(July 24, 1981 – July 23, 2023)

Today I gave this eulogy at the memorial service for my friend Aric, who died three weeks ago. Memento mori, meditation on death, is an ascetic discipline after all. Sometimes you choose it. Sometimes it chooses you. But it’s something we all need to do if we want to live our lives in the real world, where all is mortal, even our friends. Hopefully if anyone else finds themselves in that situation, this might help them grieve with the right perspective, too.

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Hi everyone. As the designated weird religious friend of the group, it’s one of my duties to say something at the funeral.

I technically met Aric in art class my freshman year of high school. I sat at a table with a few other underclassmen and overheard the nearby table of upperclassmen—including Aric and John Paepke—debating what nicknames to give each of us. Danny Hanna was easy. They went with “Little Tom” for his older brother. But I required more time and discussion in order for them to decide between “Report Card” or “Database.” They settled on the latter.

A few years later, Paul was working his first job at Media Play. He mentioned that there was this guy Aric (with an “A”) who started working there and every now and then would come up to him and say things like, “Hey Paul. Do you remember that time in the jungle … when you touched me … and I cried?” Then he’d walk away. They became fast friends, and soon Paul invited me to hang out with him and Aric. I didn’t realize this was the same guy from art class until that first time we got together and Aric looked at me and said, “Database?” Even though I had found it amusing in ninth grade, at that time I tried to resist the nickname, so naturally it stuck.

Aric often put up a rough exterior to new people. For example, he would say things to try to shock them. Then, if that didn’t work, he decided they were okay. He’d let down his guard a little anyway. Those of us who knew him well, knew that he could sometimes be deeply kind and generous. He would take in animals and care for them. He would give expensive gifts. And he never really wanted anyone to return the favor. One time, some of us planned a surprise birthday party for him. We all came to Al and Cindy’s and hid in Aric’s room, which we filled with balloons. We also somehow cued up the PlayStation 2 to play the “Happy Days” theme. Then we waited for Aric to get home from work, and when he opened the door, we turned on the lights, played the song, and yelled, “Happy birthday!” In response, Aric closed the door and locked himself in the bathroom for half an hour.

I remember in 2004, I think, Aric and his then-girlfriend broke up, and he dropped out of Western Michigan and moved back home. He was working at MedTronic back then, and I worked at UPS. We both got out of work around 7:30, and Aric told me just to come over afterwards. “Just come in. No need to knock,” he said. So I did, for a month or two. We played the new Ninja Gaiden game for Xbox. We watched TV. We talked. Every day. I’m sure, given the context, that Aric was feeling down and just wanted some company. Maybe he thought I was helping him, and maybe I did. I hope I did. But I know he was helping me. I was a wayward, socially-awkward, lonely guy at the time, and he gave me a place to go. We were friends.

A year or so later is when I really became the weird religious friend. I had grown up going to church but like a lot of people stopped after high school. I had a personal revival of sorts while working third shift at the Tech Group and realizing that my life was going nowhere and I didn’t like it. On a whim, I signed myself up for piano lessons that year, and my piano teacher happened to be a pastor’s daughter who invited me to her dad’s church. So I started going there every Sunday and quit my factory job in order to focus on school. To my surprise, not long after Aric invited me and a few others to a Bible study with his dad, Al.

Aric wasn’t the churchgoing type, but he did have faith. Just to be clear: I mean something more than his theory that the religion of hamsters was to escape from their cages and die in the walls. I remember when he and Kelly got their house, he told me, “I prayed for this.” I’m the weird religious friend, so sometimes you guys tell me things like that. He asked me what to do, so I said to be grateful. I know everyone here has a different experience with faith and religion, and maybe some of you have had bad experiences. If that’s the case, don’t worry. I’m not going to preach at you. But I do want to say a little about faith, because I know it did matter to Aric, even though he didn’t talk about it much.

Sometimes people are dismissive about faith and call it a “crutch.” Actually, those people are right. Faith is a crutch. I don’t know how anybody stands in this world without one. We read the Gospel of John in that Bible study. The message of the Gospel is that God so loved the world, he refused to exempt himself from the brokenness and suffering and injustice of it all. At one point, Jesus receives a message from two women, Martha and Mary, telling him that their brother Lazarus, his friend, is sick. Jesus takes several days to get there, and in the meantime Lazarus dies. When Jesus arrives, Martha goes out to meet him, and says, “Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died.”

It’s easy to imagine Martha angry. It’s easy to be angry when we grieve. And it’s okay to be angry. It’s normal. But it’s not okay to stay angry. Anger takes something tragic and complicated and reduces it to a question of who’s to blame. So we blame someone else or we blame ourselves. It tricks us into thinking that the solution to all the pain we’re feeling is to add more pain on top of it. Jesus met Martha’s anger with hope. He reminded her of her faith and redirected her attention to it. “I am the resurrection and the life,” he said.

And then he saw her sister Mary and all the people grieving with her. And he didn’t tell her not to be sad. He didn’t give her the perfect explanation that would make it all make sense. “Jesus wept.” Yes, Christians like me hope for the resurrection someday, but in the meantime, we believe in a God who is so near to the brokenhearted as to let his heart break with theirs. I think Aric’s faith involved that picture of God. And I know Aric knew this story because we read it together one Saturday morning at Red Hot Inn with his dad, Al.

Aric was a dad, himself. I don’t think I ever saw a picture of Aric really smiling until he and Kelly had Hazel and Amelia. He did smile before that—just not for cameras. Like I said, he didn’t like a spotlight on him, but I guess he couldn’t help himself with his daughters. You could see a life-giving love there that transcended any insecurities or anxieties he had. His rare Facebook posts usually involved Hazel or Amelia. This year he had been coming over to watch Star Trek with me. He grew up watching it with his dad, and now we were both dads, and we watched it together and talked about our kids. I don’t remember the show all that well because we just talked through the whole thing. He loved my daughter Erin’s questions about the show—she was especially curious about everyone’s outfits—and he told me all about how his girls were doing, how they were so smart and talented. He was so impressed with them. It felt a little like 2004 again—hanging out after work. It’s so sad to lose him, but I’m so grateful for these recent memories.

So this is good-bye for now, but I don’t believe it’s the end. And I don’t think any of you do either. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have some intuition of faith already—that life is more than just the random interplay of atoms in a void; that each person has a deep, transcendent meaning and value just as they are; that there is a love that is stronger than death. Comfort each other as you can, and you’ll see what I mean. Maybe watch some Star Trek together and remember Aric. Let yourself be sad. But let yourself be grateful, too. And if you need a crutch, well, I know a good one. We can talk about it sometime if you want.

May his memory be eternal, and may he rest in peace, until we meet again.