1 Corinthians 13:8-13
What Truly Matters

Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part; but when the complete comes, the partial will come to an end. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways. For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.

New Revised Standard Version

I lost a friend, a comrade in the audio booth at church, this week. Richard died after almost a year in and out of hospitals, battling numerous medical conditions until his body could no longer keep going.

I was not ready for this, and I'm having trouble accepting that he's gone. He and I understood each other so well, and we worked together so smoothly on the church's audio systems. Actually, that means I found difficult problems that needed to be solved, and Richard, the virtuoso engineer, solved them. He was an artist with a soldering iron, frequently making delicate repairs to broken equipment, and his repairs outlasted the original parts. He had a knack for organizing, which was revealed in indestructible name tags on frequently used microphone cables, and cute lettered cubes attached to the zipper tabs of wireless microphone cases. Richard would wrap his mind around a situation like an anaconda does a meal, and would offer up creative solutions to problems I hadn't yet recognized. Richard's inventiveness made the Mackie 4-bus mixing console we used do more and do it more elegantly than I thought possible.

That's my problem. I still have a long list of challenges for Richard to resolve and repair. His indestructible name tags outlasted the microphone cables, and I now have a new set of cables that need to be labeled. A couple of the lettered cubes on the zipper tabs have broken, and I have awkwardly replaced them with strips of paper. Too many of the microphone connections have suffered under my heavy-handed soldering and need to be cleaned up and redone by a master. The church replaced that 4-bus console with a beautiful, new Crest 8-bus console. I gave Richard a user manual for the new mixing board, hoping that he would get the chance to make the new board tap-dance like he did the old one. He wasn't done here yet--at least the way I see it--and I need him; I want him back.

I want him back, even if he never again put on headphones or plugged in a soldering iron. He could talk on and on about his career in aerospace engineering, and I'd soak up his stories. We'd debate an audio system change long after I'd be ready to act, and fortunately, long enough for me to see the wisdom of his deeper exploration of the issues. He had a way about him, a curiosity and a doggedness, that I thoroughly enjoyed. His skill and demeanor at the sound board was intimidating, especially to the teen-aged sound techs assigned to work with him--every one of them would let the system screech with feedback rather than correct any settings this old wizard made, even though we all knew his hearing was too bad to notice the feedback. As intimidated as they were by his knowledge and intensity, some were there at his funeral Wednesday, dressed uncomfortably in suits on a hot summer afternoon to honor a man they admired and respected.

When I think about what was truly important about Richard, it wasn't what he did, but how he did it. He would constantly coach any audio tech working with him, eager to share his knowledge. He was quick to praise a learned skill--in the succinct style of an "old school" engineer. At his funeral, dozens of people told stories of Richard's passion for cars, boats, stray animals, gardening, and numerous other hobbies, and how he would graciously share that passion with others. He had an active, deep commitment to Habitat for Humanity, combining his love of building with his love for people in need, and he even helped arrange Habitat projects from his hospital bed. Childhood friends, fellow Marines, former co-workers, and brothers and sisters in Christ told stories of a sincere love for others expressed throughout his life. The essence of this man was captured in a letter the pastor read, written by a woman who wanted to remember Richard for the warmth of his greetings to her on Sunday mornings.

Skills and knowledge are temporary, as old ears can't hear what healthy young ears can detect, and as new gadgets defy the knowledge learned on older equipment. All the hard work will one day fall by the wayside, and someone else will have to label the cables, design the wiring, and repair the broken gear. The "to do list" will always be too long, no matter how much we accomplish. The apostle Paul, who never ran a sound system, still knew that only Love lasts, and only Love truly matters, and Richard lived out that love.

Richard's life proved that a person could be as tough as a Marine and still live in love. He proved that hard-core engineers, avid sailors, and computer nerds could live out God's love in their careers and avocations. He fretted over details with love, he pushed his opinions with love, he weathered the stresses of major stage productions disrupted by failing equipment with love, and he faced the end of his life with love. He had his priorities straight, for the greatest force in his life was Love. As Richard would have put it, there is no reason why I can't do the same.