writing

The Face of Joe

/ Donald Felipe

December 2012

I had been traveling for the entire month of November and had not seen Joe in around five weeks. That night in early December I was out of town, around three and a half hours away by car. I received a call from my wife. Joe’s conservator wanted me to call her. Something was wrong with Joe. Paramedics had been called. 

I called the conservator immediately. She told me that oxygen levels in Joe’s blood were dangerously low and he was having trouble breathing. He had to go to the hospital, but he didn’t want to go, and was being obstinate. She was afraid that he would refuse to go with the paramedics and she asked me to try to persuade him to cooperate. I agreed to try.

A young caregiver at the facility answered my call. Her voice was unsteady and fragile. She tried to hide it, but I knew she was worried. She made her way to Joe’s room, speaking with me as pleasantly as she could while she walked. 

“Joe, your brother is on the phone,” she said. “He wants to talk to you.”

Grumpy mumbling and shuffling stirred in the background. Joe was saying something, but I could not make it out.

“You don’t want to talk right now?” the attendant asked.

I heard more grumbling, and then a sharp reply in a garbled, dismissive voice:

 “I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t feel well,” Joe said.

“He says that he doesn’t want to talk,” she said loudly into the phone like a faithful child not knowing what to do.

I replied without thinking, “Tell him that Donnie loves him,” 

“Donnie loves you,” she said with a lingering hope in her voice.

The wrestling in the background calmed down. There were a few more seconds of muffled mumbling. Finally, the attendant spoke into the phone with an almost-calm resolve.

“He doesn’t want to talk right now,” she said.

I could see Joe sitting on the edge of the bed barely able to breath. He wanted to be left alone. No one in this world could make him feel better. Only God, his friends, his home, could give him comfort. 

Was it the onset of a heart attack? A stroke? Were decades of chain smoking and years of sedentary living about to exact their final toll?

 As I did years before after Joe’s accident, I distracted myself for as long as I could. Then I sat alone in the dark and wept. I went to bed praying that my brother would survive the night. I pray far more now than I did fifteen years ago, or even two years ago. Did my brother teach me how to pray?

The next morning I rushed home. Joe had been put into intensive care. No heart attack. No stroke. The early stages of pneumonia, the doctor said, were exacerbated by his COPD. He was put on antibiotics, oxygen and inhalers. I was allowed to visit, as long as I did not disturb his rest. I peeked into his room from the hallway. Joe was sleeping with his back exposed toward the door. I silently inched my way into the room and sat down in a chair next to his bed. I watched Joe’s heartbeat skipping wildly on the monitor at a high rate above 100. I listened to his sluggish breath and the slurps of fluid in his chest.

He lay still. Every breath was strained.  Where would he find the strength to survive pneumonia?

I sat in the chair. I did not talk to Joe. I did not see his face. He was turned away from me. After an hour or so, I went home.

Did he know I was there? Did he want me to be?

I returned to the hospital the next day. Joe was still sleeping. His breathing had not improved much. But the doctor said he was stable. I resumed my place. Finally Joe rolled over and noticed me. He managed a weak smile,

“Hello Donnie,” he said in a subdued voice. He did not have the strength to talk. After a few moments, he again turned his back to me and slept. I stayed in Joe’s room and tried to work on my laptop, but I had little success. My eyes were drawn to the monitors and my ears to his heavy, watery breath. Joe’s face was sunken and exhausted, but I could not detect the slightest concern for himself. His vital signs, the diagnosis, the treatments, his chances of survival meant nothing to him. He slept soundly like a trusting child. 

I visited Joe everyday for the next few days. He got progressively better. He wanted to know when he could go home. The only other matter of concern for him, besides his friends and God, which he kept to himself, was ice cream—the hospital promised ice cream whenever he wanted it—and he was not afraid to ask.

Then, one afternoon I studied him hobbling on his bad leg as he moved back and forth from the bathroom. He suddenly looked fine, almost like his former self.  Then, the nurse told me he was ready to go home. I was astounded. Do they just want to get rid of him?

I had one last conversation with the doctor. The pneumonia diagnosis had been premature, he said. But what had caused the acute shortness of breath and lack of oxygen, the fluid in his lungs? It was just the COPD and his smoking.  

