“J. Crew 1993. Resoled three times. Warm and dry inside, no matter what. We used to laugh and laugh.”

Joy, artistry, beauty, service, generosity, devotion – seeing the best in everything, and finding the best in everyone.

Those are your hallmarks.

 

She waited until after I finished speaking at the conference to tell me you were gone.

“Have you had something to eat? To drink? Please take a few minutes to go to the bathroom and collect yourself, then come back and sit down. I’ll call you in 10.”

She knew.

She knew.

The grief we would share.

That we would cry so hard neither of us could catch our breath or speak – just hear each other sobbing on the other end of the phone and knowing we weren’t alone.

Grief is an evil taskmaster. A thief in the night.

Yet grief is redirected love.

What do we do with it now?

You would not want us to grieve.

Yet, we can’t help it, and we do.

Those shoes, though.

They are so emply.

Unfillable.

 

He taught school, then retired.

But never really retired.

He split his time between “here” and “there” – there being mountainous highland villages where his lifelong mission was advocacy for education.

And by advocacy, I don’t mean hollow words and shallow platitudes.

I mean 36 years of raising money for supplies so children can attend school. Delivered up rocky winding roads in the worst of conditions.

So the kids aren’t condemned to child labor in the fields picking crops.

So they have a chance.

Including the girls.

“Whatever problems need to be solved – education is the key.”

The path out of systemic poverty.

Not a free pass – but an opportunity that could never occur otherwise.

We signed on as partners – donated – supported – did what we could.

In his words

With every notebook, every pencil, every box of crayons, you are giving a child not only hope, but real, permanent tools to thrive in their world. Seeds, skills, dreams, and opportunities. Thank you for having faith in these babies…. They will not waste the chance that you have given them.

They learned to read, and write, math, and geometry. Life skills that serve them well.

For just pennies over $2 per child, per year – he saved so many.

So many.

Thousands and thousands.

This year alone – more than 2,500 children received supplies – and he wasn’t finished.

Each small school has about 40 students.

He single-handedly supplied more than 60 village schools so far this year.

Last year, more than 4,000 children, or about 100 schools.

Every year for 35 or 36 years.

Maybe 100,000 kids. I don’t know.

Across generations.

An enduring partnership.

He planted seeds.

Now the first generation he saved, in their thirties, saves the next, and the next.

Some return as teachers.

Others pick up the boxes of the most basic school supplies in the city and drive the trucks up those impassible roads. None are paved.

Then donkeys carry the boxes the rest of the way to the villages when all else fails.

Then, the excited children carry the boxes the rest of the way.

Those mud-slick roads, shaken by earthquakes and washed out, again, by torrential rains.

Rivers of mud.

Yet, he never stopped.

Those worn boots, purchased “here” in 1993, three years after beginning his work “there.”

No longer a young man himself.

This year he climbed those mountains paths, so wet that his boots never had time to dry as he stayed in humble homes along the way, grateful to sleep on the dirt floor beside the woodstove, overnight.

His students, “our kids,” couldn’t wait – because delay meant school would start without them – and we would lose them to the fields of no opportunity.

Twice every year, he trekked to those villages where he was welcomed as the Godfather he was.

Unassuming to a fault, he never claimed or acknowledged such. If you said something in that vein, he quietly deflected to say how grateful the children are, or how grateful he is, and they are, for your contribution.

He would tell you that now Maria can read and reads to her grandmother, or someone else makes handwork and sells in in the market now.

During Covid, he somehow procured and delivered beans and essential foods, instead of books – saving them yet another way. Until they could once again study.

Who is going to tell them that their beloved Godfather is gone?

I can hear the collective wail in my bones.

 

Each spring and fall, after school started, he would return, “here” – where his cherished students from pre-retirement life still relied on him.

He grew up in a small town where everyone was related and not only knew your name, but knew everything about your family for generations. The juicy gossip and the mundane. Who got a job at the local grocery. Who is feeling poorly. Who loves whom.

