John

Melvin

Mary Ann and I went to the gym where she works one evening last week.  I would mention the name, but the owners have asked that given my current body shape and %fat, I do nothing to hurt their business by claiming membership.  Actually, the gym is called Fitek, and I know they love me there because they are always looking for “before” models.

Anyway after my “workout” (I prefer the think method to Twain’s lie-down-and-rest-until-the-urge-passes method), I was pretending to stagger toward the coat-rack when Melvin said something to me in French.   “Bon soir, monsieur” I think he said.  Now, I should mention that Melvin, a fellow employee of Fitek on duty that night, is all muscle and heart.  When he asked me if that was right, I said jokingly, “Given how you are built, of course it was right.  I am not that stupid.” Those around us laughed, but Melvin didn’t.  He got real serious and he said to me, “No man, it’s not like that.  I love you, man.”  Advantage Melvin.  I was being self-deprecating to create separation, Melvin was being real to create proximity.  Alarm bells started going off.  I made some even lamer joke, and then Melvin said, “No, I gotta break it down for you. One day about two years ago, I saw a newspaper article about a boy hit by a car in a near-by town. I cut out that article and I hung it on the desk that is my space where I live. Later, I started working out here at Fitek, and then they hired me part-time.  I was blown away even later when I found out Mary Ann was this boy’s mother.” 

I remembered Mary Ann telling me this story, but I had not connected it with Melvin.   Now the goosebumps started.

“Everyday when I leave, I pat that picture with my hand, and I say ‘Let’s go, man.’” 

“John would love that,” I said. “He loved to high-five.”

“So now you see why it has to be this when I see you,” Melvin said as he spread his arms wide inviting an embrace. I walked over and hugged him.  “Yeah,” I said.  “This was also something John loved.”

I could hardly speak as we climbed into the van.  My son, dead almost two years, was still bringing people together.  But it was more than that.  Melvin had been afraid to talk about this with me/us because he was afraid it would be too painful for us.  However, before his earnestness and sincerity, in the immediacy of his concern for us, I didn’t feel any sadness at all.  In fact, I realized, I had just lived through a typical “John moment”, an unexpected time of communion with another soul brought about by his amazing ability to put very different people together.  No planning, no guile, just an awareness and openness to living in the moment.

After having lived for 21 months experiencing the absence of John, I had just practiced  the presence of John (with apologies to Brother Lawrence.)  My heart felt so full I feared it would explode.  My son had been present in that moment, my own awkwardness, my unnatural openness to others, my unusual readiness to jump at the chance to connect with another person all testifying to its authenticity.  Yet again, I had felt one of John’s greatest gifts, the ability to be both totally self-aware and totally responsive to another person.  Once again, I looked at John with wonder, asking myself if I would ever measure up to him in my lifetime.  “It’s OK, Dad,” a voice seemed to reassure. 

What a precious discovery, to learn that the newly dug pit of despair in my heart was accompanied by a new, equally deep well of joy.  As much as I had hurt in the last 21 months, and continue to do so, there is now a parallel potential for equally intense joy in the awareness that John continues to live in me.  That it is possible to intentionally practice the presence of John by remaining open to the unexpected opportunities for connection that life brings. 

I told my counselor as I related this powerful encounter with Melvin that I had not asked for 21 months “God, why did you let this happen?” because I believe that a stupid question.  What happened to John was a human event.  No, I had asked, “God, where are you in all of this?”  As I thought about Melvin, I told Feli, I realized now that God was waiting patiently for me at the bottom of the pit of despair to show me the connection to the well.  However, as I write this after more reflection, I understand that in some mysterious way beyond my comprehension, God was waiting there for me with John, holding his hand.  To paraphrase the parable, “Rejoice for my son who was lost has been restored to me.”

Melvin was working last Saturday when we went in to work out, and we immediately hugged when we saw each other.  I whispered over his shoulder, as I embraced him, “Hey, John.”