Ode to Joe

Over 18 months ago, I wrote a blog about my love for my adopted home, New Orleans. The landscape is gorgeous, the food unsurpassed in taste and uniqueness, and the people the friendliest you’d ever hope to meet, even when they struggle to recover from catastrophe. When I arrived in the Big Easy in early September 2008, most of the city was deserted due to Hurricane Gustav. As I spoke with the natives, and got to know the city a little better, I realized how much the topic of “The Storm” (that’s what they call Katrina) dominated every thing that occurred. It was only much later, looking back, that I realized how things – and people – have changed since August 29, 2005. When I arrived here, there was an emotional inertia that emanated from most people, one that I didn’t realize was unusual since it seems to be commonplace in most large Northern cities. New Orleans was different before The Storm; emotion is what powers the people who live here because they understand that life is a gift to be enjoyed, not tolerated. Slowly, over time, they have managed to reclaim that feeling. It’s taken over two years for me to discover that I’ve been witness to a miracle: the rebirth of a people, the rebirth of a home. I feel as if I’ve witnessed the Israelites in the 39th and 40th years, struggling through the last of the desert before arriving at the edge of the Promised Land. The genuine hope and good will that now fills the air simply was not present when I began my work here as a hospital chaplain. Joy once again dominates this city, and I’ve rarely seen it so prevalent as it was in Joe.

Joe was born and raised here in NOLA, went to university in Baton Rouge, joined the Marines and served in Viet Nam, then returned home to work as a truck driver for some years before he retired. Of course, retirement did nothing to stop him from activity; he was barely 60. He was always full of ideas, and every time I spoke with him, he acted as if he were truly excited to see me. His life has been affected by The Storm in much the same way that so many lives have been: his family scattered to the four winds. I can’t begin to describe the joy on his face when he told me last month that his sister and her husband were at last returning home to New Orleans, after over five years in exile due to The Storm. You’d have thought he was a little boy expecting Santa Claus to bring him an X-box or a Wii system. His happiness was so contagious that you couldn’t help but feel it yourself. That’s a gift that many natives of NOLA possess, but Joe really demonstrated it every time I spoke with him. It makes me think of a blog I wrote a year ago this week, about what it means to live as a good man. To bring happiness to others, to bring joy alive in others’ lives, is certainly part of the definition. Defined strictly in that sense, Joe lived as a great man, because I never saw any petty behavior in him. I’ve no doubt he felt it at times; after all, he was only human. But what matters is that he never demonstrated it in the 2+ years I knew him. It humbles me when I think of how I can let little things irk me, such as a pickup that pulls out in front of me and makes me put on my brakes, or someone who cuts in front of me at the grocery store check out. Little things that annoy us mean nothing in the face of the greater common goals: to love God, and to love our neighbors as we love ourselves. I’m hard pressed to think of someone who was a better role model than Joe when it comes to demonstrating these things.

Joe was not in church on Sunday morning, which is highly unusual. His sister who had recently moved back home said as much to the interim pastor at church, and after the service, she and her husband went to check on him at his home, where they found him unresponsive on the floor. He was taken to Touro Hospital, where he died peacefully early on Monday morning – Valentine’s Day. As much as this has been a terrible shock to those of us who are his church community, I think it’s very fitting that he went home on the day dedicated to loving others. On this day, February 19, we celebrated his life in a memorial at the church; it was the first funeral service in which I’ve ever participated as a pastor. Joe’s beloved choir, who he considered his second family, sang in tribute to him: His eyes are on the sparrow, so I know He watches me. I cried a little, and let those tears stream boldly down my face. I didn’t care if my mascara streaked or if some people thought the pastor shouldn’t express emotion; it took two years of living in a city where people aren’t afraid to express themselves for me to feel comfortable doing this. What stands out most to me is the words spoken by Joe’s nephew: that his fervent wish is to live to be half the man his Uncle Joe was, because then he’ll know that he lived as a good man. After the funeral, the family went to honor Joe’s last request: that his ashes be scattered in his beloved Audubon Park, where he jogged faithfully every day.

My time in New Orleans is nearing its end; I’m actively searching for a call in parish ministry, and my own denomination has no openings here. It’s bittersweet to me since I love this city so, but I know I’ll always have a home here. Lately I’ve been looking back over all the experiences I had here and how I’ve grown as a person and as a pastor. The blogs I’ve written help me to remember the sharpest of those, which most times is a very sad thing for me. As much as I enjoy the Creole Creamery, for example, I will always associate it with February 17 of last year, when I could not manage to get past a particularly painful experience with a family whose baby girl died in the ER that morning. But now, exactly one year later, I realize that I will always associate the beauty that is Audubon Park with Joe, and I’ll be reminded of how important it is to bring joy to others in my life and my ministry. How very fitting that he is the cause of one of my happiest memories. In writing this tribute to Joe, I realized how much my blogs have brought life to me. It was such a privilege knowing him. And realizing that I’ll always carry a part of New Orleans inside me, partly due to his influence, makes the impending departure a little easier. Thank you, my friend.