By Donald Felipe

(This essay was presented on November 3, 2014, at the 11^th Global Conference on Suffering, Dying and Death in Prague, Czech Republic.)

Two weeks before my departure for this conference, as I was driving with Joe at the beginning of our Sunday journey, I told Joe that I would be going on a trip. 

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Czechoslovakia,” I replied. “To Prague.”

“What are you going to do there?”

“I am going to a conference,” I said with some trepidation. I have yet to tell Joe that I am writing about him. I plan to tell him. But for now, for many reasons, I feel uncomfortable sharing this. 

“What’s the conference about?” he asked.

I hesitated. Then I went on about the conference being interdisciplinary and what that meant. I was being dishonest. I finally just told him.

“The conference is about death and dying and suffering,” I said.

Joe fell silent. He appeared worried, and Joe doesn’t worry about anything, except his cigarettes. He finally spoke up,

“You know Donnie, you should have a conference on loneliness. You’ve got to have a prayer life not to be lonely. God is connected to everything and you have to have a prayer life with Jesus and Mary, the Mother of God. That’s real important Donnie, you’ve got to have a prayer life.”

I had just pulled into a parking lot to stop at a cigarette shop. Joe needed more electronic cigarettes. Our conversation abruptly changed to how many I would buy. Joe had run out last week. And he wanted to let me know about it.

When I came out of the shop, I thought that our talk about the conference had ended. But as I pulled out of the parking space, Joe started up again,

“And you should invite God to the conference. You should pray before your meeting. You should pray before the conference. You should invite God.”

Joe went on and on about invitation and prayer. His voice flowed with concern and hints of worry, which was entirely uncharacteristic of him. If I had told Joe that the conference was about ethics, I think he would have asked me about what ethics is, or some such thing. But he did not need to ask about suffering and death. He wanted to help me and everyone else who participated in a conference on such topics.

“You gotta have God at the conference,” he repeated. “And you should say a prayer at the beginning of the meeting.”

Fearless 
You cast away my lies
And love me.
Over my soul to souls unknown
Praying for protection.

Love for us
Flowing underground
In an aching heart
Invulnerable.

Are you lonely, my brother?
Or do you plead for the lonely?

Praying, 
In one belabored breath
Teaching, 
In another

Filling my eyes
With love.

Birds 

It was another beautiful February day of blue skies, sun and spring-like temperatures. I walked with Joe through the iron-gate onto the long concrete path down to the parking lot. Joe limps along ten to twenty steps and then stops to catch his breath. A flock of birds flew from the trees across the way in front of us.

Joe watched the birds fly by with a gentle smile.

“Birds,” he said, “they are conceived in love and now they are out for a ride.”

The Drought

A week or so later, we were walking down the same path on our way to the car. The weather was again beautiful, but we were having a horrible drought in California, the worst in decades. I could not bring myself to praise the weather. 

“The weather is real nice today Joe, but we could sure use some rain. We are having a horrible drought,” I said.

He heard what I said, but did not respond. He digested the bad news and limped along. 

Joe knows that bad things happen, that people suffer. But he will not allow hopelessness, complaints, regrets or any negative idea to disturb his consciousness. He transforms it into acceptance and peace.

I like to complain sometimes. I am a philosopher and philosophy is, in some ways, an art and science of critique and complaint.

This remark about the drought was the last complaint I have uttered in Joe’s presence. 

The Barbershop

I pulled up to the barbershop in Paradise, California. I was happy to see the place was still in business. 

Joe needed a haircut, and I did not have much time. We had not been here for a while, but this fellow did not seem to get much business. Fifteen minutes in and out. That was the plan. 

We entered, and to my surprise, there was a young man in the barber’s chair. The stale, rancid smell of old cigarette smoke overwhelms at first; smoking is not permitted in public establishments in California. But the owner didn’t care.

The place was just as I had remembered it. Black and white pictures of John Wayne, Robert Mitchum, Marilyn Monroe and other old Hollywood notables were gathering dust in various places, and in the middle of the wall was an enormous collection of little, silver spoons with insignia of origin; every state of the union was represented and most countries in Europe. Auto, motorcycle, hunting and sports magazines were strewn on an antique table. And discretely hidden away in the corner were a few Playboys.

The young fellow in the chair seemed to know the owner, and the two of them chatted away about work and travel in classic “I know-you-know” tit for tat. After ten minutes or so of sharing he was finished. He paid, said barbershop farewells, and left.

Joe bolted from his seat with a strength I did not know he had and with a big smile he extended his hand,

“Well, hello sir, glad to be here again, glad to be here!”

The fellow shook Joe’s hand with puzzlement. He obviously did not remember Joe. 

“Well, it’s good to have you back,” he said.

The instructions were simple: clean it up.

Joe watched in the mirror as the fellow clipped away and seemed entirely content. After a couple of minutes I focused my attention on a dirt bike magazine. The three of us were rolling along in our own worlds when a sharp ‘click’ brought us together. Then I heard a whistling sound that was eerily familiar. I looked about and saw a large, wooden cuckoo clock on the wall. The clock had just struck 2.

