In the days and weeks after the Camp Fire, thick smoke darkened the skies over the valley below the ridge, charred by the flames of November 8. The sun would sometimes appear like a full moon on a dark night striving to shine through evening clouds. Among my memories of those dark days in November was a lunch with Joe at The Italian Cottage in Chico. Neither night nor day, the skies, the air, were filled with a shadowy substance. I put on an N95 mask prior to getting out of the car. Joe did not comment on any of it. He enjoyed his lunch with gusto, as always.

I never spoke to Joe about what happened to his beloved Paradise, although I am sure he knew about it. Joe was aware that bad things happened, but he never acknowledged them as a real threat to God’s creation and this world of abundant, divine grace. There were only a handful of lunch outings remaining with Joe after the Camp Fire, which in hindsight seemed to punctuate the beginning of the end of an era of joy. The Thanksgiving holiday came and went, quietly. Joe was in good spirits, but he had lost a little weight, which concerned me. Then came Christmas, the New Year, a few more family dinners, lunches, and our weekly trips to the wound clinic. Suddenly, in mid-January of 2019, Joe collapsed and had difficulty breathing.

He passed from this life on January 29.