Fr Tim

During my Sophomore year at the University of Missouri - Rolla (now MS&T), I moved out of the dorm and into an old house with a good friend, John. John was a Chemical Engineering major who was a year ahead of me, and we had become friends in the college band (the kind with tubas, not bass guitars). The house showed its years (perhaps turn of the century era?), the basement flooded with mud after a heavy rain, the stairs were so short and narrow I had to turn sideways and duck my head to get to my room. We burned wood and oil for the radiators, but could never get it above 56 degrees in the dead of Winter. Blowing circuits with space heaters was a daily, necessary habit. We were diagonal to the Pike House, one of the frats, which made it impossible to get to sleep on the weekends from all the party noise. I loved that house and I loved living with those guys in that house.

John's cousin, Tim, also lived in the house. The two of them were close friends, growing up a block apart and attending the same grade school. Tim's dad owned the house and we rented from him. Tim was an Applied Math major, and an easygoing sort. We all pitched in on cooking, cleaning, and repairing, but truth be told, Tim was always the one making sure things got done. He carried more than his fair share. After several months, I learned that Tim's dad was well-to-do from his construction business in St. Louis, but you couldn't tell that by knowing Tim. He didn't act like the son of a comfortably wealthy man.

In this house, we had an Applied Math major, a Chem E major, and a Computer Science major (me), plus whoever the fourth resident was in a given semester. Tim introduced me to late night "toast marathons" - get a loaf of bread, a toaster, and a stick of butter, and eat buttered toast until the loaf and stick were gone. The two of us could knock off a loaf without effort. The house was also home to many band parties (the band was our social group - the kind with tubas, not guitars), juggling parties (nothing important was broken), and Halloween parties. One year, I went as Reagan, and another as Ed Grimley, who was a decent fellow, I must say.

I also attended school over several summers, and when we did, another friend (Andrew) and I would buy cheap season tickets to the Muny theater (the Starlight Theater of St. Louis), drive up on Fridays to John's house, eat half of their food, attend the show, and the spend the night at John's house. Through those trips, I also got to know John's many sisters and his parents.

John and Tim graduated at the same time, and so with them moving out, Tim's dad sold the house (to the Pikes, who immediately tore it down). Andrew and I found another house to rent, and I pretty quickly lost touch with John and Tim. (Back then, the Internet was still ARPANET.) Over time, the computer scientist became a pastor and the applied mathematician became a Catholic priest. Perhaps all those toast marathons were just preparing us for serving Communion. It has been 30 years since I last saw Tim ... excuse me, "Father Tim" .. and I never heard his story of how he became a priest.

Last week, Father Tim didn't show up for morning Mass, so the Deacon went to go check on him and found him slumped over on his desk, apparently suffering a fatal attack sometime the previous night.

Last Sunday after our worship service, I drove over to St. Louis to attend the viewing. The line of visitors outside the church was consistently 200 to 300 people deep for four hours. There had to be a few thousand visitors. From the line, I texted John that I had made it, and he kindly rescued me from the line and took me in to the room where his family was. I got to reconnect with John, his wonderful parents, and all of his sisters. John then cut us both in the line of people snaked through the pews to visit Father Tim's brothers and parents. Father Tim's dad, of course, wouldn't remember my name from a bunch of 30 year old rent checks, but he did cheekily ask if he was a good landlord. John and I spent quite a bit of time just catching up our stories. The time renewed my fondness for John and his family, and my appreciation for Tim as a friend and roommate.

I still haven't heard his story of how he became a priest. During college, he was consistent about going to Mass, but didn't show any tendencies of going priestly. I wasn't a believer at the time, so I'm sure news of my career change came as a shock to him, too. I have no regrets, here - we can't keep up with everyone. But I am struck by the idea that he had an important story that I never heard - a story that clearly affected a few thousand people. Without regret, it is still sad to me that I never heard him tell his story.

How many people are in my life right now whose story I've never heard? And I don't necessarily need to add anything to my schedule to hear those stories. I just need to ask about them when I spend time with people. I just need to be more intentional. Their stories - your stories - affect thousands, and I need to hear more of them.

I never heard Tim's story. And he never heard mine.

My friend has cancer

My friend has cancer. It's not the worst kind. But neither is it "no big deal." It's a big deal. I've had friends who have had, or presently have, cancer. Some are now cancer free. Some succumbed to it. Almost everyone who reads this can say pretty much all that I've just said.

My friend told me about it through a message, but we haven't been able to meet face to face until recently. As I was driving to our lunch, I was praying for what to say, how to minister to him, how to help him. What I wanted to do, and what I was praying for, was to somehow be a rescuer, if even a little bit. I know I can't "fix" the problem or completely rescue him. But I wanted to be a junior rescuer in some way. Then I could feel better about my friend having cancer.

I also have cancer - cancer of the ego.

My friend doesn't need me to be his rescuer. He doesn't need me to somehow feel a little better about the situation. He doesn't need me to feel helpful. He doesn't need me to have the answers, to say the right thing, to have the right comforting words, or to make him smile. All of those things might be helpful (maybe!), but it's not what he needs.

What he needs is Jesus to be Jesus in every way. Whether he makes a full recovery or struggles with this for a while, or even (against the odds in this case) succumb to this, he doesn't need me to be or do anything rescue-y. He needs Jesus. And in this particular case, he has Jesus, and in a very strong way.

If he needs anything at all from me, it's brotherly love. Agape love, no matter what, in every circumstance, with or without the right words, with or without helping, with or without making anything better or easier, with or without me being comfortable. He needs Jesus' love, and in part, he needs it through me.

"Just love" sounds unhelpful, even weak. It is weak - I can't make it all better. But it's infinitely helpful.

Your friends don't have to have cancer to need Jesus' love through you.