The Ones Worth Suffering For

The darkening marine layer

Photograph by John Patrick Weiss

The early morning fog hung low over the Santa Cruz mountains and quiet streets of Scotts Valley, California. It was chilly and dark, but I knew the sun would burn off the sulking marine layer. By noon, things would be warm and bright.

The same could not be said for the task ahead.

I was in town for the annual police retiree firearms qualifications and BBQ. I left my mother-in-law’s house where I was staying and drove northbound Highway 17, climbing toward the summit and Lexington Reservoir. I knew the route well, having chased many speeders and drunk drivers during my law enforcement years.

Highway 17 was poorly designed. Its sharp curves lean outward as if in league with the fatal effects of speed, alcohol, distraction, and centrifugal force. Before engineers installed K-rails to separate opposing lanes, the highway was known as “blood alley.” I used to park in turnouts along Highway 17, my cruiser windows down as the breeze lifted my hair and crickets sang their somnolent lullabies. I’d hear strange sounds, like whispers of lost souls lingering long after their fatal collisions, unable to accept fate’s insouciant indifference.

Every few miles brought memories of fatality accidents, including one that took the life of a CHP Lieutenant I’d known many years ago. I’ve never forgotten the way his small children looked at the memorial. The overwhelm and vacant confusion in their eyes.

I pushed these memories away and thought about the childhood buddy I hoped to reunite with that morning. He had no idea I was coming, and I had no idea if he’d be where I expected him to be. I considered surprising him at home, but he lived with his brother who was somewhat estranged from me. There was a chance the brother would be uncooperative or claim my buddy wasn’t home.

For this reason, I decided on the church.

---

My buddy attended the same little Protestant church since he was a teenager. He sang in the choir. He used to invite my family every year for the church’s annual Christmas Eve performance.

We’d dress up. Red poinsettias always lined the walkway of the church entrance, where we’d find my friend smiling and waiting to welcome us.

The performance was popular and the church was packed. Afterward, they’d serve coffee, juice, and donuts. Everyone would mingle and talk about their Christmas plans and goals for the coming new year.

I miss those times.

I met my friend in the second grade. He was a bit shy and struggled with school, likely due to a mild learning disability. But boy could he draw. We shared a love for drawing and sketching, often getting together on weekends with our drawing pads in hand.

He became a fixture in the landscape of my life.

He was there at all the summer BBQs my father hosted at our home, and he can be found in all of our family’s holiday photos. He was there at my university graduation, police academy graduation, wedding, and nearly every other important life event. He even stopped by on my parent’s wedding anniversaries to drop off flowers. In short, he was the sweetest, kindest soul you’d ever meet.

Then one day I stopped hearing from him.

He still sent me his hand drawn birthday and Christmas cards, but he no longer returned my phone calls, emails, and social media inquiries. Had I done something to offend him? Was he ill?

So many concerns raced through my mind.

I reached out to one of his sisters via social media. She was coy, claiming not to know what was going on. But on a subsequent exchange, she left a devastating comment. Her brother has been having some memory issues. “But it’s not that bad,” she said.

Not that bad.

The words hung in my consciousness. What did they mean? What did the future hold for our long friendship?

Was I losing my dear friend?

---

I took the exit into downtown Los Gatos, the town I was born and raised in. I gazed at all the shops lining North Santa Cruz Avenue. There was the little coffee shop my mother loved, where my buddy sometimes joined us on weekends. He used to delight my mom with his napkin doodles and silly jokes about monkeys.

Soon I was leaving town along Highway 9, headed for Saratoga where my friend’s church was located.

I arrived in the rear parking lot, shut off the engine, and sat quietly gripping the steering wheel. A wave of mild anxiety coursed through me.

I made my way to the rear church entrance. It was a Sunday but the parking lot was less than half full. A man in khaki pants and button down shirt with a name tag welcomed me. “I’m from out of town, here looking for my friend. He volunteers with the church,” I said.

“What’s his name?” the gentleman asked.

I told him and the man said, “Oh, sure, I think he’s in the children’s classroom. Just walk into the courtyard, make a left, and it’s the last door at the end,” he said.

I thanked the man and continued on.

When I got to the children’s classroom a woman, also wearing a name tag, asked if she could help me. I told her I was from out of town, and that I was looking for my friend. I must have been nervous, because I added that we’d known one another since the second grade and that I remembered coming to the church for their wonderful Christmas Eve performances.

“Oh, sure, I’ve heard about those old performances. That was the old church. It’s changed hands over the years. We don’t have a choir anymore. Wish we did,” she said.

We stood there for an awkward moment.

“When was the last time you’ve seen your friend?” she asked.

“Well, it’s been a few years. Thought I’d surprise him,” I said.

“Okay, well I need to tell you something. It’s his memory. He forgets. So far, he’s able to drive himself here on Sundays. I mean, he’s been a fixture here since the early days of the church, before any of us were involved,” she said.

“Yeah, his sister mentioned he had some memory issues,” I said.

“Okay, well, he’s in the main church. I think he’s seated in the back, on the right side.” She pointed the way and I thanked her.

Anxiety pulsed through me as I made my way into the church. What would I find?

Would he remember me?

---

There, alone in the back, I spotted his gray hair. He’d always been thin, slight of build. But somehow now he looked smaller. Like a lonely old man, a wraith still floating around the buildings and corridors of this old church.

I slipped into the empty chair directly next to him.

At first he kept looking ahead at the altar of the church. And then he turned and looked directly at me, no doubt wondering who this man was who saddled up right next to him.

His eyes met mine.

