The Mayor of the Midway

Gary rode a bike. Everywhere. Wearing flip flops in the summer, and high tops without laces in the winter. I met him four years ago when I came to Zion Lutheran Church as the new pastor. I met Gary my first Thursday morning, and every Thursday since. Every Thursday, a crew of volunteers shows up to transport food, cook, fill grocery bags and serve the 50 or so people who show up in need of a meal, some community, and a bag of groceries. Gary's one of them. Turns out, Gary is one of the reasons I came to this small urban parish, though I did not realize it at the time, and one of the reasons I have stayed.

Gary's on the left, with Dan, another volunteer

It is unclear to me whether Gary ever became a "member" of the church, a formal distinction that has become increasingly irrelevant over the years. He was present--he showed up--and that is what matters. Not on Sunday, mind you, or very rarely, but every-single-Thursday. Rain storm or blizzard, he was there. As is always the case with many of our volunteers--he was not unique in this regard--they show up to feed people in need. They show up. It's what they do. On bike, on foot, in cars, by Metro Mobility.

Yet Gary was special. He first came to Zion (years before I arrived) to receive some food. Then he volunteered. At that time he worked at Menards on the overnight shift stocking shelves. After their shift he would come to Zion on Thursday mornings with Lee, his co-worker, to help unload our vehicle full of groceries from St. Vincent de Paul. Then he and Lee would help sort the groceries into bags for distribution. But Gary and Lee would leave before lunch to go home and sleep.

Gary was in his middle sixties. Lived simply on his hourly at Menards, Social Security and benefits as a Vet. He was a medic during Vietnam. He volunteered to go into combat and wanted to be "in the action." Instead, he was stationed in Germany to treat the airlifted injured, while his friend from training who did not want to see combat was sent to Vietnam. His friend came home, but was never whole again. Gary volunteered for Airborne, but shattered his leg in a parachuting drill, and was discharged from the Service. He became an RN, and worked in his hometown of Lacrosse, WI, then Midway Hospital in St. Paul, until his back gave out. He attended culinary school and had various jobs in and out of food service.

On the right, serving dessert

I learned quickly that Gary knew things. He had street smarts, people smarts, and medical smarts. He would take me aside during our Thursday community meals and school me about various guests. "That guy is a thief." "That one's a big-time druggie. Eats pills by the fist-full. Messed up big-time by 'Nam." Never one to sugar coat, he would spit a little out of the space where he missed two lower teeth when he was speaking with emphasis. Dental care was not top priority. But reading and learning--especially history--especially military history--was. He rode bike to the library daily, read the newspapers, and devoured books.

He never married because he "never wanted to live with a woman." But he did have women friends who were dear to him, and vice versa.

On more than one occasion, his medical knowledge was crucial--probably saved a life. One of our regular guys, Dave, was short of breath, weak, and had some chest pain. Dave insisted he'd be ok. Gary called 911 and informed Dave he was going to the hospital or he was going to croak. It was true. Dave had 16% heart function when they tested him in hospital, and he is still with us today.

Not long after that, Gary, not a paragon of heart-healthy living, experienced his own heart attack. He was alone and at his apartment. He knew exactly what was happening and knew he could not make it alive to the VA hospital by public transport (take note, 911 and ambulance will not take our Vets to the VA in emergencies, and many of them are not covered elsewhere). He called Linda, our equally no-nonsense head cook, for a ride. She dropped everything that night and got him there, just in time for life-saving open-heart surgery on that great big heart of his.

A great Santa

On Thursday, June 6th, Gary did not show up. Everyone knew something must be wrong, since it was impossible that he would not be there and not let us know. We called 911 and asked for a wellness check at his apartment. The police went and found his apartment empty. The manager knew nothing. At the beginning of the community we prayed for Gary, wondering and worrying. Just after that I called the apartment manager once again.

Gary was dead. He had been struck by a vehicle on his bike two evenings before. Gary's brother had called the manager. I conveyed the news to our people during the community meal, and there was an audible gasp. This beloved, crusty, sometimes off-putting, heart of gold, salt of the earth pillar of our fragile/fractured/helping community--was gone.

He asked me this spring if I play golf. I said yes. He said, "So do I. Let's play this summer." I was really looking forward to golfing with this beautiful man who might show up in his high-tops without laces. That would have been fun.