Fourteen years prior I was told Joe would never walk again. I wept for him, his loss of freedom, his suffering. But he is free. He walks, and he does not acknowledge his suffering. Now, I was told he had pneumonia. I wept again in fear that I might lose him. But Joe sheds no tears. He walks again, fearlessly, this time away from a brush with death. This is the life of my brother, streaming with an inscrutable, healing grace.

That was not enough to calm my anxiety. Something had to be done about his smoking. The rationing of cigarettes, now years old, was not up to the task. As he was being discharged, I rushed back to Joe’s room. I did not have the authority to take anything from him, but I did it anyway—I collected all the cigarettes I could find and made off with them. My plan was to replace them with electronic cigarettes. Joe arrived in a van just as I was coming out of the facility with cigarettes in hand. 

He was furious. For the first time in over fifteen years he raised his voice to me,

“Donnie, give me those cigarettes! Give me those cigarettes!”

“I am going to get you some better cigarettes Joe,” I said.

“The cigarettes you have there are just fine,” he insisted.

I gave Joe one pack, and assured him that he would get them all back little by little, and some better cigarettes to boot.

He endured a near suffocating death without complaint. If asked, I doubt he would say that he suffered. Only I had made him suffer by depriving him of these instruments of death, the only privation that mattered to him.

But in his outrage he did not curse me or dismiss me. After a few moments he accepted my concern for him and surrendered to forgiveness.

The struggle over tobacco and nicotine-laced water vapor continues to this day.

Before my trip in November I was seeing Joe just about every Sunday. That was not the norm just a few months prior. His stint in the hospital seemed to transform our routine into a Sunday ritual. I only notice it now. I did not one day decide that I would visit Joe every Sunday. I just did it. 

Gradually, with weekly lunch outings, the ways in which Joe and I interacted changed. Joe no longer quickly withdraws into his world popping up occasionally for a question or comment. He asks me how I am doing. He wants to know about my work, what I am teaching, what keeps me busy. He turns to me and I am obliged to turn to him. I have told him what I teach: critical thinking, humanities and ethics. He asks me about each subject, what it is. I try to explain as best I can. Then he asks questions earnestly attempting to comprehend.

“Is the humanities like the Ying and the Yang and the Alpha and the Omega?” he asks. Together we try to make sense of the question. “Yes,” I finally admit. “The humanities do have to do with the Yin and Yang, the Alpha and the Omega.” In our clumsy dialogue, that might appear senseless to an observer, Joe never attempts to impose himself on me. Every question arises from a concern for me and for what I do. And, when Joe feels he has understood something, he offers suggestions to help.

I told him that we were developing a new degree program for our college.

“You know Donnie,” he said, “every student should know how to build a house. Every student should be able to build a house. That should be in your program”

I agreed that that would be a very good thing to know how to do.

Joe has begun to request that I turn off the radio on our drives.  I could not have imagined Joe asking such a thing a few months ago. Music has become the exception and not the rule. He prefers lunch, talk and a drive.

But it is difficult to talk to Joe. I do not think he has had anyone to talk to in earnest for decades, except God and friends, who are forever with him. His primary frame of reference is the world prior to his breakdown in the 1970s when he worked as a salesman of prefabricated homes in San Jose, California. He wants to talk about the economy and home building and he can be quite coherent as he remembers experiences some forty years old—sometimes I feel like he has emerged from a time machine. I have tried to explain so many things, the global marketplace, the rise of China, the expansion of the stock market, and the Internet.

I don’t know how much he comprehends and remembers, but all memory is clothed in a loving glaze in search of ways to help, and all new knowledge is accepted with  humble wonder.

“Is that right? Is that right?” He says with a grin.

God is never far from any conversation, and may make an appearance at any time,

“You know, Donnie,” Joe says assuredly, “I know God.”

The advice and sayings from God are many. Some come to the surface only once. Others are repeated.

Joe told me while pointing at a rather unattractive digger pine by the side of the road:

“God said: “That tree is the stillness of my oasis in space.””

And that is not all God has told Joe about trees. Joe has shared many times,

“See that tree there,” he says, “God takes water from ground and draws it all the to the top, and that is the way the tree lives.”

