"Not sure I remember him." Ah, the short memory of suburban life. My fellow consumers don't always know nor recall the people behind the scenes who make their lives possible.
Bob's name has been on a highway sign for decades. He selected a neglected section of roadside that he would adopt for cleanup. Even after he moved to Indiana for a while, he returned to pick up burger wrappers, aluminum cans, and the other detritus that human locusts leave behind. Not that many people noticed.
We worked together for a few years. It was a recipro\ical relationship: Bob was the church sexton, I was the pastor who left messes. I left lines of powdered sugar from my donuts, Bob vacuumed behind me. We laughed about it. He claimed my messiness was intentional. I told him that I was committed to his job security.
He was a jack-of-all-trades, naturally curious, and committed to solving problems. Our church building has always been in continuing need of repair. It is used hard, and "Safety First" was Bob's motto. He took his life's work seriously. An E.M.T., he saved a lot of lives, often in dire circumstances. He was an elected official, a stockroom manager, and a comedian with a bone-dry sense of humor. And he would do absolutely anything for anybody in need.
When he passed, his only child apologized that the family was small and the funeral would be poorly attended. "No matter," I replied. I was there to bear witness to the Gospel. To announce to the world that Bob's life mattered, that he was significant, that he was loved, that he was appreciated, that he lived and died under the promise of resurrection.
This is what pastors do. It is one of the honors of our lives. And we do it joyfully.
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