"It was on his bucket list."
I stood there, amongst the flowering trees, as the sad afternoon quickly gave in to the impending crepuscular march of darkness.
I had no words. There are no words for times like these. So I didn't say anything. Neither did my friend, the friend who'd grabbed me in a panic two hours before, and so we stood there next to me amongst the haphazard scatter of park safety vehicles and watched the unthinkable unfold.
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I don't recall the first time I met Mr. Dan. I do remember him helping lead my Royal Ambassadors group at our old church. I might have been in second or third grade, possibly. He had sons close to my age. They were there with me.
And so we sat and listened to Bible stories and tied knots and built campfires and explored caves and tossed footballs in the front lawn. We felt like kings of our vast domain. When you're eight years old even a modest church front lawn feels bigger than Montana.
And there, watching over all us crazy kids, was Mr. Dan.
Not too many years later my family left that church. So did Mr. Dan and his family. And he helped start a new one. But although his boys and I grew older, he never stopped caring about us. And he never stopped caring for kids. Kids came and kids went, but Mr. Dan was always there, with a warm smile, a crazy costume, a joyous greeting. Because to him, kids were a picture of the past and the image of our future. Kids were some of the most important people out there.
Mr. Dan cared about people.
That never changed. Even though the people that were once kids that he watched over grew up and had kids of their own, he never stopped loving us as if we were still those rambunctious little hooligans chasing each other around the lawn. He was always there with a smile and a hug and a greeting. He was beside himself the first time he got to meet my daughter.
"She's absolutely beautiful!!" he beamed, and flashed a grin that lit up his whole countenance, the kind of grin that starts from a place way deeper than just your face.
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I do remember the last time we spoke, face to face. It was Easter weekend, and true to form, he had assumed the guise of one of his favorite characters. I was standing in the lobby talking when I noticed a long trench coat and a floppy deer-stalker hat headed my way.
"Morning, Sherlock!" I gave him a friendly nudge. "Solved any mysteries lately?"
He peered back at me, magnifying glass in hand. Then he smiled, and out of the corner of his mouth, he said "oh, it's elementary, Justy."
It's funny how just one word can remind you of so many years and so many memories. There are only two people in the world that have ever called me that. The first is my father. The second was Mr. Dan.
And with that, he shuffled off towards another teeming mass of laughter and shouting.
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It was Monday afternoon when my friend threw open the door to my office. I turned and saw the look of panic and shock in his eyes.
"We have to go now. Mr. Dan just passed away."
And so we got in the car and raced around two hours of winding mountain roads to the Mount LeConte trailhead parking lot where Mr. Dan's white pickup truck was sitting. One of his boys had been on the mountain with him, and now he was filling out paperwork on the hood of the ranger's car. They'd been hiking, the piece of paper said. Suddenly Mr. Dan fell over, just like that. His son had feverishly tried CPR, but it was too late. There was nothing anyone could do.
And there was nothing that could be said. But we hugged him, and that was far beyond any feeble words that we could have summoned.
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It's been said that one of the most profound ways to measure someone's impact on the world is to examine the hole that's left behind after they're gone. Within hours, phone messages, sympathy calls, tweets and Facebook posts began pouring in about Mr. Dan. People of all ages and walks of life, all saying the same thing: we are so sorry for your loss; we are sad he is no longer with us; but our lives are better, richer, more meaningful for having known him.
And we are all thankful for having known you, Mr. Dan. You changed our stories, and you helped us write better ones for ourselves. You showed us the power of caring, and how even just a smile can be the start of someone's path to Jesus.
I am glad I knew you, and glad we shared this time in life together. You made me a better person. And you will be greatly missed.
Love,
Justy
