September is a beautiful month, but there is something dolorous in the fading of flowers and the shortening of days that reminds us that summer does not last forever.
There is another empty chair at our table now. We lost Tracey’s brother in September, my friend, Michael Betz, who passed away peacefully at home, leaving behind a legacy of service in the countless lives he helped to preserve and make better.
In August, Michael received his 45-year chip, and if you know anything about the AA program, you know what a staggering achievement that is. But he didn’t just save his own life; he dedicated that life to sponsoring people in the program, an avocation that requires commitment and sacrifice, and a generous helping of fearlessness. There are scores of people he mentored; he called them “my babies,” who are better—or in fact, alive—because he did.
Those of us well acquainted with grief know that often one of the hardest things to process is not what was, but what might have been—the things unsaid or undone and the opportunities missed. I feel the loss of conversations I didn’t have with Mike, two night owls wide awake at midnight burning off the excess mental fuel like gas flaring at a refinery. We read the same books, played the same video games, looked at the world from similar angles, and never realized the extent of the similarities until the last few conversations we had.
Part of the problem is this world we have built of families and friends widely scattered, separated by hundreds and thousands of miles of badly paved roads. We can divide a second into a billion parts, but we don’t have time for anything. Communication is instant, but we are insular in our distractions. Face-to-face gives way to wires and Wi-Fi, and the sound of the human voice is replaced by pixels.
But that is my problem and Western civilization’s going forward. Michael ran his race and crossed the finish line a winner. It is a grievous loss but also a completion, and there is comfort in that. “God and me forever” is one of the last things he said to me, and there is comfort in that as well. Over time, grief becomes sadness, and a touch of sadness is not a bad thing. It keeps us honest. It keeps us humble. It reminds us to make time for the things—the people—that are important while we still can.
Outside The Box 