There was a funeral I needed to attend this Christmas season. The custodian I’d worked with had died.

That doesn’t sound like anything remarkable, does it? “My father was a janitor” was what one of Joe’s sons started with at the funeral eulogy.

But then there was everything else.

First, the funeral was full, probably 150 people. Most of them were Laotian, but there was a contingent from work as well. Joe was 79 years old, an age where many funerals have maybe 30 people present.

Joe came to the US, and after moving to Rochester he worked one paid job, for 40 years. He was a custodian, serving the same four floors of one building, for at least the last 15 years.

Joe always treated all of us kindly, saying hi, talking to each of us about something that was important to us as well as him. Others heard about fishing and many other things. I heard constantly about his wife and children and grandchildren, getting to see printed photos that he posted in his janitorial closet and later on his smartphone. After my children were born, he was constantly prodding me, asking me why I wasn’t at home with my children when instead I was working late (which was often). At the time I thought he was being a little old fashioned, that mama should be at home with the kiddos. Only after the fact did I realize that no, he was picking up on what mattered to me, because as I’ll tell anyone who asks that my family comes first, last, and always. I figured this out because comparing notes with my other colleagues, Joe was spot-on talking to each of us about things that mattered to each of us individually.

Joe also took care of us by taking care of our space. We could always tell when Joe was on one of his fishing vacations, because the space just wasn’t as well cared for. Nothing major, but the soap containers would run out part way through the day, and then not even be refilled unless we left the containers very obviously half-open. The vacuuming wouldn’t happen as consistently. And when he was there, if we made an unusual mess that we couldn’t clean up by just borrowing his vacuum, he was never upset at us when we left a polite note in his closet. Even as many nights as I worked late, I never saw him anything but kind and polite, not in a subservient way but just in a humble, caring way. The worst I ever saw was the night he, at maybe 5′ tall, and still a very lean man, at about age 77, was staring puzzled at a trash bin that had to have been filled with trash heavier than he was. We were headed into a remodel round, and people were cleaning their offices, including dumping out some old cans and bottles of shelf stable food they’d been storing in their office. I didn’t even hear him sigh, once he figured out what was going on he just started bending down, over and over again reaching into the trash bin to move cans into the bigger trash bin on wheels.

Two years after I came to work, Joe asked me one evening if I had time to talk to him. He’d never asked me for anything before, so of course I said yes. He sat me down in a conference room, and proceeded to teach me everything he knew about personal finance – the need to save for retirement, because if you don’t have money, you don’t have options. At the time he must have been ~65, and realizing the financial constraints and benefits of continuing to work at what is typically an American retirement age. He continued to work until shortly before his death, providing loving financial support for his wife, adult children, and grandchildren, helping them have a more secure place in the world.

Joe was born in Laos, and was a father with young children in an era when it wasn’t safe to be there. It became time to flee. Fleeing required swimming across the Mekong river, four times, each time with one of his children on his back. He never spoke of this. It was a surprise to many in attendance at the funeral, when one of his sons told the story. In fact, one of his compatriots got up to speak at Joe’s funeral, and said he was glad someone had known and was able to tell the story, because in the month before his death, Joe had told his compatriot he was not allowed to tell this story at the funeral. Thankfully Joe hadn’t thought to tell his son this story was off-limits.

So be a father. Be a listener. Be a friend. Be someone who takes care of others. Be someone who makes a difference. Be a janitor. Be a hero.