A Man I Knew

A man I knew died two nights ago.

He was a neighbor, situated closest to me of all our neighbors, of whom there are few up here.

I remember the first time I saw him. We had driven up here to look at this house and property after my wife had learned about it. We looked around on our own just to get a feel for the place, and later that week we returned with the real estate agent and toured the house. Another few days later, we decided to drive up one afternoon when a light snow was falling and see how the place looked on a wintry day when spring was crouched just outside the door of time.

As soon as we turned off the highway and onto the gravel road that would soon become our home address, we noticed that the weather seemed…more intense. This was a harbinger of things to come over the years. We nearly got stuck in the rapidly accumulating snow on a dicey curve in the road, but we made it to the property, parked, and got out and walked around. My wife looked particularly beautiful with the white flakes falling into her winterfire hair, but she got chilled quickly, so we got in the car to leave. As we were headed out, we passed the house closest to the property and an older man was on the driveway there, sweeping and shoveling the gathering snow. He smiled a broad, friendly smile beneath his brush mustache, and waved at us. As the snow was falling harder, we didn’t stop, but we both remarked on how nice he seemed from a distance.

When we bought the house and went to closing at the bank in town, the owner from whom we were buying it told us a bit about the neighbor who had waved at us. “He and his wife are really nice people. They never bother anyone, but they’ll do anything in the world for you, if you need something.”

These words were true as true. Over the years we’ve been here, the man and his wife and their son have proven themselves to be some of the kindest, most generous people we’ve ever known. We’ve swapped food and fresh eggs and wood over the years. The man and his son kept their horse and donkey on one of our pastures for years, and the son still raises a large garden on it and mows it for hay. He also mows our front meadow every week during the warm weather months. Their dogs have always been regular visitors at our house. I have lovely memories of my neighbor sitting out on his front porch with his aged mother, strumming his guitar and singing hymns to her.

He and his family were also scarred by tragedy. I will not divulge here the specifics of what I mean, but suffice it to say that he and his wife and son have withstood loss on a scale that I not only cannot imagine, but am afraid to imagine.

Just a few years ago, after over 40 years of dedicated service to a local industry, the man retired. He was looking forward to traveling, puttering around the house, hunting, fishing, and spending time with his family. His wife retired from her local job shortly after, and they made plans and preparations for their retirement years.

But it was not to be.

Shortly after his retirement, the man began to notice some odd symptoms. Tremors, loss of balance, and worse. Tests were run, specialists were brought in. He had a rare and challenging disease. The prognosis was guarded. Time ran away faster than anyone anticipated, and he became invalid, bedbound, incapacitated. His wife said once to my wife with anguish in her voice, “We never thought our retirement would end up being like this.”

The last time I saw him, I had passed by his house and an ambulance was pulling into the driveway. I stopped and went inside to see if I could help. He was having trouble breathing and had aspirated some liquid, so the paramedics had decided it was best to transport him to the hospital to stabilize him. I and another passing neighbor helped load him onto the gurney to place him in the ambulance. As we were getting him settled, he looked at me and smiled that gentle smile.  And now he has passed from this life to whatever lies beyond.

“To whatever lies beyond.” My neighbor was a deeply devout Christian, and he and I had some interesting conversations, conversations that skated up to a sort of tenseness because of my inability to simply pay lip service to the things I was raised to believe. Though he never said it to me, I suspect my neighbor saw me as an odd man, as a problem child for God. My hope is that he understood that I believe in and love God, but that my life has led me to conclusions somewhat different from those who, like him, have grown up in and never wavered from a belief system passed onto them by their people. I believe he worried about me, and it pains me to think this, because I never enjoy being a source of worry for anyone about whom I care.

My friend’s abiding faith brings up difficult questions. Why would such a faithful servant be struck down with such dramatic finality at the very season when his life should have been growing calmer and more enjoyable? Is this a reward? Is this a trial? Is it wrong to ask such questions? Because of the difference in how we were raised, and because of the difference in our personalities and outlook, he and I were unable to have these kinds of conversations. I do believe, however, that we had a mutual respect as serious men who take seriously the matters of life and eternity.

His widow, a dear, dear lady, will hear many words of comfort and condolence in the coming hours and days. I am sure that some of those who speak to her will say something along the lines of “He’s in a better place now,” or “He’s not suffering now.” I believe this. I truly believe this. I believe my friend and neighbor has reached a place of rest and peace so profound, I cannot begin to envision it. I wish I could say that I believe all the things his friends and family believe, but I cannot. I know and believe very few things these days. But I hope many things. I hope my friend is at peace. I hope his family finds comfort in the days ahead.

And I hope I see him again. He was my neighbor and my friend, and he was a truly good man. There are so few of them in the brittle world today…the void his death leaves will be immense.

When I started this blog, I wanted a picture of a steeple on the masthead. It pleases me that I took the picture at the little country church where my friend and neighbor served so long and so faithfully as a deacon. The little church is just a mile down our road. And we will be there tomorrow night, gathered with those who loved him so well, singing and saying good-bye.

For now.

~ S. K. Orr