He Is Love

I recently learned of a friend’s death. The following were my immediate thoughts, as posted on my Facebook wall:

"Too young to die: There’s so much to say about you, my dear sweet funny friend. Often misunderstood by the masses, but to me you were an open book. Maybe that’s because I took the time to read between the lines. I wish you had made a different choice. There’s so much I wish for right now – one more laugh, hug, a drive in the convertible, dinner in the garden – one more anything so that I can tell you, like I’ve told you so many times before, you are valued, loved and adored. I’ll sing your praises even more later, but for now all I can do is cry. I’ve never experienced a loss. My heart is broken, so broken. Jeffrey! Jeffrey! Jeffrey! I miss you, and I’m so lucky you came into my life. Your friendship was healing and lifted me to new heights. Thank you for the memories. They are something to cherish. Rest in peace."

I’ve been trying to make sense of my friend’s untimely demise (he was only 45, and just shy of a birthday). I’ve been thinking about the events that led up to what could have been prevented or perhaps not.

I feel a bit consumed because I’ve never experienced a loss of this magnitude. Sure, grandparents and other relatives have passed away, but I was young and I never really had strong attachments to any of these individuals, but with Jeffrey there was an instant meeting of the minds. With our flaws revealed, a friendship was born, and it flourished with unconditional love, the latter was key.

Ultimately our paths took us in different directions and with only a few chance meetings this past year. We would always hug, with vigor, and I could feel his vulnerability and sensed his drifting away to a place I don’t dare imagine, because it was dark and lonely.

I feel so affected, and I must admit, I don’t like feeling this way – exposed and emotionally weakened. I knew I had to do something with my feelings and took to the outdoors. It was a perfect day for a run (cold and brisk), but I opted for a walk instead. It was quiet and peaceful and it allowed for meaningful meditation.

There was much to think about. I came back to the simple things in life (a hike on a trail, the love of a friend, etc...) and how healing they are to the human condition. I am proof positive that no matter how ugly things get, you can turn it all around when you put your mind in a healthy place, and it’s easy to do when you take a walk of hope. I was optimistic I could walk off this burden of sadness, and indeed I did (it took a bit of time, but I did), with the help of nature and memories that will sustain me forever.

I took my introspection indoors for a bit, attending mass at St. Vincent de Paul. While the people around me were participating in the service, I was lost in thought, looking around at the church and reminiscing of Jeffrey’s stories of his travels to religious structures throughout Europe. His love affair with architecture and art, especially with stained glass was intense. I wondered if he’d ever been to this particular church and how nice it would have been if he were sitting beside me. That one isolated musing turned on the waterworks. I thought I was all cried out from the night before. I declared my weeping over when I left the building.

I made a stop at a friend’s house to commiserate on our loss. He revealed that his Mom passed away a few weeks ago.  They say death comes in threes. (I’m sorry for your loss, Mark. Thank you for sharing. Your gift of laughter is always a special treat. Never change.)

I made a few more stops in my journey, visiting two more churches (The Baltimore Basilica and the Emmanuel Episcopal Church) to admire the art and architecture. I lit a candle for Jeffrey, too. It just seemed appropriate.

I spent time at The Walters Art Museum and the Baltimore Museum of Art, something I would do with Jeffrey on occasion. I appreciated his interpretations and those moments when he dived into fantasy. He was extremely creative (in thought and theory).

As I was walking, I called another friend (I had been hoping to see him at mass). He reminded me of his brother passing away last month. I thought to myself, I could finally put death behind me. (Ron, I’m sorry for your loss too and thank you for sharing your memories of family. I consider you my family.)

My excursion was coming to an end, but remembered I had one more stop to make – Wyman Park, eager to see the gold and yellow trees. They are remarkable this time of year. Most of the leaves have fallen to the ground, which reminded me of my yearly trips to Jeffrey’s home to rake the leaves. We would spend the day doing yard work. Afterwards, we would make a fire and enjoy a few bottles of wine. We’d talk for hours, sometimes into the early morning.

My tears are gone, replaced by happiness (as happy as I can be at the moment) because I have some of the best memories of someone I adored and loved, so very much.

In this short period of time I’ve learned so much about what death teaches us. It’s taught me to stand still and look inward at my life, appreciating my existence more, what I bring to the table and the people I get to share it with, thankful for their love and devotion. It teaches me to take nothing for granted.

We must live in the moment and enjoy every breath, each second of every minute. Although our loved ones are gone, they are still here with us – in our heart, soul and mind, and as we walk this beautiful planet, there will be times when we see something that will remind us of their beauty and inspiration, and that must never be a time of sadness, but of great joy. It’s true, joy does come in the morning.

There is so much I want to tell you about my friend, Jeffrey. How good and kind he was, and how giving he was, and always from the heart. He was intelligent and logical. He was fluent in French. There are just so many things to share, but all of that really doesn’t matter anymore. All you need to know is, he is love. – paerki