Joel

October 17, 2019

My friend lay in the hospital bed, occasionally opening his eyes, but mostly sleeping fitfully as the dread disease wreaks its havoc on his body. He is younger than me by only a few years, but has taught me so much. Joel is an unusual combination of a scholar with childlike exuberance for life. He once sent me his paper on the philosophical foundations for local church-based theological education. I’m not overly dense, but I struggled to get through it. He loves planning curricula, dreaming of a future he likely will not see in this life.

Coupled with intellectual virility is an enthusiasm that can be disarming. Literally. On one of our last mission trips to Cuba, the team was gathered at the church with all our bags open so we could evenly distribute the humanitarian supplies we were taking with us. Medicines, clothes, toiletries, sanitary items, household goods were being gathered from piles on tables and tossed in various bags before being weighed. Joel had brought a set of kitchen knives to give to the cooks at the center where we often stayed. He grabbed big carving knives, steak and paring knives, and butcher’s knives, tossing them into one open bag before moving on to other items. Everything was weighed, closed up, and we were ready to go.

Going through security at the airport, the TSA agent operating the X-ray machine stopped the belt as my carry on went through. He called me over, told me to step back while he opened the bag. Sitting on top were Joel’s set of knives. Joel hadn’t paid attention to which bag he tossed the knives into, and I failed to double check my carry on. The agent was nicer about it than he had to be, offering three times to let me take them back to my vehicle. “I can’t do that, sir,” I said. “Our rides have already left. You’ll just have to remove them and throw them out.” He reluctantly complied. Joel’s enthusiasm was in full operational mode that day.

Today was different. He lay silent, unable to speak. He smiled when I approached his bed, then drifted back into a world we cannot see. I doubt we’ll converse again as we have done so many times, baring our souls, sharing dreams and disappointments, rejoicing in the goodness of God and the wonders of grace. Our faith sustains us, but doesn’t eliminate the sadness that scuds across my soul like the clouds that scowled across a threatening sky on the way home. I grieve for the joy we’ve shared; the laughter, the prayers, the friendship. Had we not known this joy, I would not feel this sorrow. So I give thanks tonight for brotherly love, for partnership in ministry, for my friend whom I’ve been privileged to know, from whom I’ve been able to learn, with whom Iv’e been honored to serve.