“Yeah, that’s a one of a kind clock,” the barber said, “it sounds off a different bird call every hour.”

I knew that call. Childhood memories washed over me. When I was a boy, I practised and practised the song of one particular bird until I could whistle just like it. I would sometimes sit in the field in the evening and wait for the bird to sing, and then I would whistle a reply.

“I know that call,” I said. “We used to have birds like that around our house in the hills outside Oroville. When I was a boy I learned how to imitate it.”

I let out a whistle. 

“That’s pretty good,” the barber said.

Whistles and memories of home brought Joe to life, in his eyes you could see thoughts churning, and then he spoke,

“And, something about birds,” he said. “Birds are God’s creatures and they love each other. They are conceived in love. Like geese, you can see them when they fly together; they love each other.”

The barber took a step back and grinned. 

Joe continued, “And that is the way it is in God’s kingdom. The fish are the same way. Every blade of grass and every fish in the sea.”

Barbershop etiquette required that the barber say something, and the ethos of the establishment was brutal honesty.

“Well,” the barber quipped, “I don’t know anything about God’s kingdom. I live in a man-made world. I have never seen such a thing,” he said.

“You’re standing right in the middle of it!” Joe exclaimed.

Gifts From God

Joe’s only possessions are the pictures and figurines and other objects on his most precious altar, his clothes and a few stuffed animals. I had never entertained the idea that Joe might give me a gift, until that day.

He settled into the car and I was about to turn the key, when he pulled something from his pocket.

“Donnie,” he said, “these are gifts from God.”

In his hand were two necklaces with shiny silver and red beads.

“These are gifts from God”, he said, “they will make you feel better and help you get organized.”

He placed them in my hand.

A few weeks later he surprised me with more gifts. These belongings all came from his altar. From among his few possessions, as an expression of thanks for what I have done for him, and with the intention of doing good for me, he gave to me what was most precious to him. 

Lunch Montage

Our usual lunch destination is a place called Cozy Diner, an American style restaurant in the little town of Paradise, a quiet retirement community about fifteen minutes up the ridge in the mountains. Joe reads the menu carefully at every visit, but he almost always chooses from among his favorites, prime rib, steak, a milkshake with whipped cream, and strawberry pancakes.   

In the past three years or so Joe and I have probably shared at least one hundred meals together. I hold so many wondrous snapshots of Joe at lunch that I sometimes forget the miracle of his being. That after more than forty years of living with schizophrenia, cheating death more than once, he is still with me.

Joe smiles as he as cuts into his steak, 

“God I want to thank you for your cuisine,” he says.

He points to the condiments on the table, hot sauce, syrup, jam, pepper, and salt.

“You see that there, Donnie. It’s all free! It’s all free!”

“You know a great statement Donnie. You look at the world around you: brotherly love.”

“Donnie, the way to look at God: I love everything God’s got. I love everything God’s got.”

“God’s table is pretty good today.”

“Breakfast, lunch and dinner. And they ship it all the way to Paradise. Anybody should appreciate this menu. People should appreciate this menu and what it took to put it together.”

“We are guests of God’s cuisine.”

“You should contact home builders and people in construction,” he says. “You should ask them to work on campus,” his voice rings with hope: “Tell them, we don’t build ourselves, we build a country. We don’t build ourselves, we build a country.”

“Be thankful for your teachers and where your wisdom came from. You should pray for them and where your wisdom came from.” 

“This is a meeting place for our brothers and sisters. They made everything possible. Everything was contributed by them.”

“I am sitting here and the world around me. And I am proud to know them all.”

Resurrection

I drove our aunt Helen, the sister of our father, up to a family dinner at my sister’s house in June. She had just returned from a visit with her sister in Southern California. My aunt Mary is now in hospice and very frail.

“I don’t know if my visit really helped her,” my aunt said. “She doesn’t know it’s me for quite a while and it’s hard for her. She is getting good care and she is not in pain, but it’s hard for her to be present for me. It breaks her routine,” she explained.

“It’s so sad,” she lamented.

I had also brought Joe to our family dinner. My aunt gave him a hug when she saw him,

“How are you Joe?” she asked.

“I am fine. I am fine,” Joe replied.

“I just got back from seeing Mary,” she told Joe. “She’s not doing too well Joe. She’s very weak.”

Joe acknowledged the news but did not say anything, and after a few moments, he returned to the couch in the living room. There he drinks coffee, eats, and listens to music as the rest of us talk in the dining room. 

It was time to go home. 

‘We’ve got to go Joe,” I said.

Joe got up off the couch, marched right up to my aunt Helen and shook her hand with such enthusiasm, as if she were just crowned a champion. 

“Congratulations on your resurrection!” he proclaimed.

The Old Shed

On that afternoon Joe was frequently smiling and laughing, mumbling and speaking quietly to himself. He was animated and in a happy mood, as usual, but he did seem to want to share. He kept mumbling and talking about ‘God’ and ‘resurrection’. I could not figure it out.

