Eulogy

One time long ago, I had a partner in magic.

Tim was my best friend from first grade until sixth grade. Together, we made childhood memories that dazzle and childhood stories that delight.

We looked like a pair that Hollywood would put together for comedy. I was shy, small, and weak. Tim was big, outgoing, and strong. But when it came to humor and imagination, we were equals. In the days before tablets and video games, we made our own worlds of fun and wonder.

We could play for hours. For days! I was at Tim’s house at least once a week. He was at mine just as often. In the summertime, I would spend the night at his house one day and he would spend the night at mine the very next day. The fusion of our creative energies made it unbearable to be apart.

We often stayed up all night. One time, we used my old tape recorder to make a “radio show”. Now that I’m a parent, I feel sorry for making my dad and mom listen to that entire radio show the next day. It was third grade bathroom humor, but you wouldn’t get the jokes because Tim and I were laughing so hard through most of them.

I was with Tim the first time I ever saw a movie at the theater without my parents. His mom dropped us off to see Octopussy. I have no idea why my mom was OK with that. My dad, the biggest James Bond fan I know, likely had something to do with it. We got bored with the movie and walked out early. Tim called his mom on the payphone and we went back to his house to make up our own secret agent fantasy in the backyard.

In third grade, I stayed with Tim’s family for a week when my granddaddy had open heart surgery and my parents went out of town to be with him. It was the middle of the school year, but that week felt like summer vacation (especially since Tim’s parents had HBO).

One time when I was about eight or nine, I spent the night at Tim’s house. I heard strange sounds coming from his parents’ room and shook him awake.

“It’s OK,” he said. “They make those noises sometimes. One time I peeked in the door and they were just rolling around the bed. I don’t know why they do that. I’m sorry my parents are so weird.”

Only many years later did I figure out what was going on that night.

Tim and I didn’t live in the same neighborhood, but when we got to fourth grade, we were allowed to ride our bikes to each other’s houses. Tim was the first to get a ten-speed. When I knew he was on his way over, I would stand on the front porch and watch the end of my street to see him coming.

One time, Tim convinced me that a castle once stood on the vacant wooded lot across the street from his house. I believed him for years. We poked around in those woods for hours. We were looking for artifacts from the lost castle. Imagine the thrill we felt every time we found a rusty piece of metal or a shard of glass.

“See? It’s true! There was a castle here!”

Tim and I grew apart starting in sixth grade. He got cooler and more outgoing and I got nerdier and more awkward. We were bound to end up in different social circles when we got to junior high. In high school, Tim was an athlete and I was in band. I never saw him again after graduation.

That’s how life goes. Now that my son is eight years old, he knows Tim as the co-star in many of the stories I tell him about my childhood.

When I tell him those stories, I feel a twinge of regret.

Did my friendship with Tim really have to end? Why did I let junior high convince me that a guy like me couldn’t be friends with a guy like Tim? In high school, why did I think that a band nerd couldn’t be friends with a varsity athlete?

Yesterday, the news reached me that Tim died.

It turns out that the twinge of regret I feel once in awhile is more than regret; it’s grief. For more than 30 years, I’ve been grieving the loss of a friendship and I didn’t even know it.

Because God gives the gift of memory, Tim is eternally my childhood best friend. The co-creator of the most magical and wonderful time of my life. The Penn to my Teller. The Kevin to my Paul. The Hobbes to my Calvin.

Tim, we didn’t grow old together, but thank you for growing up with me.

I pray that you have finally found that lost castle.

Grace and peace.