April 4, 2007
Ionel
Dear Friends,
Ionel with one of his creations.
It was a cold and blustery March day when we had the graveside
service for a young man whom I had come to love very much over
the years, Ionel Paunoiu. A 22-year-old carpenter, he gave more
than he ever got out of life. When he needed extra money he would
make me a stool, a table, a cabinet, a rolling pin, wooden spoons,
or whatever I ordered. Like many talented people, he did not appreciate
his own talent. He freely gave away the objects he made.
Like many of these exploited young people, he worked for an abusive
employer. He lived in the back of the furniture factory where
he worked. His only compensation was the food he received, despite
having a valid work contract. His employer received 75 percent
of Ionel’s salary as a grant from the government for employing
someone from the children’s home. But they never gave him
any money and never signed his work card. One time he filed a
complaint against his employer. They told him there were so many
other complaints against this employer that he would have to stand
in line to collect anything.
Ionel lost the little finger on his right hand and his left thumb
in two separate accidents caused by unsafe machinery in this shop.
He told me was lucky he did not lose both fingers on the same
hand because then he would not be able to work. We paid for all
his medical expenses after the accidents. He received no sick
time, no compensation, nothing. Against my objections, he returned
to the same place after they promised to start paying him. They
did for one month and then stopped again. He told one of his friends
the day before he died that his employer had promised to start
paying him so he could move out and get a real place of his own.
The last time I saw Ionel was the day before I left for my trip
to America. He had come to repay me the two dollars I had loaned
him. Later that day I saw him on the street and he gave me his
big impish smile and his characteristic wave—one arm raised
high while his whole body swayed. He reminded me of a beaming
sunflower moving with the wind.
I was in America at the time he died but some of our team in
Romania attended his funeral. Ionel burned to death in a fire
that broke out while he was asleep. It started in the wood stove
in back of the carpentry shop where Ionel lived. His employer
paid for his casket and his clothes for the funeral. He is buried
in the pauper’s area of the graveyard with only a simple
wooden cross.
The graveside service is part of a Romanian tradition. Forty
days after death, there is a memorial service called a pamana.
It is a simple meal provided for the poor in honor of the dead.
The pamana is actually served on top of the grave itself,
with the food spread out on a tablecloth. Everyone around comes
and participates. Beggars and the hungry always know they can
get a free meal at the graveyard, every day of the week. Attending
the pamana were his former patron and several women from
his work, our social worker Mrs. Jivan, my assistant Tory, two
priests, and I. When we arrived a number of candles had already
been placed there by young men who knew him from the orphanage,
who had passed by early in the morning before their work. They
had not forgotten one of their own.
Food was brought by his co-workers from the factory. The menu
was standard: bread, fruit, covrigi (a cross between
a pretzel and a bagel), wine, juice, and coliva. Coliva
is called “heavenly food” and is served in honor of
the dead. It is like oatmeal with fruit and nuts in it. Since
someone is always honoring their loved ones, if you live in Romania
you eat a lot of coliva. Ionel’s co-workers condescendingly
gave me the leftovers for the “other kids,” i.e. his
friends from the orphanage. While we were standing around, one
of the ladies he worked with said to the priest, “He was
a just a vagabond whom we helped out.” It was as if she
were talking about a stray dog. “You didn’t help him,
you exploited him,” I wanted to say, but I am not their
judge. Mrs. Jivan did say to the boss, “You have a nice
carpenter’s shop, why don’t you make a decent cross
for his grave.” Good for her.
Ionel was not a vagabond. He was a very talented carpenter. He
was a very generous person. He was a joyful person. He was full
of life and hope. He brought smiles to everyone who knew him.
He was a loving person. The only thing not burned up in the fire
was the photo album we had made for him when he was in the boy’s
home. It is comforting that he treasured the small kindness and
gifts given to him by our foundation.
That evening, we had a moving memorial service from our Presbyterian
tradition in memory of Ionel at Casa Noastra. Twenty of us wept,
sang, prayed, read Scripture, and talked about our memories of
Ionel. We read about the resurrection of Lazarus and the importance
the role of friends played in this story. Like Lazurus, Ionel
was well loved by his friends. After the service we ate the coliva
and the rest of the food given by his former employer.
This is the Easter season, and I know that Ionel is with Jesus,
another humble carpenter. He now has a real place in heaven, prepared
for him by Jesus. He will never again face fire. He is no longer
homeless, but I will miss his bright smile and his hearty wave.
Peace in Christ,
Mary
The 2007 Mission Yearbook for Prayer & Study, p. 181
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