Words for a friend's late son after his funeral

When Jack asked me to speak I was honoured and humbled to be part of this day. But I soon became confused. I started thinking about what to say. I struggled deciding how to structure my thoughts and what to say in my opening remarks. The enormity of the thing didn't catch me. That is self-evident in this tragedy. I had no worries about opening up and sharing my sadness with a crowd. I had no fear of public speaking.

I was confused by vocabulary.

I didn't know what to call this. I thought of referring to it as a memorial. But that seemed too sad for a kid with such a genuine love of life. I wondered if it should be a celebration of life. But that seemed to mock the circumstances of a life ended too soon. I couldn't decide how to address the crowd without resorting to words too small and inappropriate. 'Welcome to our event'. 'We are glad you could be here on this occasion'. Everything sounded wrong. They sounded weird. And then I realized I had the premise wrong. Blake's concern for the mortal world has ended. But his life, for those in this room, isn't finished.

There are not many things in life I am sure of. All the big questions fall short of certainty in my mind. I don't know any truths about god or the universe or what should or shouldn't happen. What I do know is that life, at its essence, is about relationships. In that simple truth lies the tragedy and the salvation of Blake's passing.

Losing Blake is a gut punch of grief for many reasons. He was a good kid, on the verge of becoming a wonderful young man. The hard work of raising him was lessening a little and Blake's family were starting to see the individual beauty they had created.

All of this sucks.

All of this is a potent reminder that sometimes life is the exact opposite of kind and fun.

But I don't think this is the fundamental tragedy here. Life is about relationships. And a cornerstone of Blake's family and friends has been altered beyond recognition. For Jack, Erin, and Donna a pillar of family has been removed. For Autumn and the rest of Blake's family a hole exists in their universe. But Blake's spirit lives on. And, by that, I don't necessarily mean anything esoteric or otherworldly. His memories and actions survive in the collective of his family and friends.

Blake isn't finished here. We all have to hold his place. Our relationship with him hasn't ended.

The Bible, which is not my go to book for understanding, has a nice way of putting this: "For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them". Of course, these were the words of Christ to his followers. But the message remains true. Wherever two or more gather and speak of Blake he will be there with you. Invoke his name often. Behave in a way that honours his memory and is true to the young man he was becoming. Be kind to one another, as he would want. Have fun. Be close with your family and your friends. Because the tragedy that Blake's family shares, and the confusion I had trying to prepare these remarks makes a bit more sense when we remember.

Blake's concern for the mortal world is over. But his life, remembered and acted through ours, has lifetimes to go.

The Most Important Lesson I Learned Playing Hockey

It wasn't the value of hard work. I know it should have been. But I didn't work hard growing up. I didn't skip practices or cheat at drills. I did the minimum required. Any off-season training was coincidence. I played a lot of road hockey. I amused myself by tying pillows to my legs with my Dad's seldom used ties and threw a rubber ball against our living room wall. I played goal with myself. It wasn't a strategy. I didn't have a gaming system or cable t.v. and lived in a small Vancouver Island town. It was teenage survival in a media barren landscape.

It wasn't the importance of team work or teammates. I was a goalie. Teammates had no context for what I did. I didn’t share their hockey concerns. I liked them. Some of them I loved. A few I still do. I think of all of them fondly. But goaltending is a solitary position in a decidedly team experience. Teammates were potential screens, not shot blockers. I viewed most as liabilities. I'm sure most viewed me the same. Hockey did act as a catalyst for growing up. And those teammates were amongst the protagonists in my coming of age story. But it wasn't because of hockey. It could have been basketball, or wrestling, or drama club. Anything that forces young boys together over time will be a crucible of friendship.

It wasn't hard lessons about winning and losing. I learned them. But the odd thing about a team game is the randomness of the outcome compared to personal performances. I've won a lot games when I was terrible. I've lost games and played great. The difference between those performances is small. It's a little luck, good or bad. It's a puck that squeezes through the five hole and goes wide. It's a misplayed puck that results in a goal, or doesn't. From what I've seen, the NHL is still like that. The narrative of each game turns on a few flukes of physics.

