I Will Come See You Soon

I Will Come See You Soon

(“The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor.” Luke 4:18a)

Brother man, you really set it off when you landed in this town.
“Gospel” was your favorite word,
but people heard with ears so tired it sounded like babble.
“Good News” is what you proposed, echoing the First Igniter
who stood to declare the Story all creation had listened to hear.

You were known for your Harley and Big Bad Bob
your Excitable Boy. (He was named after Bob Marley.)
Four legs and Labrador energy,
he kissed everyone full on the lips while expecting a game
of catch
in the living room.
You bought a sidecar just for your trips through the hills
along
the Columbia river.

The poor were your heartache, the earth was your cause,
the outcasts, oh, let’s be frank, the gays that were kept
from wearing vestments. You walked in their parade. You
collected more canned food than pickups could haul.
You fed a hundred on Christmas, recruited our town’s best
chef. You joined me for Thanksgiving, sometimes just five
around a table.

Every word was like a roman candle, some called you irascible,
others saw only the flames of love. You shall always be
my favorite Lutheran,
and I your favorite lapsed Pentecostal. You called me your pastor,
but it was your friendship I treasured.

You and I, no longer standing behind pulpits, lived only a half mile
from each other. I would turn the corner, stroll past the view where
the river can be seen between the trees, then walk up your driveway,
inside your sliding glass door, and find you watching a classic movie
that you had watched a hundred times before. Oh Brother man, I
have a wife to keep me company. You have no one. Our visitors
are
zero. And I mourn the emptiness you bear.

So I don’t know
if it had to happen this way. But life started to leave
you weary, it leaked from every pore. Your heart, so
over-exposed,
had less than ten percent to give. You coded
four times
in ICU, Covid invaded your lungs and the man
who never canceled a service or appointment
now relied on a tiny cohort of friends. You would
breathe on your own
for the shortest of days.

They call it
comfort care,
and you are feeling no pain. Today the
chaplain
anointed you with oil, your friend standing by
while the nurse disconnected the last tunnel of
oxygen that pumped your lungs full.

Your body was beaten, but your body is tough.
I do not know how long, brother man, before
you expire; slowly, or all at once.

When you do, slide like the ocean breeze into
the slipstream as Christ leads you home. Please
wait for me, I will come see you soon.