Joseph Briggs Marotta was a twenty four year old with a knack for business. He was smart and handsome and funny and so incredibly kind. He was a gentleman, always holding doors for ladies, waiting to sit until they were seated, and ensuring that they walked on the right side of the sidewalk (the inside, away from the street). He spent most of his free time making phone calls to check on friends, sending flowers with cheesy poems that he'd written on the card or playing rugby with his buddies. He served in the Virginia Air National Guard as a Staff Sergeant. He valued his faith, his family, his friends and his country.
On February 11th, 2012 Whitney Houston was found dead in her hotel room, causes were unknown. I found out on facebook, and then watched as the story dominated all social media sites, radio stations and news channels.
On the morning of February 9th, 2012, my friend, Joe, went to work and oversaw the repair of a piece of machinery. The repairman failed to put the safeties on as he was working and stood, unsuspecting, as the bucket of the machine hurdled toward the ground - toward him. Joe's first reaction was to push the man out of the way - subsequently putting himself in harms way. He was crushed by the piece of machinery and he took his last breath before the EMTs arrived. I found out on facebook, and then watched as life went on as though nothing happened.
I didn't know Whitney Houston. She was a stranger to me.
I knew Joe. He was a great friend to me - one of my honorary brothers.
On the 11th, all I heard about was Whitney Houston.
Since the 9th, all I've thought about is my friend, Joe.
I've heard Whitney Houston on nearly every radio station.
I keep replaying all of my saved voicemails from Joe.
On the 12th, I drove to Richmond, Virginia. I put on my slacks and my patent leather shoes and a navy blue blazer and I walked into a room to see Joe's family for the first time in nearly eight years. They were older and sadder than the last time I'd seen them - but still, they were the same people from the barbeques and field trips of my youth. They embraced me as if not a day had gone by.
On the 12th, I saw my friend for the last time. I knelt beside his coffin and held his cold hand as I replayed our conversations in my head. I remember exactly the way his voice sounded when he said my name - always my full name - Jacqueline - with a slight southern drawl. I looked down upon his peaceful face and I prayed. I went over everything I ever wanted to say to him.
How I aspire to be as kind and good as he.
How I hope all of my sons turn out to be even half the man he is.
How he brought joy and comfort to me.
How a hug from him could right all of the wrongs in my life for it's whole duration.
How his smile lit up the whole room, and lifted my heavy heart.
How much I love him. How I always will.
And then all of the sadness and grief I'd been carrying around with me since the news of his passing poured out of me. As I gasped for air through heavy sobs, I thanked him for this gift - this sweet release that is so rare for me. My shoulders shook and I buried my face in my hands, feeling the warmth of my tears - the warmth of this precious life - pouring through the cracks between my fingers.
On the 13th, I attended my friend, Joey's funeral. I watched as his mother said good bye - the last time she would see her sweet son. I listened to a pastor preach to a room so full, people stood crowded along the sides and back. I listened to bible verses and poems and anecdotes. I listened to his sisters' sobs.
On the 13th, I turned twenty-five years old. My friends, my family, my clients and people I haven't seen in ages, sent sweet messages and texts and phone calls, wishing me a happy day. So many people took time out of their days to wish me well on my day, it was overwhelming.
On the 13th, I stood beside my friend's grave and listened to twenty one shots echo through the air - each crack of the bullets' release made me jump. I listened to the horn billowing through the graveyard, that old familiar melody that makes my hair stand on end. I ran my fingers along the shiny wood of his coffin and stopped before it. I placed both palms on the surface and leaned over, pressed my lips against the only material separating me from my friend - my brother. "I love you, Joey," I whispered.
I was grateful that on one of the most difficult days of my entire life thus far, virtually everyone I knew sent me little messages of love and care. It seems like a lucky coincidence, but being near my friend at his formal farewell, it didn't feel like a coincidence. It felt like a gift. What a brilliant gift - love and comfort.
My friend - my brother - died a hero. He sacrificed himself so that another might live - and that's so him.
If I believe in heaven, then it is because of him - because it's impossible that he could be anywhere else.
If I believe in angels, it's because of him - because he lived as one and he died as one.
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