Patrick was a rogue Irishman, first generation American, who was hard drinking and hard drugging. Six years ago he went for help to AA which is where my husband and I met him. He wasn't a perfect member, none of us are. But he managed to live sober the last years of his life and, in the process, regain his relationships with his family, his wife, and his two young sons. And, most importantly, with Patrick.

Many of us (you and I) come from small communities where we witnessed how family and friends gather round in the face of tragedy. There was a geographic community, neighborhoods and church groups that just knew what to do at these times.

In Patrick's case, his community was AA. I watched for the last two years as the men in his "home group" - the Monday Night Men's Stag - rallied around Patrick. When he went for chemotherapy - they would go with him. When he was too sick to drive to a meeting, they would pick him up and take him. When Patrick bought a new house for his family - a legacy he wanted to leave - these men and their spouses moved them in - box by box. It was a party - it always was when they got with Patrick, he was a very fun guy. When he had to take pain medication all the time, his AA "sponsor" arranged for folks at work to transport him to and from so he wouldn't drive under the influence.

These men taught Patrick how to ask for help (although he never got very good at it - mostly they just TOLD him and he surrendered). They taught him how to say, "I love you." They taught him the meaning of family and the meaning of community. When he was a few years sober and ready to live life fully again, he played music with them and for them - a band of four AA men, irreverantly known as "The Droolers". I watched those men on the stage, my husband being one of them, and saw four little boys who had dreamed of being rock 'n rollers and whose dreams were coming true. The joy in their faces was worth the price of admission.

And when we received word shortly before Christmas that Patrick only had a few short days to live, these men and their spouses showed up at Patrick's house with food, with hugs, with laughter and always with an AA meeting. I was priveleged to attend Pat's last meeting on Saturday. He could only be there for about 20 minutes, dragging his oxygen tank behind him. We sat out in his back yard and just loved him. We told funny Patrick stories. We laughed about how Patrick was sitting there stoned out on morphine. He said, "It's the weirdest thing. I think of something funny - and two and a half hours later, it comes out of my mouth." Vintage Patrick.

At the end of the meeting, we hugged and kissed Patrick and he knew he was loved. He sought reassurance that his boys would be "adopted" by the group - and they will be. And when he worried that we'd forget about him, we laughed tenderly and told him he was etched in our hearts forever.

For the last several months, I've been engaged in a conversation about Community. And, until this week, I didn't know I'd been in such a strong one for the last ten and a half years.

We have elders - who pass along the traditions and the stories. We have small children - we call them newcomers - who have to be taught the ways of the community. And through it all, we just love everyone - with their warts and their shortcomings, because we see in their faces, our own reflected back. That is truly the meaning of community to me. When you can look in another's face and see your own reflection.

When I look in your faces, I see my reflection. Thank you for being my community.

I love you all,

Silver