It wasn't leadership. Captains were either the best player on the team, or the coaches son. Sometimes, that Venn diagram overlapped. Sometimes it didn't. Instead of leadership, I learned the importance of networks. Who you were, where you were from and what you've done before played a disproportionate role in the selection of travel teams. As boys and young men we didn't try and stand out. We strove for that impossible place of unique sameness. We wanted to be special and different, without separating ourselves from the crowd. Leadership is stuff of the grown up world. 

The most important lesson I learned playing hockey is how to see the world. There is a tongue-in-cheek saying about two types of people in the world--those who split the world into two types and those who don't. In that dichotomy, I do. I separate people by those who compare themselves to their betters and those who don’t. In this blunt evaluation I see people that do as seekers, explorers and friends. I see those that don't as delusional justifiers who over-estimate their importance, intelligence and skills. I realize that's harsh and a bit prickish, but it's my experience.

Playing hockey I learned to compare myself to better players. As a young kid I compared myself to the less skilled and less successful. That was an exercise of ego. I never thought I was good. When I tell people I won provincial championships, played Junior B and on a university team they think I was good. I think about how far I was from my dreams. As I grew up around hockey I learned to compare myself to those who made the show, or should have. I do this in all aspects of life now.

Forget hard work, team work, teammates, wins, losses and leadership. Hockey taught me I'm not good enough. I wasn't genetically gifted. I am short, and have mediocre reflexes. I can't overcome that. Even Ron Maclean's poetic vignettes-as-life-lessons he uses as nostalgic Vaseline to soften the hard focus of Don Cherry's scatter-shot rage did not help. Sometimes the lesson is you can't do it. I learned about hard work in a grocery store, at a fish cannery and in grad school. Now, I recognize it in my youth. I learned about team work and teammates playing Nintendo Ice hockey and watching the NHL. Through those I understood the subtle differences that teammates brought to a game, and the importance of various roles on outcomes. The only lessons I learned about wins and losses sucked. Sometimes I feel good in defeat. Sometimes I feel awful in victory. The difference is random and small and seldom in our control. Leadership I learned from Harrison Ford movies and politics. Only those reluctantly dragged to the front should be followed. If you seek power and leadership, you are not to be trusted. 

I continue to compare myself to those who are smarter, work harder, have more skill and are more successful. I spend my days working at the rink, writing a dissertation, renovating my home, exploring my faults, writing blogs and lectures for university classes, and working hard to raise my children right. I know I'll fail at all of these things, compared to those I wish to be like. But, I'll work hard and get help and I'll accomplish my goals as much as life's constraints allow. 

Maybe I learned more than I thought. 

Birthdays

I am uncomfortable with my birthday.

I'm not uncomfortable with the concept. I quite enjoy celebrating the birth of loved ones. I just like mine to pass quietly. I've never been comfortable with undeserved attention. I don't mind being watched while I play hockey, do Judo, drive Zamboni or lecture. But the feeling of being stared at for something beyond my control brings childish pain to the surface.

It's fucking melodramatic, but childish hurts never go away completely.

They are always a part of who we are. If we are lucky, or work hard to deal with them, they become small parts of a large and stable whole. But they are still there, thinly covered scars. A little irritation will open them.

That's the feeling of birthday wishes for me.

Intellectually, I understand this is ridiculous. I understand, and am flattered, that people care and want to say, "Hey! We're glad you were born". In the moments I'm usually fine. I can accept and enjoy the expression of love. But the anxious waiting brings me back. The anticipation of an awkward exchange from someone I don't know well, whose wishes feel like social obligation, disturbs the nine year old boy in me . He was having a great day with friends until someone pointed, shrugged up their shoulders to their ears, and laughed with their own friends at his fused vertebrae.

I told you it was fucking melodramatic.

But the past is only separated by context. That little boy still doesn't like new places and new people. What if they're mean too? Luckily, I'm a grown up now and I can do what I want. When looking after my children, and the shadow of myself, I try and remember the best piece of parenting advice I ever got. "Of course you can make them do what you need. That's why you're bigger than them".

I can. And I do. I go new places, meet new people and don't let that disheartened nine year old make decisions anymore. But he is always close to the surface of my feelings. His scar never healed. I do my best to keep him safe.

It means avoiding small awkwardness at the price of more love, and birthday wishes.