Despite the gray hair, a few more wrinkles and thinner face, his expression held the same gentle countenance I’d long known. And his eyes, albeit strangely duller than I recall, still radiated an inner kindness.

He gazed at me briefly. I held my breath.

And then he said, “John! What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Nevada.”

I felt like I was about to cry.

I gave him a hug and said I was in town for the annual firearms qualifications at the police department. “Thought I’d surprise you,” I said.

“Wow, it’s great to see you!” he said.

I had a million questions but the service was about to get started. “Step outside, or do you want to enjoy the service first?” he asked.

I figured it best not to interrupt the flow of things and said, “Sure, we’ll talk after the service.” This pleased him.

He smiled broadly and patted my knee affectionately.

---

The service was nothing like the old days.

The choir was gone and replaced by a small band. A pastor in blue jeans and polo shirt greeted everyone and invited us to sing along to their opening song. There were a few prayers, and then the pastor said they were going to turn it over to the church’s head pastor.

The lights went dark, the music stopped, and suddenly a man appeared in the middle of the altar. He was an older gentleman wearing a suit, illuminated by some kind of overhead spotlight. He sat on a three-legged wooden stool.

“Good morning everyone,” he said. “On this blessed Sunday morning we’re going to continue our three part series with lecture number two on acceptance and love. And today’s topic begins with an apology to those LGBTQ members who may have been disenfranchised in the past. We want to welcome our LGBTQ brothers and sisters with open arms, and take responsibility for any past failures of the church,” the head pastor said.

Then he literally blinked on stage, like a lagging video. It reminded me of a scene from Star Trek, when people were beamed one place or another via their transporter.

That’s when I realized that the head pastor was nothing more than a 3D, life-like image beamed in via holographic projection technology. A “holy hologram.”

As a Catholic, this new age style of worship was completely foreign to me. Also, it was nothing like the traditional services the church used to perform in the past. I wondered what my buddy thought about all these changes.

When the service was over, we strolled out into the courtyard.

“It’s so great to see you, John. So what brings you into town?” my old friend said.

“Oh, like I said, the police department’s annual firearms qualifications,” I said. Then I added, “The church service is a lot different now. I miss the choir.”

“Yeah, a lot has changed,” he said. He gazed past me at the fifty foot high tree in the courtyard. He pointed at the tree.

“I remember when we planted that tree,” he said.

“Yeah, I remember coming here during the holidays when it was still a little tree. You’ve been here a long time,” I said.

He nodded in agreement, and it struck me that he was older than most of the new church’s staff members. He was like a permanent fixture of the church. A keeper of the history. The old memories.

And then we spoke of old memories.

I brought up our childhood, and how we used to swim in the pool behind his parent’s house. The same house that he and his brother still live in, like an old couple. Neither had married and so they rely on one another.

“Yeah, we finally had the pool filled in and covered over with lawn. And sometimes there’s this raccoon that climbs over the fence from the creek and runs across our backyard,” he said.

I laughed about the raccoon.

---

I thought about inviting him to join me for coffee in downtown Saratoga where we sometimes met. We used to get coffee and scones and then drive around the corner to Madronia Cemetery, where my parents are buried, to pay our respects.

But instinct told me to stay put.

I felt that he was more comfortable there at the church, in familiar surroundings. And it seemed that the church staff looked after him, aware that something within my dear friend was slowly unraveling.

We strolled over to the coffee and donut table, made our selections, and then sat at an empty picnic table. I asked how his brother was doing. Told him a bit about my life, my writing and photography and what my son is up to these days. I asked if he was still drawing. “A bit,” he said.

“I remember when we’d sit by the pool in your backyard with our sketchbooks and draw the birds,” I said.

“Oh yeah, I remember that. You know we filled in the pool and covered it with grass. And sometimes this raccoon climbs over the fence by the creek and runs across the lawn,” he said.

“Oh yeah?” I said. “That’s pretty funny.”

The church pastor strolled over and introduced himself. My buddy told him how we’ve known each other since the second grade.

“There is nothing on this earth more to be prized than true friendship,” the pastor said. I recognized the quote. Thomas Aquinas.

We chatted for a bit.

Then the pastor left us to visit with others and I started to run out of things to say. Somehow my friend’s house came up again, and for a third time he mentioned the raccoon in the backyard.

I hugged him tightly.

“I’m so glad you were here,” I said. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Likewise,” he said with a smile.

We made our way to the rear parking lot, and I pulled my rangefinder camera out of the car and asked if I could take a few portraits. He said sure and smiled that familiar smile. And yet, there in his eyes, something distant. Unfamiliar. Sad.

“Well, I guess I should be heading back,” I said, and we hugged one last time.

I got in my car, and as I drove slowly toward the parking lot exit, he walked alongside the car, as if escorting me out. As I turned right onto the street, I rolled down my window and waved.

He waved back, and then turned and faded away into the corridors of the church.

---

On the drive back through Los Gatos a young couple in the convertible in front of me was playing Bob Marley. I thought of a Bob Marley line I’d written down in one of my journals.

“The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones worth suffering for.”

If we didn’t care, there’d be no sting to loss. No suffering when loved ones die or slowly evaporate into the darkening marine layer of dementia. And for this reason, I wept on my drive back over Highway 17.

I wept for my childhood friend.

I wept for my parents. And for the CHP Lieutenant who lost his life on that dangerous highway corridor.

As I crested the mountain and gazed out on Lexington Reservoir’s smooth waters, I saw the silhouette of a small animal ambling through the shoreline shadows and brush. I squinted to look closely.

And I laughed most of the way home.

---

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