FOR NEARLY TWENTY YEARS I have been patronizing
a small video store on a country road near my home. 
Over
the years I got to know the proprietor, an amiable, otherwise-retired
chap named Don. Don and I regularly schmoozed over the counter
about movies, our families, our dogs, and philosophies of life.
Don's beloved pooch had gone over the rainbow bridge a few years
earlier, and when I introduced him to my dog Munchie, Don lit
up like a five-year-old boy at Christmas. He abruptly shifted
from checkouts, snuggled Munchie on the counter, and magically
produced dried chicken strip treats from behind his back. It
didn't take Munchie long to figure Don's M.O., and he would
start jumping in the car when we turned onto the video store's
street. Once in the door, Munchie would make a wild dash behind
the counter, where Don would love him up and produce the coveted
poultry reward. (Later I learned that dogs in the hood regularly
found their way to the store without their owners.)
Nearly everyone who worked in the store was Don's family.
Even though they all lived far away, they would take turns coming
to work for several-month stints. Over time I met Don's
wife, sons, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter. The business
was a family affair.
If you liked a particular actor, you were in luck. All the Brad
Pitt films were on one shelf, Kevin Costner another, Julia Roberts
another, and so on. No, Toto, I don't think we're
at Blockbuster anymore.
Once, when I was preparing to present a weekend seminar on inspirational
cinema, I took out about 20 films to show short clips to the
participants. 
When
I explained the project to Don at checkout, he refused to take
my money. "It's for educational purposes," he noted. "They're
on the house." He also never charged me for late returns.
Across from the counter on the side of a display rack was a
tall, thin poster advertising an old Disney animated flick.
On it the heights of customers' kids were recorded with horizontal
lines accompanied by their names. I found it touching to watch
Jonah's mark rising from year to year. Even though I never met
the kid, it felt gratifying to know that somewhere out there
a boy was becoming a young man.
A few months ago Don's son announced that the family was
selling the store. Don, now at age 86, otherwise in remarkably
good health, had a few knee surgeries and it was getting
harder for him to navigate the terrain of the shop. Don would
be moving far away to be with his family, and closing the chapter
of his life that interfaced him with the movies, kids, and dogs
he loved, as well as the buttered popcorn smell that permeated
from the in-store microwave, and the array of candy and red
licorice at the checkout.
Although
saddened to hear of the end of an era, I was happy that Don's
family loved him enough to take him home and give him the support
he needed. A large sign invited all the customers, "Come say
aloha to Don next Friday night, 6 - 8 pm." Dee and I were disappointed
that we would be away that night, but we made a note to visit
Don at his home upon our return.
That meeting was eventful for me. Don answered the door spryly
in his wheelchair and invited us to sit at a couch surrounded
by cardboard moving boxes. As I sat in his home, I realized
that I had a real relationship with this man. Our friendship
crept up on me gradually, until Don had a place in my heart
equal to other people I loved. Now I was going to miss him.
Don proudly pulled out the photo album that recorded his going
away party. There were lots of people I knew: parents, kids,
and dogs posing with their elder friend amid colorful balloons.
Everyone contributed to a colorful scrapbook with notes of thanks,
poems, and little kids' crayon drawings of Don and the
store. In his own quiet way Don had touched many lives. It wasn't
just the dogs who received treats when they entered. Everybody
got a good feeling.
The time came for us to leave, and though we tried to hold back,
we all shed a tear. Don was moving far, far away, and we would
most likely not see each other again. Goodbyes don't come
easily to me, especially maybe-not-again-in-this-life goodbyes.
Then Don told us in a chipper tone, "Well, I guess I'll
see you in heaven."
His candor - and vision - struck me. I sat silent for a moment
and nodded. "Yes, I will look forward to seeing you again
in heaven," I replied. With that, Dee and I rose and exited.
I remained choked up for the entire ride home. I realized I
had been privileged to know a very holy man. Not holy in the
sense that he wore robes
,
talked to or about God, and did miracles. Holy in that that
he has lived with extraordinary kindness, presence, and generosity.
On second thought, I guess he did do miracles. In a world where
fear, protectionism, and separateness seem to rule, Don reversed
those conditions in his little shop on a country road. Maybe
I don't need to wait till we get to heaven to see Don again,
because he made the earth a little more like heaven. In his
own quiet way.
