I assumed the Facebook alert I got last weekend was just another of several photos posted to our recent 20-year class reunion event page. But I clicked to find it wasn’t a picture of merry old friends catching up. It was news our tight-knit, small town class had lost a member (perhaps its first).
Growing up, Chris always stood out for his athleticism, fun-loving manner, and, yeah, a propensity to step over the line when seeking a laugh or some other thrill. Such traits led to variety of impressions people had of him. But when news of his car accident hit social media, reactions on our event page were all in agreement.
Just a week earlier, about half of our small-town graduating class (roughly 30 of 60) gathered for that 20-year reunion. The rekindled camaraderie and shared memories of our tight-knit class led to questions about the lives of those unable to attend—Chris, of course, being one. All this primed our class of ’99 for our collective reaction a week later to the news of his death.
These written mourns posted on our reunion event page weren’t offered up because all Chris's classmates were close to him. Some may have even most associated Chris with those antics that crossed the line. Yet over the years, everyone had also seen the ways his life added to others. And it was these deeds and attributes that rushed to mind—the loss of which we all saw, felt, and shared. This is the power of connection.
For me, this triggered my memory of how Chris was often quick to relent a point of contention or admit if he was wrong about something. If Chris stated we had two chapters assigned in English class, and another person disputed to say we had three, Chris would reliably say something like, “Oh, three? Oh, okay. Got it.” For having a rebellious streak, this humility of his (which I remember from elementary all the way up through high school) always struck me.
In adulthood, Chris and I only got together occasionally. Yet on the final time we did, he would display another memorable, very human side.
Out with a group of classmates two Christmas’s back, Chris said something to me when catching up on our lives, something resembling, “I can’t write like you, Brandon” or “I’m not smart”. This wasn’t the first time he expressed such self-deprecation in my presence. Each time stuck with me as painting a picture of a man of bravado who deep down, like the rest of us, sometimes had his doubts.
One by one, members of our class offered their tributes, turning what had been an event page for posting one-week-old reunion photos into an album for pictures much older. Such images of our high school years triggered yet more insights into the preciousness (and brevity) of life. And all this had me, for the first time, recognize that which has become cliché—that “those were the days”. I found myself wishing I would’ve appreciated them more.
Despite such loss and reflection being gripping and sad, it also opens the door to a richness of being, a realignment of what’s truly important in life, and the motivation to embrace these priorities. In fact, it often seems tragedies, unfortunately, are what it takes to get us back onto this path.
I’ve seen this before.
Just two summers ago my sister’s husband Kevin also died in a car accident.
my sister Renee and Kevin
Like Chris, he left behind one son (my nephew). And like Chris’s death, Kevin’s brought people together—starting quite literally with an overflowing church at his funeral. Then, the aftermath has seen our family respond to this dreadful, long-lasting turn by growing closer. This is highlighted by my connection with my sister, stronger now than when even living under the same roof.
There’s a comfort in realizing this, because I can think of no better way to honor a lost life than by using their departure as a turning point to live ours better—that even in the act of death, the departed serves to better the world.
It’s just on us to take the opportunity to do so. This is my wish for my fellow classmates and especially for Chris's loved ones.
The life afforded by another’s death is in our discovery of wholeness from the void of their absence.
Rest in Peace, Chris.
Rest in Peace, Kevin.