Teaching, education, his forever love and passion summoned him to a big city.

He taught in a tough part of town, to students who desperately needed the opportunity of education, and a role model.

His devotion never ended.

They weren’t simply “students” to be taught, they were souls to be shepherded.

And he did.

God love him, he did.

I loved this man, and would, from time to time, do something for this gentle soul who unfailingly gave all to others.

I ordered a Lady of Guadalupe rosary, his patron saint, but the surprise was spoiled when delivery was greatly delayed. Here’s the story, extracted from a text message string a few weeks ago, just a week before he left for the mountains again.

Me: It was supposed to be one package with one rosary. As a surprise.

I ordered a second one for me but they also sent the second one to you.

So apparently you needed two.

If you EVER see them, you’ll understand

Him: They came as a surprise and I did need two. One I hung on my bedpost, the other rode around in my truck until I got a call from an x-student who was going to kill himself.

Apparently, one cannot just show up to <omitted> birthday party and expect your ex, her fiancee and her family to just welcome you. It was awful, and the rosary had been in the car 4 hours. To someone SO unchurched, and SO self-absorbed, she represents a Mother who is not in federal prison and me…the only fool who’d take a 2:30 AM phone call.

He was hysterical, and I got his pistol, and we drank a lot of coffee, but he got lots of tough love too. Most of this was his fault. Most of this was about what he wants, not the baby involved, and if you only call every 7 years, just talk to the rosary, I will be gone. He was fascinated by the rose scent…a tiny gain, and another night to live.

You do so much without trying, dear Roberta. Thank you from me, and him, and an un-named baby girl.

Funny, I’m crying now – Saturday night I had to be the grown up.

Me: OMG I’m freaking sobbing.

Him: It’s no accident, these things.

Me: They were both meant for you after all.

And yes, the young man now owns that rosary. And he’ll have to talk to it now because, well, his mentor is gone.

One more saved child, or children.

One by precious one.

 

But now, your comment, “I will be gone,” haunts me.

Did you know?

My brother from another mother.

A week later, your one bag packed, wearing those well-aged boots, sporting your signature straw fedora, you left once again.

For the last time.

Did you turn around and look back for one final glance?

Did you wrap up one last time in your quilt-of-love that I made for you from scraps of my life, and from the clothes of another soul that I loved?

Another soul ripped from us all too soon.

I’m sure he greeted you there.

I love you both!

Of course, you would never have hesitated to go, because the children needed you.

Their need awaited the Godfather and the opportunities for a better life that he brought.

Opportunity through the books, paper, glue, pencils, and colored markers that replaced the crayons of a few years ago.

This year was harder than most – but you were a warrior – undeterred.

Torrential rains poured at night begetting mudslides.

You posted a video.

We were terrified by the deep, rushing water, concerned for your safety.

Three days before you quietly left us, you said:

“I’m fine. These are night rains. Mudslides and tremblers have bedeviled us all month, and I can’t get my boots to dry. Feeling old, but lucky.”

That was just three days before…

Before…

Before you silently departed

Passed over

To another realm

And left those unfillable shoes.

Gone gently into the night.

Too soon.

Oh, too soon.

My soul is crushed and screaming.

All I can see how is an abyss.

 

You shared this with me, years ago, as one of your favorite inspirations.

May we all keep walking.

Through the fire, if need be.

You did.

Shepherding us all.

It feels like fire now.

Burning

Aching

But as you said to me

Another time,

“The river cannot go back.”

And now you rest

Safe in death on the other side,

Having passed the mantle

To those of us so unready.

May the flowers decorating your casket be respendent,

A glorious riot of color

Accompanied by both weeping and immense joy .

Your memory blesses and graces

Us all.

I hope they bury you with your rosary.

That matches the “Lady” tattooed on your back.

For eternity.

May your legacy endure and the seeds you planted sprout for generations.

May we all leave a legacy of love

And unfillable shoes