For Mike

I learned earlier this week that someone very special to me had passed away suddenly and unexpectedly. As I’ve grappled with his death, the hardest part hasn’t been that initial moment of shock and heartbreak that happens after hearing the news. It’s been the continual, heart-clenching moments when you realize that this is real life. 

It’s almost as if the nightmare of realization were a wave that retreats, and then crashes, retreats, and then crashes, each time feeling unexpected and new. 

I worked very closely with Mike for several years and, ultimately, we formed a friendship that transcended any professional or academic boundaries. As I’ve reflected this week on why all of this has hit me so terribly hard, I’ve come to understand this:

There are at least two kinds of people that you want in your life. The first is someone who validates the purpose that you already see in yourself and calls that out of you. This is the person who holds you accountable to who you know yourself to be and the one who lovingly reminds you of your goals, dreams, values, and ambitions. You want to keep these people in your life; they’re very important. 

Then, there’s the second kind. The kind of person who sees more in you than you could ever see in yourself. The kind who really gets you right in this moment exactly as you are, but then can see beyond this moment and speak purpose and truth into your life that you hadn’t even considered. They are the kind that re-shape your reality, that challenge your (mis)perceptions, and the kind that you can point to when you look back on your life and say, “They changed me for the better.”

Mike was the second person for me.

Recognizing this is particularly impactful because there aren’t a lot of people in my life who have acted in that role. In fact, perhaps there are only two or three, if that, who have ever been able to simultaneously encourage and challenge me in the way that he did. 

I say this in the least angsty way possible, I promise, but not a lot of people get me. They don’t understand the choices that I make or the way I choose to live my life or the way that I conduct myself. They certainly don’t understand my humor or my ceaseless pursuit of my passions, even when they seem highly impractical. 

It can feel isolating at times. 

But Mike, he did see and understand me. I felt safe with him. And his loss automatically makes me feel less seen and less safe. 

He was genuinely the only reason that I stayed at my job as long as I did. I absolutely hated almost every aspect of it, except the fact that I got to work with him. I spent part of my role in that position as his TA and I loved it. He would come down to the main office at the end of the term and tell me that it was time to reconcile grades. “It’ll just take 30 minutes,” he’d say (even though he didn’t really mean it). Three or four hours later, I’d stumble back downstairs after a long conversation filled with laughs and all sorts of wisdom. Those times were a much-needed respite from the rest of my obligations.

I know he had a similar impact on so many people. Because of this, my tendency would ordinarily be to feel jealous or like I wasn’t very special. But the really beautiful thing in all of this is that he was one of those marvelous humans who compartmentalized each of his relationships and genuinely cared about and invested in the people in his world. His capacity to care was individualized and most certainly not divided or diluted across the masses. 

I saw him just days before he passed. It had been a while since we had been in regular communication, and I felt guilty about not being better at keeping in touch. It absolutely made my day when I saw him because I knew that he didn’t care about how long it had been. He was just happy to see me. And I was happy to see him. He recommended a book and I made plans to purchase it and then reach out so we could talk through our takeaways in person. It’s now sitting on my shelf – next on my list – and I will read and enjoy it in honor of him. 

I’m deeply thankful to have gotten to know such a uniquely gifted human. These paragraphs hardly begin to describe the joyous, kind, funny man that he was. I’m also thankful that God gave me the gift of seeing him one last time. 

I am reminded, through his death, to live each day fully, leaving nothing to regret. 

So, here’s to you, Mike. Rest easy.

Xo, 

Abbey

P.S. In case these are helpful to you, these two songs have become my personal favorites for dealing with loss. They’ll make you cry, but in a good, cathartic sort of way. 

Goodbye Goodbye Goodbye by Michael Logen

Happy Ending by MIKA