It's a Good Day Here, Too

My friend Stephen was a very sensitive guy. He was as long as I knew him. I expect he remains so in heaven. Maybe you don't believe in heaven and think I'm being silly for saying that. But I believe in it. If you think that makes me a weak person I guess I don't really care. In fact, I don't care if you're absolutely correct in your opinion. It's a weakness I don't mind having.

Why Stephen should latch onto me I don't know, but he did. We shared ninth grade Algebra, and both played on the Freshman basketball team. He was good and I was horrible. I was tall and he was short. I started and he sat on the bench. Not fair. Not fair at all.

I remember a mutual friend of ours got the mumps when we were juniors or seniors. My response was, "Oh, that's too bad." Stephen went further. He drove me to the store and bought Kevin a get well card and a gift. Of course, because I was there, he got embarrassed and bought a silly gift. I was afraid to tell him, but I was very impressed with Stephen that day.

Stephen fought with his brother, Glenn. Yet when Glenn sang in concert, or performed in a play, Stephen was the family member who wanted to go watch. He drove me to more than one concert just to listen or watch Glenn. And when Glenn died of AIDS, it hit Stephen hard.

I remember talking to him on the telephone after he had found me. It had been fifteen years. The phone rings and it was Stephen, his voice all happy like it always was when he called me. At some point in the conversation he brought up Glenn. I forget how I had heard about it, but I had. Probably through Helvie, who still hung out with the old crowd. Stephen said something which kind of still haunts me, even though it wasn't my fault.

He said, "On the day of Glenn's funeral I kept looking for you. But you never showed up."

I felt so bad, and nearly cried. All I could say was, "If I had known, Stephen, I would have been there."

Different people at different times have remarked to me that I am sensitive and caring. I can be, but I don't know how much. What I do know is that I learned gentleness, caring, and sensitivity from Stephen. Since his departure I have felt it more than ever before.

What I find odd, in a way, is that for all the years we knew each other, we only ever held each other once. Otherwise we hardly ever touched on purpose. Even when we had our one and only fight we didn't punch. He tried, but I ducked (a funny image I should think, of a 5'6" young man swinging wildly at a 6'6" young man) and grabbed him. I was angry and hurt. Stephen had tried to hit me. I raised my fist to hit him. But it was Stephen. How could I hit Stephen and still live with myself? I couldn't. I didn't. But I only ever hugged him once. And I never told him I loved him. I expect he knew, because I am convinced Stephen loved me.

Recently I was at the funeral of Helvie's best friend. Helvie wrote a piece which was read by the priest. In it, Helvie stated that she and Sue never hugged each other or confessed their love for each other until a month before Sue left. Forty years of friendship and only one hug and one statement of love. But they knew. All along they knew.

I think that's true for Stephen and me, too.

After Daddy died I made a request of God. When Stephen died I modified the request. I asked God that, if his forgiveness will extend to me even to my death and beyond, then may I first see Daddy and Stephen when it's my turn to go?

I suppose you think I'm all depressed now because of how I've written about Stephen. I'm not. Actually, I am feeling pretty good. In fact, just yesterday evening I posted on The Great Sea about many of the wonderful people and things I am thankful for.

I just like thinking about my friends. Especially my best friends. Here on earth, and there in heaven. I am grateful for them, and I marvel that someone like me should be blessed with the friendship of such wonderful people. Without even trying, they make me a better person.

Oh, I am so thankful for them. I will let Sir Elton John sing my feelings above.