When dad passed away in 2019, I found myself standing in the main room of the funeral home during his viewing. Surrounded by family, friends, and his coworkers, I was genuinely touched by the massive crowd that assembled. But I'm not fond of crowds, and this growing throng was starting to feel oppressive. I was getting both annoyed and agitated as I was being forced into two competing roles: grieving son and gracious host. The smile I wore as I greeted everyone who approached me was as fake as spray tan on a redhead. I knew their condolences were heartfelt and sincere, but all I heard was the muffled and garbled voices of adults from a Peanuts cartoon. That smile broadened as I dispensed handshakes and hugs, hoping my responses were halfway intelligible.
As the hours ticked on and the room filled, my emotional headspace was a maelstrom. I was angry that I had to share this extremely private time in such a public forum. That immediately transitioned to guilt as I recognized that they, too, were also grieving. With these flip-flopping emotions, my inner turmoil was rising quickly. Fueled by grief and loss, I was about to lose it when I heard a very familiar voice.
"Hey, Wayne."
I turned around and saw Mike. Still in his UPS uniform, he was at the tail end of his route that day. "I heard this was going down for your dad, and I just wanted to check on you."
I gave him the biggest hug and lost it.
The two of us ducked out of the packed main salon into a side room. There, in the quiet, we just sat. I don't remember our conversation, but the words didn't matter. What I really needed was a release valve, a respite from the parade of well-wishers just beyond the door. Mike's presence delivered that in spades.
That moment captured my friendship with Mike. I was living halfway across the country at this time, and on this particular evening, I hadn't seen Mike since he was a groomsman at my wedding 2 years prior. However, across distance and time, at a critical moment, he just showed up. My friend rescued me that night.
I often heard Mike quote Maximus from Gladiator, "What we do in life echoes in eternity." Mike embodied this creed in his personal relationships. He was very intentional in his interactions with people in his circles, investing time to create bonds and memories. His concern for even casual acquaintances was unmistakably genuine. Over the course of our 45 year friendship, I was the benefactor of his extravagant camaraderie, perfectly demonstrated that evening long ago at the funeral home.
He was a rare, genuinely good guy who cared deeply about others. People recognized his sincerity and responded. Everyone he met immediately liked him. It was a potent superpower of his that I both admired and envied.
Mike recently lost his long-running battle with an illness.
I'm now in the midst of dealing with the ramifications of losing one of my very few lifelong friends. Random memories have surfaced throughout recent days, and wistful smiles have waged bitter battles against tears.
I'm trying to find my personal way to honor the life of my friend. And I fear it's going to be a stretch for this confirmed curmudgeon, because it involves emulating Mike in his purposeful pursuit of connections.
I'd also heard him say, "Make what you do today worthwhile. You're trading a day of your life for it." As hard as it may be for me, I think attempting to be more like my friend, Mike, qualifies as worthwhile.
"Take your Chevy to the levee, and I'll drive my Ford to the fjord! Sultans rule!"
Rest easy, brother.
The Sun Is Shining Down - JJ Grey
