Seen, Treasured, & Loved
2020 has taught me so many lessons, but I think one of the biggest is that we shouldn’t take anything for granted. Opportunities are all too often fleeting. In September, I lost a dear friend. Later the next night, our friend group threw together an impromptu, socially distanced, backyard gathering. I stopped by my parents’ house to get some photos my mom had found of him. I brought them to that gathering that night, and we passed them around (along with hand sanitizer). I thought we’d all sit around in our circle and share memories of him and cry, but what happened instead was just us all catching up with each other. Most of us hadn’t seen each other since Christmas. And in that moment, what we needed was to see, hear, and feel that we were all still here, and in some way or another, okay. Presented with the opportunity to contribute to a eulogy for him, I couldn’t. I was not ready to solidify the loss with all the past tense descriptions and knowing the stories now had an end. I’ll forever regret not being ready in that moment, nor the next day at the funeral, and not until now, in November. But I’ll also always temper that regret with compassion for myself in those moments. All we can do is our best in any given moment, and sometimes it won’t be enough. Now though, I’d love if you let me share just some of what I’ll remember of him.
He and I met in 1st grade. I don’t remember that. He’s one of those friends that you just don’t remember not knowing. The kind of friendship where you can maybe remember one or two fights, but never remember questioning the friendship because it was unquestionable. We were in school together from 1st grade to senior year and we were in Boy Scouts together from Bobcats all the way through high school. When I think back to my earliest memories with him, I remember his energy. Anyone who knew him knows what I mean. He had this infectious enthusiasm for everything, and everyone. When we’d see each other at our (painfully infrequent) gatherings and he asked you “how are you?” you felt him not look at you, not past you, but into you to see how you truly are. His face lit up when he heard your good news as if you’d just gifted him with your own joy. His concern if you had bad or sad news was as if he’d accepted the burden of solving your troubles. It’s not one bit surprising to know that he touched so many lives daily in his work and is missed by many more people than I’ll ever know. He loved nature nearly as much as his family and friends, and some of my best memories are of exploring this world of ours as kids, when he’d teach me about the tiniest bugs we could find, or the plants we saw. I think he loved every living thing in such a special way. Except fire ants. He spent an entire mountain biking trip kicking over every rock within a 100’ radius of our nightly campsites looking for fire ants. He was allergic and was not going to let them sneak up on him in the night. And despite disturbing a few dozen nests by overturning their rocky tops, he somehow managed to avoid getting bit even once during that whole trip. But the fire ants did get a last laugh when we arrived home from he trip and he gleefully hopped out of the van into his own front yard barefoot, and right into a fire ant nest. But even that didn’t deter him from being barefoot outside again, because he was the kind of person who loves that grass-under-your-feet, grounded-with-the-earth feeling. It’s nice knowing he had the natural, green burial he wanted. I just wish it could have been a few decades later. I miss his energy, and know that for the world to not lose his light, those of us who remember him need to carry it with us. I know it’s a personal goal of mine now to try and make others feel how he made me feel, seen and treasured and loved.