My new friend,
You’re a private soul, perhaps a stoic New Englander, I don’t know you well enough to say, and it doesn’t matter. Either or both may apply and explain your reluctance to go public with your recently diagnosed illness, public that is, beyond close family, old friends and your church community.
I respect and understand that.
A mutual acquaintance told me that you have been sick, a form of cancer, undergoing treatments and dealing with the side-effects of chemotherapy. You’re a carpenter, I’m a psychologist, you were an employed worker, and I your employer, but those labels don’t capture the truth of two men who met over a job.
We share a faith, a belief in a loving God and a risen Christ, a fellowship that goes beyond work and paychecks. You became and continue to be part of my daily meditations and prayer life.
This picture of our Christmas tree, a magnificent reminder decked in snow, of God’s presence, now stands on the beautiful deck you crafted last summer and fall—a daily reminder of the ties that bind [all of] us, however or whatever the circumstances that bring our paths together.
We share this.
You and your family are in my prayers.
Roger
by 
Great job, Doc. I am sure he appreciates the support you are giving him. Again well done. Gary
Gary,
Thank you for reading and commenting. Much appreciated, and we do our best, right?
Roger
Roger
Upon reading I have tears of sorrow and loss, tears of joy and life shared. The tree, so stark and cold, bathed in snow, so clean and pure, stands tall as a measure of our faith and our love for one another.
Again, a gift you share with all of us. Thank you.
Rich,
Thank you for reading and taking in the “unwritten” words conveyed by the tree’s presence.
Roger
Your loving sentiments reach out with simple truths to your new friend, touching heart and soul, offering comfort and support. Your shared thoughts and prayers remind us all that we are living, loving, and dying in this same magnificent mix of humanity with glimpses of the divine. Your lovely little tree, graced with the simple beauty of snow, captures the glory of God in our natural world, and offers some peace in the midst of challenge and sadness. Thank you for sharing, mon ami.
Colette,
Thank you for your comments–“…living, loving, and dying in this same magnificent mix of humanity with glimpses of the divine.” Well said. Amazing, isn’t it, what is there for us when we’re able to look and listen for the mystery and magic?
Roger
I am reminded of death frequently these days. I don’t presume your friend is dying, but still his situation and your empathy for him touch me at the same deep level. Two weekends ago I was in frozen Johnstown to bury my Aunt on a windy hillside. She was 95. And then I had to say goodbye to my best friend at my Church. He was 80 and I will carry the cross in procession at his funeral next weekend.
I am reminded of a poem for times of disease and death that enter my world unannounced and uninvited. It was written at a time of horror in the world and was entitled “September 1, 1939” by W. H. Auden. The last stanza reads as follows and gives me strength and purpose for times like these:
Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.
Bill,
Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts, difficult “goodbye’s,” and Auden’s voice of hope.
roger
So fragile, this life. It’s times like these that makes me aware of how temporary this journey is. I’m sorry for what your friend is having to endure and the pain it is causing you. I understand. A friend of mine from junior high has been battling Lou Gehrig’s disease and as of late has eased into a phase of acceptance of what looks like the final stage. So many feelings are coming up all at once…..sorrow, gratefulness. Memories of eating three portions of pasta in her Italian home as a child. Kay told me when I left her home that her mom said, can you believe how much she ate? Singing together in our high school nine girl accapella group. The beautiful music we made together will ring in my soul forever.
Jo Anne,
Thank you for responding, and nothing like the serious or terminal illness of someone we love to remind us of how fragile and special this life is. I suspect you keep Kay’s voice alive, and music shared with her, as you continue to perform. Memories and the feelings attached to them can bring smiles and pleasure even though they’re triggered by present sadness. I wish that for you and Kay.
Roger