Such sweet sorrow

My friend Bob died recently.

He was 85 and knew Jesus, and his sweet wife had already died a few years ago, so I like to imagine the wonderful reunion the three of them are having. But I’ll miss him.

Bob always looked for me at church when I returned home for a weekend and always greeted me with a big hug. Even after he lost 20 or 30 pounds and had to travel with an oxygen tank he made it to church as often as he could.

Occaionally he sent me emails:
"Sorry to have missed you last time--I try to get to church when it won't be too germie." 

"The MRI showed a two-centimeter growth on my right lung. Other than that I'm normal, whatever that is." 

"Currently I can shop without my oxygen but when I take it the ladies give me more attention and I get to ride the electric cart around the store."

The last time I saw Bob, he was on stage at the Christmas pageant, riding a sleigh, wearing a red sweatshirt and a furry Santa hat dipping right and left in time to the music. It had taken all day, and all his strength, to get him dressed and to the church for his minute of fun, but that moment was the definition of “worth it.”

At the intermission I went over for my hug. We talked a few minutes and I promised to look for him on Christmas Eve. “You know, you could email me occasionally,” he said, light-hearted but seriously. I should have emailed him more often. I miss ya, Bob.