I’ve always been uncomfortable speaking. I have a bad case of stage fright and I’ve been introverted long before it was internet points. It might be hard to see but I’m shaking and sweating up there. The very thought of speaking makes my guts go funny. Plus, I’ve been told my actual voice sounds like one of those surfer turtles in Finding Nemo.
I spoke on Sunday just hours before John’s funeral. At one point during the message, I paused for a a very long five seconds. It wasn’t because of the stage fright. Of course, I thought about John. Every Wednesday where I work, we have a chapel service, and John was always there. Every single Wednesday. It makes me crazy thinking he won’t be at chapel anymore. He was always the first to enter the the doors, the first to share a prayer request, to enter the discussion, and the last to leave after talking about the sermon for ten minutes. Sometimes weeks later he’d tell me, “Hey I tried that thing you preached about three weeks ago.” I hardly remember what I ate yesterday. But he was that kind of guy.
I’d like to think in some way that John will be there. Cheering us on. Making the church exactly what it should be. Here’s to you brother.
(And thank you to my brother Pastor DL of Harvest KPCO for extending the honor to preach. Love you man. Your church is just as generous and wonderful as you.)
John, I can’t believe I have to bury you this week.
You were one of the most energetic, enthusiastic, fun-loving people I have ever met. You were the best. Easily top five of the human race. You loved to talk. Sometimes you would talk for forty minutes straight without taking a single breath. Then you’d get this sheepish look in your face, a little embarrassed, and you’d say, “I’m talking way too much.” But it was never too much. Ever. I’d give anything for you to talk and talk and talk again, as long as you wanted.
The first time after you heard me preach, you walked up to me and asked, “Why aren’t you famous?” I laughed really hard. But you weren’t laughing. You were serious. You had that silly, goofy, wide-eyed grin on your face. The one that everyone loved. You were that earnest. That sincere. You were always texting me some new insight you had, or a podcast, a song, a quote you heard, a picture of your baby girl, a video of you working out with bricks. You were exactly who you were, all the time. That’s rare. You were that rare sort of guy who was always yourself. You let people be comfortable with themselves, too.
I got to say goodbye to you at the hospital where I work. You were on my assigned floor, even. They say that people can still hear in a coma. I tried to say everything. But I never got to say sorry. I’m sorry that we didn’t have more time. We were supposed to eat Korean BBQ together. We were supposed to hit the gym together. I never told you that I liked to write or had a blog. I had so much more to say. And I’m sorry.
I miss you man. I’ll miss the funny way you turned your head sideways when you laughed. I’ll miss that effusive, embarrassed grin. It’s those little things that make a person which we miss the most. If your baby daughter turns out anything like you, she will be spectacular. A bright shining star.
I love you, man. I’ll see you again one day. I promise. Until then, I will make the most of it. It’s goodbye for now, for only a little while.