And a recent treasure: Joe belted out a laugh and grinned from ear to ear. Then he said,

“God told me that the earth is the front end of a construction project for heaven.”

It seems as if our new routines have been in place for years. But that is not true. Joe has changed a little, at least in his preferences. My transformation has been profound—yet it lacks dedicated intention, overtaking me without notice.

I used to move quickly in and out of the residences where Joe stayed, including this one. I would never bother to learn the names of those living with him.

I now know James, a large jolly fellow who almost always manages a wave and a big smile whenever I pass by. I know Martha, a woman of quiet dignity and gentle voice. And John, a thin, gaunt fellow who sits erect as a stone and speaks very little. I notice what I have ignored in the past. I remember the man in the wheelchair who did not talk. His mouth agape, his eyes closed. I notice that I do not see him anymore.

Facing my brother these past months has brought me closer to the faces he lives with. How can I not open my eyes and follow where love leads? But where does love lead? And how far am I able to go?

THE FACE OF JOE

Oh, my dear brother, the afternoons are many
That I have seen you
Face to Face.

Kind lines on your forehead, cheeks and chin
Illumine Hope.
Shining in your smirks and smiles
In whispers,
Visible in the gleam of your eyes,
Wonders of life with God
Carried on divine winds
From you
To me
To this page.

“What would it take,” you ask,
“For me to put this menu together all by myself?”
And you do not turn your face from me.
“What kind of farm would it take to produce all the food on this menu?”
You bring me closer.
“This coffee, this salt, everything.
These are businessmen doing a good job,” you say.
“This is brotherly love.”

In coffee
In pepper and salt
In delicate flavors of spice
In textures and colors
In supporting beams
In the rock of a hearth
Where you prefer to take your meal.
You see Love
Where I would not think to look.

Love in our food.
Love in the trees and the clouds.
Love in the dry, yellow grasslands of our home
Love between us.
Gazing at your face
I begin to comprehend
As my budding soul
Sparks some resemblance.

Love veiled in poverty
Uttering riddles
At appointed times.

Precious fragments from your limitless world
Through the cogent boundaries of mine,
Ignite meaning
Issuing likeness divine.
Do I finally see you?
Has love lifted the veil from your face?
“I live with God,” you say.
Has God been born in me through you?

Distance impassable
Between your life
And mine.
Between your face
And my wanting heart.

Suspicion in reason
Fails sweetness of trust.
Strength in capacity
Betrays meekness of deprivation.
Pride in knowledge
Denies the certainty of heaven.
Confidence immovable
Ignores offers of help.

Like a rose pressed against the heart
That is allowed to fall
Sense renders nonsense of love.

Do not surrender hope
And the promise of heaven,
I imagine you say,
When it is free.

Open to me and wipe the dew from my face,
Consecrate your heart to Love
Wherein salvation is assured
For all.

I remain on the phone
Hearing but not seeing,
Love passed to you
From another.
I wait for you and worry
Your face turned from me.
Resurrected you draw near
Show yourself
And I listen.

Well-springs of God,
Hidden oases,
Treasures in the stillness of space
Utterly simple,
Traversing limits of knowledge,
Boundless by design
Heavenly dreams
Of a trusting child
Pass to fallen man
With a single request:
Build heaven on earth.

Love is the beginning,
Love is the end,
Spiraling in cycles of growth
The Alpha and the Omega
The Yin and the Yang
Arriving where I began
Hope cradles me anew
Waiting for Sunday sun.

“Good to see you Joe,” I say.
“Good to see you Donnie,” you reply
“You look good Joe.”
“Well, thank you Donnie. Thank you,”
“Donnie, I have known you your whole life, and it’s always good to see you.”

POSTSCRIPT

I reminisce sometimes, going over photos of Joe, watching little videos of him, or going through some of his belongings–he did not have many. But we do have a large stuffed giraffe that adorned his altar sitting in our front room before the fireplace. These things bring on memories that I enjoy. But I miss him. And I feel some emptiness. I do not have a sense that I am close to Joe as he is now. I feel left in the dark, praying, reaching for something I cannot comprehend.

