His wife called after he coded in the hospital, early enough in the morning I thought it was a dream. Mike, with his definitive opinions, love of musical theatre, and University of Texas orange-blood, was... gone. A phone call and my friend had gone somewhere I could not follow.
Mike was born with a unique heart condition, one of those with the long medical-sounding names and horrifically short life expectancies. Really, the fact he lived long enough for us to meet is amazing. And being his friend was a gift.
To be honest, Mike and I fit like pickles and peanut butter: great individually, but not fantastic together. Which makes being friends mean so much more.
Mike debated passionately, presenting an informed, conservative view of God, the world, and the most grace-filled theology I've ever experienced. We counterweighted each other. He thought I was an overly compassionate progressive; the coolness of his debates drove my thoughts to violence.
I can't explain why we were friends. But our lives were better with each other in them.
We met online back when Yahoo! had chat rooms. And I can't remember what exactly drew us to each other - music preferences, God or something else. We've been friends long enough, too, favorite debates, what I liked about him, what he liked about me, what made us friends faded.
Mike would know. And probably have a copy of the conversation. The date and topic, at the very least.
Mike was always the planner. Even his passing this week was typed out years ago, planned step by step, with designated music pieces and names for the private burial. He had a plan for everything, not seeming to know how to say no. Because if you gave him a minute, he'd have a plan. Then he'd nod, grin, and it could be done.
He knew there was a plan for everything; that he would meet his one love, that there was a right and a wrong and grace for in between. He lived in a world I didn't understand but loved seeing because he was there.
Mike met Sarah in 2009, and they were peanut butter and jelly on toast. Watching them grow into each other felt like being granted access to a secret love story. And I gained another friend. Who loved my friend already. Complete. Total. Win.
Sarah had a medical background, a sweet smile, and serious steel under her dimples. She filled in Mike, understanding what the heart condition meant, juggling lifelong friends and unplanned drama with grace. And she moved to Texas from Michigan just to be with Mike.
Mike appreciated snark, which is great, as I tend to maintain an ever-abundant stash of the organically grown stuff. After Mike married, he settled, his edges kinder. He, she, and I spent time watching movies, discussing the merits of different Star Trek series. We figured out each other's edges and soft spots, we tended to talk about nothing a lot. Those conversations, the time and spaces they created, make his not-here-ness most keen.
One of the highest compliments he gave me was choosing a song by my favorite band to play during his viewing. I didn't know he had until the lyrics drifted into a conversation. Between blocks of 80s pop, a random Western version of some expected hymn, and perky-shiny Chris Tomlin-heavy praise/worship slid in a Southern alt-folk group belting out an Irish hymn with serious guitar chops and a soft spoken lead singer.
It's still stark to think Mike loved me, that simply and that authentically. It's still striking to realize he shared something so intimate as his death.
I lost a very good friend last week.
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