On Losing Your Best Friend
August 5, 2017 was supposed to be a fun day. My family and I were loaded up in our car, heading to a clergy and family picnic. As if often the case, we needed a restroom break, and I took my then 2-year old daughter to the bathroom. We were working on potty training at the time. So, I stood there with her on the toilet, waiting for her to go.
While I waited, I checked my phone for new emails. It was a Saturday. I don’t usually get any emails worth noting on Saturday, but it’s always nice to check. Then I saw the subject line that would change my life: The Passing of Brad Brown…
Brad was my best friend. We have been friends since before we were in kindergarten. I’ll admit, it was a little rocky for a while in elementary school. Brad’s parents were going through a divorce, and he wasn’t always the best person to be around. We were both kids, and didn’t know anything about handling emotions and dealing with stuff this big. But we got through it.
We were inseparable. Many times, people would call me Brad and him Matt because we were always together, and usually up to something. We would spend hours playing over at his house, doing things that, looking back, were incredibly stupid.
One time, we wanted to see what would happen if you threw an aerosol can into a fire. Spoiler alert: it blows up. Those warnings are for real!
Another time, we decided to make a maze in the corn field on the adjacent property. We took baseball bats and started making our way through the field. He said that his neighbor said we could. Looking back, I don’t know if he was being honest with me. It was fun, if not slightly illegal.
Later, he and I hiked through the cornfield to the creek that ran along the property. I set free my pet turtle Spot. He probably died along that creek because I was an idiot kid.
I could sit here and tell story after story about the life and times of me and Brad. Some would make you cringe. Some would make you laugh. The fact of the matter is that if I was getting into some kind of trouble, Brad was right there with me.
We spent hours talking in parking lots — after band practice, after youth group, after basketball games (we played on a rec league basketball team together; we were terrible, but it was fun!). Sometimes, our conversations were about nothing important; sometimes they were about the big things in life.
We had so many memories together, and we would often bring them up in conversation down the road. We went camping once, and got some ribeyes and tator tots for dinner that night. We sat there in the rain, cooking them in a pan over our small gas stove. Any time we talked about making dinner after that night, you could bet that one of us would bring it up.
When I saw that subject line, it was like my heart was ripped out of my chest. I got my daughter redressed, and we went back out to the car. The whole time I was choking back tears. I couldn’t talk. My wife knew that something was wrong, and all I could do was show her my phone. I sat in the back of the car and cried in that gas station parking lot, for what seemed like hours.
We got back in the car and continued on our way to Indianapolis. Instead of going to the clergy family picnic, we were off to the hospital. His family was there, the air was thick with grief and shock. I couldn’t speak. I wanted to share words of hope and reminders about the resurrection in Jesus. I couldn’t. I just sat there, and let the tears stream down my face.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Our girls, who were six months apart, we supposed to grow up knowing “Uncle” Brad and “Uncle” Matt, even though we didn’t get to see each other often, it was always like old times when we did. That’s how it should be with family.
The funeral was a week later. I was still new in my church, having only been there for a month, but people were very gracious.
The day we left to meet with the family and the pastor that was going to officiate, I had a member of my congregation, a prominent member of the community, go into hospice care. I felt like I was letting them down by not being able to be there that day, but they understood. I was going to visit him after church on Sunday, but he passed away during worship.
The night before the funeral, I was still working on what I was going to say. I can’t tell you how many times I cried that night. I could barely sort my thoughts.
I talked about how Brad was my best friend, not because of all the big events in our lives — we were each others’ best man — but because of the in between times. The regular days when we would just hang out, and do life together.
I talked about how Brad had a way of bringing me out of my shell. Every once in a while, we’d go to IHOP late in the evening just to eat some food and flirt with the waitresses. That’s right, quiet, introvert Matt would bust out of his shell at IHOP. It was fun, and pointless, we just wanted some good conversation and to brighten somebody’s night.
As one of the pallbearers, I was asked to wear a baseball hat. I wore a Cubs hat. Brad was a Cubs fan. He finally got to see them win a World Series before he passed. Even as a Cardinal fan, I am thankful for that. I still have that hat, with no intention of wearing it ever again, nor getting rid of it.
We drove by the Little League field where he spent so many hours coaching. He loved coaching baseball, and he was good at it. He knew the game. He could challenge and teach the kids how to play to their best ability. The year my daughter was born, Brad asked me to coach with him on a travel team. Little did we know at the time that she would be born 3 months early, and my summer would be a juggling act between the baseball team, the church I was pastoring at the time, and daily visits to the NICU.
Our team was terrible. In our first tournament, we lost two games by a combined score of 64–2, or something equally horrific. But we never gave up. The only time we got on the kids for losing, which they did a LOT that summer, was when they quit on themselves in the middle of a game.
For those who have lost good friends, you know the feeling. Even now, a year and a half later, I miss him. There’s a permanent hole in my life; a scar that will never go away.
I lost my best friend on a bright, sunny August Saturday. It should have been a great day. It ended up being one of the worst.
Brad is buried in the cemetery near where we grew up. I go to visit him from time to time. I’ve never been a grave-visitor before. But, for him, I am.
After one visit, I wrote a poem. I dabble in poetry. I’m not good at it. But I had to get these words out somehow, and it’s how I’m going to close this post.
A Visit With a Friend
I went to see my friend today
He was there…
But he wasn’t.
It was cold
The wind stung my face
We didn’t speak.
There was no marker yet
I didn’t need it.
The memory has been seared into my mind
Just a bouquet — blue, yellow, red
No fresh blanket of grass has appeared yet
The dirt hasn’t even settled
You know the saying,
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder”?
It’s bullshit.
Absence is just absence
A reminder of what once was
and is no more.
I wanted to sit and talk for hours
To remember and dream like days gone by
But we can’t.
The air was cold, still, quiet
Night was closing in
Was it the weather or my heart?
I still don’t know
I went to see my friend today
He wasn’t there.
I miss him.