The Man in the Lobby

/ Donald Felipe

Salzburg, November 2012

‘The Tender Eyes of May’ was presented in Salzburg in November 2012 at a conference sponsored by Inter-Disciplinary.Net. Like the year before, when I travelled to Vienna and then to Prague to present ‘The Book of Joe’, I had arrived at the conference venue with my paper incomplete. But, unlike the prior year, I had no anxiety about finishing it. I had reserved the evening before the presentation to review the essay and cobble out further ideas derived from the reading of John 13 in the New Testament. But I had teaching duties to attend to and other busy work, and I was not yet ready to write them out, or so I told myself. The day before the presentation some anxiety finally filtered through. 

After the last session on November 14, I went to the lobby of the hotel. I was teaching three online classes at the time, and the hotel lobby had a very nice Wifi connection. I sat down and went to work on my laptop putting my online classes in order. I was typing away when a colleague from the conference bolted through the door and immediately approached me. I had just met this fellow the day before. He was an American professor teaching in Lithuania. He was Christian, and his paper had to do with communicating the significance of the crucifixion. He had given a presentation that afternoon and I had made a comment that was important to him. As I recall my comment was not directed to him but to another presenter. It had to do with the distinction between what is true and what is believed. In narrative accounts of suffering and the meaning of suffering, how should we assess this distinction? Does it matter that events that are said to cause suffering and the suffering itself really happen? It was suggested that the reality of suffering has less significance than we should think. I thought this idea was dangerous. It is, of course, obviously true that fictional narratives about suffering can dramatically influence thinking, perceptions and, with the right historical circumstances, cultural norms and beliefs. But what really happens, the truth, is essential for a whole slew of reasons. To abandon the idea that the truth about suffering is of major significance leads to more absurdities than one can count; including the idea that one’s own suffering is not, or should not be, of central importance when others talk about your own suffering.

This man politely asked if he could sit down and talk. I was pressed for time, but he was so earnest and thoughtful. This will only take a couple of minutes, I thought. We began having a lively discussion roaming over the question of the fundamental importance of seeking the truth in making sense of suffering and claims of suffering. And the event of the crucifixion, its reality and meaning, he thought, were inescapable for any group discussing human suffering. The very real persecution of people and their very real sufferings had to be distinguished from false claims of victimization, and the reality of the crucifixion had to at least be acknowledged—there is an ethics to suffering and its meaning rooted in existence, what is real. On that we agreed.

In the midst of our talk, out of the corner of my eye I noticed an old man walking into the lobby of the hotel. He was thin and gaunt with a little green winter cap on his head. An unlit cigarette was sticking out of his mouth. He walked through the front door of the hotel and stopped, as if he were confused and disoriented. He abruptly turned to his left and walked right up to us with a blank, troubled look on his face. He stood just a few feet away from us and seemed to want something. We both got up out of concern for this fellow.

“Can we help you?” I asked.

The man stared at me groaning with the cigarette in his mouth, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t. 

“Can I get you a light?” My colleague asked.

The man just stood there like a stone, groaning, with a vacuous look on his gaunt, pale face. His eyes were pleading and suffering. I felt deep concern for this fellow, but in his face I recognized something. The unlit cigarette protruding from the middle of his mouth seemed comical to me. I thought about Joe. Without thinking I gave him a little smile.  

Suddenly the man’s eyes fixed on mine like steel, and for a split second his face, his eyes froze, as if he recognized me. The stillness of expression was then, in an instant, shattered in an explosion of expression as his whole continence lit up with a brilliant light and joy, a smile and eyes that I have never witnessed before, nor could I ever imagine witnessing again; from ear to ear his smile stretched, as if his face were made of elastic fabric. His thin lips pulled clear across his face and somehow he managed to retain control of the unlit cigarette, which pointed directly at me. His eyebrows lifted, his eyes dilated, and grew like a flower miraculously blooming all at once. 

I was stunned. 

After just a few seconds his face imploded in pain as instantaneously as it had erupted in joy, and he returned to his former condition. He abruptly turned around and walked away without saying a word. He marched through the lobby and then right out the door of the hotel to the sidewalk. He turned to the right and kept going, passing in front of the hotel window, as if he had someplace to go.

