A Public Letter to a Personal Friend

It has been almost a year since Geoff was diagnosed and a month since he died. This is a letter that isn’t meant to encourage or comfort or to say I'm sorry. It is just a place to testify.

The last time I saw Geoff, he stood his normal tall and smiled his normal smile and even his color still had life. His “Cancer Sucks” button reflected his attitude. “Everything in my life is great!” he assured us, “It’s just this whole cancer thing.” He and I had a few private minutes outside the house, waiting on my brother. A few minutes I wanted to seize because I guess I thought they really might be the last for us even though he looked so great. And I want you to know, friend, that we used that time to talk about you. Your trajectory to Thailand was fresh, and not wanting to waste time talking about the cancer that was killing him, I offered, “I think it’s going to be really good for them… really good for him. You should see it someday. It’s a place for adventure. A place where he will be able to be adventurous again.” And that’s where the blessing started. The blessing of wanting you to live an adventure there. Geoff smiled and nodded and agreed. He blessed that blessing too.

Last month when my brother came back to the house from saying goodbye to Geoff, he was uncharacteristically inarticulate. He couldn’t quite say what had happened, what was said, how it felt. It was one of the first hot days of the year and his little boys wanted popsicles. He distributed them out, took one for himself, and went outside. The three of them slurping up their popsicles in the sun. Having contests on who could make the loudest, most obnoxious slurping sound. I’m not saying my brother ever needed a wake up call on time being precious or that being daddy is the most important role in his life, but something about that moment signaled to me that he felt that truth in his bones more than he had before. Geoff’s death has been life giving to him, friend.

Then, the week leading up to the funeral. It has always been okay to cry together, but to totally break down does nothing but make people worried about you. And I just desperately needed to actively grieve and physically mourn. I needed to literally cry out. I went to the reservoir with big dark glasses to cover my tears from the passersby and ultimately I ended up on one of the empty docks on the water. And I just cried and cried and cried and cried and cried. My face contorting, my head pounding, my wails growing louder. My crying turning to praying… or more of a pleading: “We surrender to the fact that healing didn’t happen, Lord! But now you have to move!” I said, broken. And then… in my cries… in my midst… Jesus himself. Just sitting there. Sitting next to me on the dock.
“Jesus! I’m angry!” And Him: “I know you’re angry.”
“Jesus!! I’m… sad.” “I know. I know you’re sad.”
“Jesus, I’m fucking heartbroken.” “I know how heartbroken you are.”
I’ve heard the voice of God before. I’ve felt the Holy Spirit prompt my soul. But until that moment, I had never felt the tangible physical presence of Jesus sitting shoulder to shoulder with me. I’ve never felt His friendship like that. He didn’t apologize or explain or say it was all going to be okay. He just listened and affirmed. He loved me. I don’t think Geoff had to die for me to experience Jesus that way, but I experienced Jesus that way because Geoff died. A simple truth. That, friend, is testimony.