grief. Because we had lost our friend.
Joe Abdo.
Joe was a volunteer from way back, from before we can remember. He would always be there before me and I tend to get there early. He'd be there with his name tag on already bagging lunches, counting the items off to make sure nothing was missed. And I'd stand there in the kitchen chatting until I knew I'd better go get busy. I'd move out into the parlor and work on organizing the toiletries or the clothing and eventually Joe would move out near me and start bagging cookies or crackers. And we'd chat some more.
He'd ask me what I was writing, or how my last trip was. He had amazing stories. He'd lived abroad for dozens of years. He'd written books and acted in plays and been a hospital administrator. He'd tell Andrew and I how hand sanitizer was bunk science and we'd use it only in secret when Joe wasn't looking. And I'd wash my hands more in the actual sink with actual soap and water like he recommended. Because he was Joe and he knew stuff and I listened to him.
And then a few weeks ago, he got a cold. And it turned into bronchitis. And he stopped by just long enough to say he shouldn't stay. And he'd be off. He couldn't read to his kindergarteners or help us out until he was better he said. And we all took him at his word. He often missed weeks, mostly because he was out traveling the world or off on an audition, but we knew we'd see him again soon.
Until we didn't.
Our leader, Linda, had tried to get a hold of her friend for a few days. She was getting anxious. Her anxiety wore off on me. And then two weeks ago Joe's photo popped up on my Facebook feed. I smiled. And then my face fell.
Joe's brother was letting all of us know Joe had passed away. That bronchitis had likely turned into something else or was something else and that was it. And my heart sank.
Joe was just always there. He could be cranky. He could be funny. He was intelligent and kind-hearted and a very good friend. And as we stood in that circle on Tuesday afternoon we shared all of these things. We told stories. We thanked him for his service. We bemoaned his too quick departure from our community. We surprised each other with stories of him. And we loved him. And we loved one another.
Funerals are for the living is something my mother taught me very early in life. Growing up as a member of a family with a history in the funeral business, this was not a sentiment shared lightly. It was a sentiment shared with reverence. And the reminder that people grieve in different ways. And even if you don't see the need for a funeral, or want to attend, or even want to have one for yourself once you've passed, it's not what you want that matters. It's what your loved ones want. Because they are the ones still living. They are the ones still dealing with death. They are the ones who need to process what has happened and how to go on.
Last week I woke up several mornings thinking about Joe. I never saw him outside of the context of Homeless Lunch. But I had seen him most Tuesdays for over ten years. That's a lot of time spent together. And spent together well -- serving others, conversing, sharing our stories, living out our faith. And his loss was acute. Immediate. When I walked into the parlor Tuesday morning I expected to see his face, to hear him say my name. And when I didn't? I was heartbroken all over again.
So we stood in that circle. We shared our stories of Joe. And then we ate muffins and cake and cookies. And we spent a little extra time with one another. Because ultimately, that's what we all want. More time together.
I'm sad I don't get any more time with Joe. But I'm so thankful for the time I did have with him. And that our time spent together was spent so well. We will miss you Joe.
