January 2005

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Back in my early days of being involved in a church in Chapel Hill, I helped teach confirmation classes one year. Friends I made doing that are still part of my life. And I had occasion to talk with one of them Friday afternoon, unfortunately for a terribly sad reason.

My friend, M., and I were talking about the death of the son of the man who had been pastor at one of the Lutheran Churches in Durham. The pastor had retired a while back, and had himself died a few years ago. But his son had stayed in the area, since he had started a non-profit agency where M. worked for a number of years.

Talking with M. brought back a lot of memories. In particular, I was reminded of one confirmation gathering where students from several congregations came together for a retreat. During a break time, the Durham pastor and I had old home week.

I had known he was from the same area of the state that I come from, and had suspected we had people in common there. I was more correct in that than I could have dreamed. It turned out he had known my father, and had loved him like a big brother.

He spent the rest of the break that night telling me anecdotes from his childhood in which my father figured prominently. Nothing outstanding; nothing that would make it to a history of the area, but things that meant the absolute world to me.

I remember the kindness he showed me in sharing the memories, and the sparkle in his eyes as he recounted them. And I don't ever forget kindness, especially that of people who remember my father many years after his death and share those memories with me.

Something else I knew about the pastor was how proud he was of his son, and of the work his son was doing. The community is a far better place because of that work. My friend M. found her work with the agency to be extremely rewarding; she worked there until her health made her retire---long past regular retirement age.

In our conversation, M. and I had our own version of old home week. We talked about the agency, and about how the founder had been much like a son to her. We spoke of his parents. We spoke of his kindnesses to M. and her husband during the years. And we spoke of his illness and its devastating effects.

And we spoke of one last kindness. On New Year's Eve, M. had called his wife to see how they were doing and to offer to bring food or anything else that was needed. The agency founder had been having a good day, it turned out, and asked for the telephone.

I could hear the joy in the midst of M.'s sadness this afternoon as she recounted that conversation. In it, they had old home week. They reiterated their love for things in common (including Duke basketball), and their love for each other.

To be able to tell him she loved him as she was saying what she knew would be goodbye is something M. will treasure the rest of her days.