I have procrastinated in writing this final chapter of “Where Are They Now?” I kept thinking if I wait long enough, his story will change. But it hasn’t. And the time has come to tell you about my friend, Jake.

During a conversation about friendship among Doc, Emma, Gus, Jake, and I [Chapter 21] Jake said, “’I am honored by countless friends—every plant harvested is my friend that gives its healing medicine. It wouldn’t have given it otherwise. Mother Earth is my friend, the rocks and dirt, the clay and stones. Father Sky, night stars, thunder and wind… rushing water, high deserts, and the beetle on a thistle stem.” He paused again. “Pinon nuts that fall to the ground to feed us. Every fish, graceful deer, great warrior owl that hunts by night… and small black cats are all my friends.

“We are connected, each thing a part of every other thing. I am friends with all inhabitants of nature that live their lives honorably and with purpose.” We thought he was done speaking, then he added one more thing, “To be the friend of man or woman is also such an honor.” He looked at us, one by one. “For me, to call someone ‘friend’ is the same as ‘Water Brothers.’ A friend is a commitment for life.’”

Jake was as good as his word. As our friends left this earthly realm, one by one, his friendship never waned, nor did mine. We called often to check in and share the ups and downs of life. He was there for me when I experienced death and loss, and when big decisions were made about work, family, buying a house, and cats who adopted me. I was there for him when both grandparents died, when he got his Masters at UNM, and when one winter night in 1999 he told me he’d made the decision to become a medicine man or hatááłii — the Navajo word meaning Singer, aptly named because so many sacred ceremonies are sung. I was surprised to hear he had spent many years learning from his uncle, a highly respected elder and well-known hatááłii. Their plant gathering across forests and mesas provided the core for Jake’s classes where we had met.

Jake shared generalities about his training – chanting, sand-painting, and singing, but herbs were his favorite. He shared which helpers from the “plant nation” would put their prodigious power to work for people, both physically and emotionally. A “Sing” wasn’t just about the body, it was a healing for one’s whole life. It was a reestablishment of hózhó, the philosophy of harmony, beauty, and mental and spiritual wellness — that way of walking the earth that is inherently good. As he gathered herbs, he would sometimes pick extra sage and send it to me. I made medicinal teas and many smudge sticks and still have one left. Jake knew how to pick the healthiest and most potent plants.

Our friendship grew and I remember the joy I felt when he told me he had met a woman named Naomi when he was visiting his shimá [mother] who lived with her sister in Montana. Naomi was a nurse and widow with three children. All four of them fell in love with Jake, and he with them.

Naomi moved to New Mexico after they married. Her grown children stayed in Montana to continue their already well-established lives. Jake and Naomi, both healers, may have cared for the sick in different ways, but their healing intertwined when Naomi’s hospital patients wanted a ceremony or Jake’s people on the res were told a trip to the hospital was in order. They were loved on and off the reservation. I never felt Naomi was a Water Brother, but we became good friends. She told me once that she didn’t think in terms of ownership or jealousy; she was thankful I was Jake’s best friend. She was a soft-spoken woman with a soothing way of moving through life. I could see why her patients, family, and friends all loved her. And especially Jake. He told me she sparkled.

In January of 2020 when Jake was 69 and Naomi 67, he called with deep sadness to tell me his 89-year-old mother, his shimá, had died. The flu hit her frail body so hard she never recovered. He was going up to Montana to take care of her affairs, and said he’d call me when he got back to New Mexico. Naomi was staying behind because the hospital where she worked was short-staffed and flu season had come early.

But it wasn’t the flu. The Navajo called it Dikos Ntsaaígíí-19, or “The Big Cough.” The rest of the country called it Covid-19. As the world grappled with what was happening, many in the US had already contracted the virus; some had died. For the next two years fear, confusion, misinformation, death, lockdown, loss, vaccines, isolation, and more death touched most of us – either intimately or at arm’s length. By the time it was over, it had ravaged the Navajo reservation, killing over 2,200 natives and sickening over 87,000.

After a month Jake hadn’t called, so I called him. My message went to voicemail. Then I called Naomi and the same thing happened. When neither called back I called again the next day. I left messages. I told myself don’t read anything into it – they might be sick or lost their phones. I waited a week and tried again. Nothing. I called the hospital, but Naomi had left. The woman at the other end of the line said everything was pretty chaotic and if she could find someone who knew anything, she would have them call. No one ever did. One day her phone had a new message: “The number you have dialed has been disconnected.” I continued to call Jake every week for many months until one day I heard the same message, “The number you have dialed has been disconnected.”  And what I had suspected but been unable to accept became real. He had died. I knew because my friend would have done everything possible to contact me had he been alive. To this day, I don’t know what happened, I just know he is gone.

I miss him. He was right – we are connected. To everything. And now I see this connection lasts even after death. There is a bridge between the present and the history, memories, knowledge, and sweet joy that never leaves the heart. I find him again as I admire a sunrise, remembering his story about the bearer of the sun who carried it across the sky every day. I see him in the kindness of strangers, the eager curiosity of children, the grace of a red-tail hawk riding the thermals. I hear him when I ponder the name of a plant. I am enriched and blessed every single day by knowing him.

He is my “Water Brother,” a friend for life. My friend who walks in beauty.