The Death of a Friend

In 1968, Dion recorded a song by Dick Holler that asked, “Has anybody here seen my old friend Abraham (John, Martin, Bobby)?:In the historical wake of the assassination of Lincoln, and then of Dr. King and the Kennedy brothers in the 60s, the song haunted me, as I wondered, “when would it end?”

 

I had a similar feeling in recent days, as news came of one death after another, this time of those I’d been close to in the past. My maid of honor, living in retirement in Florida, deceased after struggling with illness. A retired divisional commander (bishop), gone in his seventies. Our former pastor, dead at age fifty-seven.

 

Carol and I attended the same church as young adults, wrestled with a calling to ministry together, and entered The Salvation Army’s ministerial training program in the same cohort (session), arriving in grand style in one of the thrift store donation trucks. Our paths began to diverge as she and her husband Mike served in rehab settings, while we worked in community ministry. Now, the fun-loving girl in peach who stood beside me as I spoke vows of marriage is gone.

 

We first met Gene at that same training school, where he and his wife Edie were on staff, and Gene and I were quite the team on organ and piano. When Larry and I began our first assignment in New Jersey, they were off to Canada, but then were reassigned to New Jersey, not far from us. They came to Philadelphia as we were adjusting to an inner city appointment there, and they followed us to Cleveland a few years later as well, serving as our regional leaders. Conversations with Gene were always deep and thought-provoking, and sometimes even life-saving.

 

As for Harry, he and Madelaine were our pastors for three years in Wooster. Life was challenging for Harry, as a major stroke limited his mobility but not his passion for his calling. We moved east a bit, and then they moved much further east, and again, the paths went in different directions. 

 

Word of the death of a friend, a pastor, a mentor, comes as unwelcome news, especially when death is sudden. But even when expected, hearing those words of finality shakes us. When had we last connected? How did we drift apart?

 

Friendship is a fascinating phenomenon. What attracts us to someone who will become a friend? What role does proximity play in the development and maintenance of friendships? When we no longer see each other or chat on any regular basis, are we still friends? 

 

And what do we do when we lose a friend we haven’t seen in a long time? Do we travel to the funeral, send a card or a memorial gift? An “I’m so sorry” posted o Facebook seems a trifling acknowledgement of a life that deeply impacted our own ‘back in the day.’ 

 

A friend recently said, “We’re not cemetery people,” a common experience in today’s world. Growing up, we were ‘cemetery people,’ visiting the Protestant cemetery (Elmlawn) and then crossing the road to the Catholics resting in Mount Olivet. On the other side of the canal, we’d bring our cut flowers and grass clippers to my dad’s family too. I wonder how long it’s been since anyone has visited the Hodges, the Freys, the Gagnons and the Streeters. When we head “back home” this summer, we’ll stop at the tree that honors my dad and mom, but what about the cemetery? Could I even find the gravesites? How then do we keep memory alive if there is no place to gather those memories together?

 

As I age, I often ponder the question raised by Geoff Moore, when he asks, “What will be remembered when I’m gone, when all is said and done?” Indeed, what influence do we have, what legacy do we leave? For Carol, Gene and Harry, I find the answer to Moore’s query in Holler’s song about Abraham, John, Martin and Bobby: “Didn’t they try to find some good for you and me?” My friends’ presence in this world made a difference. Might the same be said about each of us “when all is said and done.”