I begin to speak yet pause...

This has been a tough one. I have struggled with what to say—feeling like I need to say something, wanting to say something. But I am conflicted because now is not a time to say look me, now is not a time to say listen to me, now is not a time for me. It is a time for Chris. It is a time for his son, his mother, his brothers, his loved ones and his family. It is time for us to lift them up, to gather around them, to support them and to remember Chris.

I hope that is what I am doing—remembering Chris, honoring the memories we shared and showing others how deep and meaningful time with Chris could be. I have been trying to beat back the disappointment that comes with the regret for things I should have said to him, the trip to Florida that never materialized, and the missed connections when he was back in Pa. I am sure these emotions and feelings are not unique to me.

All while trying to reconcile the guilt of feeling this way while family and loved ones are dealing with a grief so much deeper and intertwined with their being than I can ever fathom. The number of times I have used "I" while writing this embarrasses me.

So, I have begun to speak yet pause...

I have been smiling at being reminded of Chris in unexpected places. Looking for a snack in the refrigerator and I spot the grape jelly and recall who made me try grape jelly on grilled cheese, cleaning up after another dinner I remember who introduced me to the if-you-don't-cook-you-clean rule for roommates, scanning my phone for a hockey score and seeing the Buffalo Sabres logo and remembering the guy who would yell “Shmelly” when Richard Smehlik had the puck in EA Hockey, seeing “Thunderchicken” and remembering that turd-brown, square-as-a-brick 1980s Ford Thunderbird he made seem just that much cooler. Dave Brubeck, Guns N’ Roses, using the air freshner hanging on the car mirror as his cymbal when air drumming. This list could go on and on...

He had such a profound and lasting impact on my life. I am not alone here, either. The people posting to honor him, and his son's thoughtful and profound public announcement are all testimony to the impact Chris had.

He was a proud and loving father, an adventurer, a free spirit, a musician, a philospher and an artist. And although patience might not have been his strongest gift, he would show tremendous restraint as I hacked my way around the golf course as he was grinding out respectable scores, when I was a clumsy fishing companion while he was trying to land his own white whale—a monster Conneaut Lake musky—or returning volley after volley in table tennis looking bored, never appearing to be challenged, just waiting for me to commit the unforced error he knew was coming. He opened a door for me to hike the Appalachian Trail, took me canoeing at Kinzua, and tried to get me to move to Colorado when he had sensed the comfortable confines of Conneaut Lake might smother what he could become. This list, too, could go on and on... I can’t believe I lost the photo of him with his arm around me in the group photo with the Colorado crew in the last moments before we said a course-altering, “farewell” and he headed west.

All this and I am still not sure what to say. Perhaps the 12th-century Chinese poet Xin Qiji was in the same spot more than 800 years ago...

“In youth I knew nothing of the taste of sorrow

I liked to climb high towers...

Now I know only too well the taste of sorrow

I begin to speak yet pause

I begin to speak yet pause

And say instead, ‘My, what a cool and lovely autumn.’”

I can’t be there for Saturday’s services. I can’t offer these thoughts in person, but perhaps now that his spirit is freed from the boundaries of time and space, he can see every day each way he had an impact on so many.