Two young girls sitting in the lobby next to the window on a couch had witnessed the whole thing. As the man passed by they pressed their faces close to the window giggling, exchanging knowing glances in a private feast of mockery.

My colleague and I sat down and continued our conversation. We did not speak about what had just happened at the time, although we did have a short discussion about the encounter at a dinner later that evening. He, too, thought the event was remarkable and strange, especially given the topic of our discussion. Like the year before with the ladies, I could not get this fellow out of my mind. Again, I felt that I had the privilege of being a witness to something extraordinary. 

I could not forget the cigarette. I saw Joe just the day before I left from San Francisco. He seemed more tired than usual, more short of breath. Joe had been on a restricted regime of cigarettes for years, but I suspected he had found ways to get his hands on more cigarettes than he was allowed. So, the day before I left for the airport I took some cigarettes away from him. I had no place to put them, so I dropped them in a plastic tray in my car, which was sitting in the long-term parking lot in San Francisco. Joe cannot enjoy walking the way he used to before his accident. He has no one to talk to, except his friends. In those days I used to take him out to lunch every other week or so. His only great joy was smoking cigarettes and talking with his friends and God. Every cigarette I took from him deprived him of a little joy. I had taken upon myself the horrible task of inflicting suffering on my brother out of love for him. 

Why was the cigarette in the mouth of the man unlit? Was that his only cigarette? Was his only joy the preservation of the possibility of a joy of which he could not partake?

Was the unlit cigarette an embodiment of his suffering?

Like the year before I thought more and more about this man, suffering, mocked, wandering the streets of Salzburg. Would Joe suffer a similar fate, crucifixion on the streets, without me, without the resources, the will, the love to care for him? Did the man smile in recognition of this love? Was the love for my own brother hidden in my little smile? Did he recognize it? Is that why his face exploded in joy?

About a year or so after this event, I came upon the portrait of a Catholic saint who bore a striking resemblance to this tall, skinny, pale man with the elastic face who wandered into the lobby that chilly November day. Let me be clear: I do not believe that the man who approached us in Salzburg was this Catholic saint. But the likeness and coincidence are factually true: if you imagine a ski cap with toggles in place of the white hair, and a suffering, disoriented, blankness of expression, one arrives at a fair likeness to the man we encountered in the lobby of Hotel Imlauer in Salzburg on the afternoon of November 14, 2012. 

https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/NN1In-ETy3bowsr-dPz7IthQGEOKAsZWbp9Pit6sVe-WFWn5s4zGC_ajzNxIuFCegGqq-nqUvtkPVYFdGQc2kgzdmGCBKiDkLgThvP9ro22gAMdPwEDVlPxzjfDFmA
John Vianney

This is a painting of John Vianney, also known as the Curé de Ars:

https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/9-YHWAi9o1ZZeWuc_sp2quhgpvXKiNnpsvFlxvOI_jwYmCYdulOPrE1ZnnzTtCP_BdkmAbRbZTfHh0rb5rWvzSLPEpdvkFH7cSoH1ojja_rep0IuXaHfUvVJuJKJ1Q

When I returned to San Francisco from my trip to Salzburg in November 2012, I took this photo of the cigarettes I had taken from Joe just prior to leaving. My concerns for Joe’s smoking were well-founded—a couple of weeks after this picture was taken, Joe had severe problems breathing and had to be taken to the hospital. Events surrounding this episode are recounted in the essay, ‘The Face of Joe’. (This essay will be published next on this blog.)

Quo Vadis

/ Donald Felipe

by Donald Felipe

I sat outside with Joe on the patio of the Kalico Kitchen in Paradise, our customary lunch place in those days. The sun shone brightly that day, and, as I recall, we were waiting for our lunch, sitting in the metal chairs under an umbrella at a white, plastic table anchored by a heavy metal stand. The patio is set above a sidewalk running along a fairly busy street, two lanes in each direction.  But ‘busy’ must be understood in the context of this sleepy, Northern California retirement community.  The steady rumble of older cars and trucks is mellowed by the towering pines and the slow pace of the locals, young and old. And most of the locals in this restaurant are older and commonly dressed. 