We had made our way down the ridge on the Skyway from Paradise, and were just outside Chico, there were fields of dry, yellow grass on both sides of the road. Joe suddenly spoke up,

“You know Donnie, God loves to resurrect things,” he said with a broad smile.

“And he’ll resurrect anything, like a building or an old shed.”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha…” He breaks into laughter.

She’s in Heaven

Our mother passed away on May 7, 2009. I cannot describe all that she means to Joe and myself. If there were ever an occasion for sadness and grief, this was it: telling Joe that our mother was gone from this world.

I spoke to Joe calmly and directly,

“Joe, mom passed away,” I said.

He lifted his head and gazed with clear, open eyes into the distance, and spoke with calm, loving resolve.

“She’s in heaven. She’s in heaven.”

The Story of Bob McGill

With a twinkle in his eyes Joe let’s out a laugh, then he told this story,

“You know, Donnie, in the lumberyard there was a guy named Bob McGill. He was a machine gunner in World War II. He would cover for his unit when they got overrun. They got overrun four times. He had to play dead four times. He had to play dead four times,” 

“And he says, “when it comes right down to it, life is pretty sweet.” 

“Yep, he went in a Sargent and came out a Major. He says, “life is pretty sweet, life is pretty sweet.””

The Woman in Pain

I had just finished speaking with an attendant about Joe’s cigarettes, our never-ending conversation, and I was walking back to Joe. A woman in a wheelchair looked up at me as I passed by and extended her hand. I had seen her many times before; the pain on her face was ever-present, sunken eyes in horrible distress, mouth agape, toothless, crying without tears, without speech, pleading.

Her eyes wanted something from me, some comfort, something. I took her hand and smiled, dumbstruck. 

“How are you?” I asked.

Her eyes screeched in pain. I was so foolish. The answer to that was obvious.

I held her hand for a little longer. I tried to keep up my smile. I did not know what to do. After a few moments an attendant came and took her hand from me and I returned to Joe. The woman’s opened mouth opened wider as if to scream, but she uttered not a sound. She began to cry little, dry tears, like a little girl, without a voice, mute. The attendant gave her a hug. As I left the facility I glanced over at her. I felt like I had done something wrong, like I had hurt her. 

The Pudding Cup

I walked through the door and saw the same woman. She had something in her hand; she grimaced in discomfort, but she did not seem quite as bad as she did before. As I walked by she seemed to notice me. I smiled again, and she beckoned to me, raising her arm.

I then noticed that all of the residents in the lobby had pudding cups in their hands. She was clasping the cup in her left hand with stiff arthritic fingers. The pudding was almost gone, much of it was smeared over her fingers and sleeve, chocolate-vanilla swirl. She seemed to want me to take the cup away. I pulled the cup from her fingers and took it into the kitchen. I came back. She was following me with pain-stricken eyes. She lifted her arm again. I came over to her and embraced her.

“I am here,” I said. “I am here.”

The Lady On the Bench

In Vienna, on November 7, 2011, four days before presenting the original paper, ‘The Book of Joe’, I sat across from a lady on a park bench in the old city. A few tourists across the street were posing for photos smiling, snapping away joyfully. 

“Why do they do that?” she asked disdainfully. “Why do they take pictures?”

The Picture Book

Nails piercing flesh
Shrieking mute
Crashing heaven’s gate
Where are you Lord?
Your daughter needs you.

In you
With her
In him
With you

Fragile faith
I fail to see
That heaven’s gate
Is me.

Like stone I sit
You never complain
Waiting alone
For a visit
Fearing only
That others might be lonely.

Casting gifts of love
To me
In little Saintly signs
Love trembles
Sensing God’s designs

The clock strikes one.

A picture book of Love
Of you
I gather
Windows and bridges.

Threads from heaven
Fall like silent rain
Hidden from knowing
Ears.

Pitter-Patter
A child awakens
And listens.

A drop I capture
And then another
Whistling like a boy in fields of green
And gold.
Singing like a bird

The clock strikes two

Precious yarns
I bind together
Strong as our bonds of Love
A rope
To climb to you.

I see you
Helpless child
Buried
Amid holy, unravelling souls

Alone
Shining on Sunday.
Growing in me
Like in a mother

Stay with me,
My brother,
Teach me how to pray
One more time

Sailing o’er waters
To heaven’s shore.
Death overcoming

The clock strikes three

I will see her again
Even now
Hands becoming

Mother becoming Mother
Mother becoming son
Brother becoming brother
Hands becoming one.

Pray for where your wisdom came from
Cherish the cuisine
Histories of love and knowledge
Thank-less never leave.

Gathering at our table
Each and every one

You see them, brother
In humility
Proud only to know them

In trees and skies of gold
Orange, silver blue
A fragrant rose
A little girl
Dances to the music

I see her
Infant in her arms
Beckoning.

Oases in the stillness of space
A bridge
A window
A tree
Glimpses of heaven
You leave to me.