I know you don't know the name. I'm going to tell you about him. I was 13 when we met. He was 72. Relaying the story later to friends he said about me that many people had knocked on his door but there was something about me that made him listen. I came to love this man. I called him my son. He called me dad. We began a friendship that started off as teacher and student but in the end we were family. Eventually he was baptized. He was made a ministerial servant while I was still studying with him. I was still under the age of 18. They called him my letter of recommendation, the proof that I was a good teacher. George grew up during the Great Depression. He walked everywhere. The only job he ever had was as a shoe salesman. He had a collection of over a thousand old movies. We must have watched all of them together. From him I learned humility, kindness, simplicity and a sense of joy no matter where I was or who I was with.
He had an ability to craft orations that captivated. They say he got that from me. No way. I got it from him. He made the people around him better, made me better. He was utterly self-less. He had only two family members that he rarely saw. My mother and I became his family. He never married, never bore children. He loved the God that I exposed him to and served him until he died.
Anyone who knows me will tell you that they've never seen me cry. I try to shield myself in those moments. Sign of weakness? Perhaps. I really don't know. One of the last times that I saw him was in the hospital. Kaiser Permanente on Sierra Avenue in Fontana, CA. I held it together until I got downstairs. In some unknown wing of the hospital, against a wall, I cried uncontrollably. I have no idea for how long. When I stopped I was sitting on the floor in a haze.
George died a couple of weeks later in a nursing home. The last time I saw him he cried. He said that he was scared to die. I just held his hand until he fell asleep. I promised him that if he died that the next time he woke up, I'd be there, we'd be young and in Paradise, together. One of my biggest regrets is that I was disfellowshipped by the time he passed away. His teacher had strayed from the course and he was alone now. I regret that. I regret that he died alone in a nursing home that smelled of death and urine.
I'd like to think that I added to the last few years of his life. I knew him for about 12 years. The last few I had to help him in and out of the car for Sunday morning breakfast which was our custom, our ritual. Wednesday's were movie day. I had to help him to the bathroom midway through the films. I'd like to think that what I added to his life was the friendship of the congregation because really they did rally around him like a family. But how much of a family really? He died alone... and I'm not sure that the promise of 'Paradise' was of any comfort to him at all. I still think of him fondly. Any time I get the notion to accumulate unecessary things I remember him. Days when I don't appreciate the simple comfort and beauty of my life, my conscience takes on his voice and I am so much better for it.