When we first moved to this neighborhood, 3 years ago, we decided to be civically minded and join the neighborhood association. 4 months later, we went to our first meeting in the dining hall of the Russian Orthodox Catholic Church. I remember sitting in the meeting, doodling because I am completely incapable of paying attention to anything, when I heard a booming voice come from the other side of the room. A larger than life man, who greatly resembled Santa Claus dressed entirely in black, had begun to talk about one of the many times the city had tried to run rough shot over our little neighborhood. One of the many times he and his amazing wife, president of the neighborhood association, had stomped their feet, written letters and showed up to every meeting they could to get it turned around. And they did. They usually did. He loved this neighborhood completely and tirelessly, along with everyone in it.

After the meeting, he was introduced to us as Father Joe. He was the priest at the little Catholic Orthodox Church and the king of all Eastern European jokes you could possibly think of. The man had impeccable humor, and an even greater laugh. The kind of laugh that was positively infectious. Of course, most of the time, I wasn’t sure whether or not to feel bad for laughing at jokes that began with, “There was this Polack…”. And, really, pretty much all of his jokes did.

When I received the email earlier this week saying that he had passed, my stomach flipped. It just didn’t seem possible. I mean, he’s Father Joe, for goodness sake. He’s not the kind of guy that just gets sick and then that’s it. He’s the kind of guy that’s supposed to live until he’s 120, telling hilariously horrifying jokes and blessing babies the whole way. He’s the kind of guy that makes the world spin for everyone and everything around him. His passing was not one that fit him. Although, I don’t know what would have, short of a gigantic earthquake at the exact moment it happened. It seems as thought we should have felt his passing, not heard about it.

I don’t know what the church, this neighborhood, this whole city is going to do without such a great man. He loved this community more than one could imagine, and he loved everyone in it. He was sincere. He was heartfelt. He was everything you’d expect a good Father to be and we were so, so very lucky to have known him.

Tomorrow we attend his funeral and, while it’s extremely hard for me to ever think of it as a joyous occasion, I know that for him it is. He is with his Father, the God he dedicated his life to. And I’m hoping, because I know he is, that at least one person, at some point, says, “So, there was this Polack…” Because I picture him, at that moment, smiling at God and saying, “I have an even better one…”

We’ll miss you Father Joe. This neighborhood is going to be missing a giant piece of it’s heart, and so is everyone who knew you.