On this day I was in a normal visiting-Joe kind of mood, and doing normal visiting-Joe kind of things: I was day-dreaming and basking in the sun. I don’t remember what I was dreaming or thinking about, but I do remember that my dreams and thoughts seemed particularly important. I did not want anyone to bother me, especially slow-moving locals, which included elderly patrons at the restaurant, waitresses and waiters, or anybody else. I occasionally had to attend to Joe in ‘listening mode’, but for the most part Joe was entirely occupied with his friends. He had important business of his own. So, most of the time he kept to himself, mumbling, smiling. 

I could not help but notice two scruffy young boys walking in our direction on the sidewalk. They were walking toward me. Joe was facing me and could not see them at first. The very sight of them made me uncomfortable. They looked like they had not bathed in a few days, wearing old tee-shirts, ratty jeans, marching in a cocky strut. As they approached I turned my gaze, trying not to make eye contact. They were walking along at a quick pace. I expected them to pass by without a glance or a word. And it seemed that that is just what they would do. They came around a bend and passed directly in front of us, in a place where Joe could see them. 

Suddenly the boy closest to us turned his head and spoke up in an almost irreverent tone not breaking his stride,

“Hey, do you know where MacDonald’s is?”

The question startled me. I shifted my glance to the boy and smiled, as if to say that I did not know. His demeanor was not aggressive. I would describe it as curious and confident. But he and his partner did not slow their pace in the slightest after the quick question. They walked as if they knew exactly where they were going and had no time for conversation. And yet he was asking for directions. The street they were walking along, the Skyway, ran for about two or three miles through the town of Paradise—this was not an urban area where shops and restaurants are congregated in one place. There was a Burger King around the corner, but MacDonald’s was on the other side of town a mile or so away. Didn’t these scruffy, local boys know that? Or were they visitors who just looked like they belonged there? At the very least they were in a hurry and confused and not worth my attention. Why bother trying to explain to these two rugrats, who did not have the courtesy to slow down to ask a question? Not that I wanted them to slow down. 

They were just a few steps from losing interest in us entirely, bounding off to their unknown destination when Joe spoke up.

“MacDonald’s is on the other street,” Joe said in a clearly articulated sentence.

The boys still did not slow down. But the boy who asked the question looked at Joe with some interest. Joe wanted to help him, and he seemed to acknowledge that.

“It’s on the other street,” Joe repeated. “The street is on the other side of town,” he said, pointing in another direction. 

The boys kept walking, but the one boy continued looking at Joe.

“You are on the wrong street,” Joe said again.

The boy gave Joe a little smile and a curious look, as if he thought for a moment that Joe could help him. Then his expression turned blank. Did Joe’s appearance turn him off? Whatever the boy was thinking, it did not slow his pace. He turned his head and kept moving with his friend marching in step..

As the two boys moved away from us, their eyes fixed ahead, Joe’s face softened with concern and then transformed. His eyes grew large with compassion, as if he were about to cry. He uprighted himself, as if he were going to get up out of his chair. Then he extended his arm and motioned his hand in a gentle wave.

“Good luck to you now,” he said tenderly.

“Good luck to you.”

POSTSCRIPT

Oh dear brother, I did not see you in the faces of these boys, so poor, so pitiful, so impulsive. They did not concern me, because I did not want them to. 

Were they really searching for MacDonald’s? 

I never forgot that day, my brother’s eyes and his extended hand. I never forgot the way he said, “Good luck to you.” Was it you, my brother, showing me how to reach my destination? Did you show your face to me once again? Do you tenderly wave to my back as I walk away from you, loving me in every step? Does your heart ache and plead for me as I march off? Do you utter sweetly to me, “Good luck to you”?

Did I walk away from you that afternoon as those boys walked away from us? 

And how do I appear to the heavenly gathering? Dirty and unseemly with a cocky strut, confident yet curious, do I ask questions without the patience and courtesy to stop and address you? Do I move swiftly with purpose as if I know where I am going, while I am asking for directions?

And how many times, my Lord, have you taken pity on me and waved to my back wishing me well?

“Good luck to you,” you say most exquisitely, piercing the veil of space and time with Love. 

But I do not hear you, because I am not listening.  I am so certain I know where to go.

Note: written around 2013