Call Me Paul Harvey

... because this is the rest of the story.

Yesterday was the 4th anniversary of my best friend's death by suicide.  It's becoming increasingly difficult to continue calling him my best friend... not because his place in my life is diminished, but because other friendships have gorwn in significance since his death, and I don't want to understate the value of these relationships.  (You know who you are.)  So yeah, it's becoming tougher to continue calling him my best friend, because time moves on...  but I'm digressing.

I'm also finding it increasingly difficult to remember what he looked like... and other day-to-day details.  In some respects he IS fading into my memory.  But then again, there are many aspects of our life together that are indelibly seared into my mind... again though, I'm digressing.

I talked about Greg's death yesterday at church, and I sang Fear is a Liar by Zach Williams.  I didn't set out to sing the song.  Indeed, I didn't set out to do anything special.  Generally speaking, I'm at a point where I'd rather quietly note milestones like his death, birthday and so forth.  But that's not how it happened this year.

I'm the leader of my worship team at church, and we (the band) decided to learn Fear is a Liar as a new song.  I started listening to it with the goal of figuring out how to honor the original intent, but still make it our song.  Part of this process included watching the official video.  The video has two references to suicide.  I knew right then that I had to do the song yesterday.  I coordinated it with my pastor.  I told him that I needed to talk a bit about Greg.  We bantered about what I'd say and how I'd say it.  The pastor and I came to a loose framework agreement about what I'd say.  I went off script.

I ended up talking about the Greg-shaped hole in my heart... and how there's a God-shaped hole in our hearts as well... and how God has an us-shaped hole in his heart... and how he rejoices when these holes are filled... and how he mourns when we walk away from Him, leaving an us-shaped hole in His heart.  Saying this hurt... I cracked a few times while speaking.  I also don't know exactly what I said... I usually speak extemporaneously instead of planning in advance what I'll say.

Then I sang.  It was pretty good until the bridge... when I broke down.  Fortunately, I prepared for this possibility and had another member of my worship team play guitar and sing with me... when I faltered, he stepped in... and the congregation was singing as well.  Hearing them hurt and healed, and I regained my composure.  As the bridge built, I found my voice and managed to continue.  I channeled my anguish into my voice, and it felt powerful.  Someone from the congregation came up and put his hand on my shoulder as I continued to sing.  It made it more difficult to continue, yet easier at the same time.

The song ended and I was spent.  I left the podium and took my usual seat toward the back of the sanctuary.  I hope I reached someone.

During this entire process, I noted a little bit of irony in the whole experience.  Greg was a pretty avowed atheist, though I'd like to think I was getting through a bit before the end.  Most likely, he'd have been a bit horrified to know that I used this story to talk about God.  If he hadn't been cremated, he'd probably have rolled over in his grave.