Pain in the Offering

Email from fellow kindergarten classmate Cory Hill (3rd from right)

"...For those of you who don't know, Dave Deane (2nd from Right) died yesterday August 19th at 11:55am in a motorcycle accident in the Angeles National Forest. Based on the Firemen and Paramedics accounts he felt no pain and died immediately. Please pray for his family, loved ones, and anyone who was close to Dave as this is such a tragic and painful experience for anyone who ever knew him. He was such an amazing young man and will be missed dearly."

As I write this, my microcosm of high school friends (a fraction of whom are displayed in all their glory in the above photo) are preparing to attend a memorial service in a few hours from now for Dave Deane, the skinny soccer player two grades younger than us, whom I believe Josh Miller (2nd from left) grandfathered into the group somewhere around junior year. Because I was the very definition of a brat, I never missed the chance to give Dave a hard time for being the kid brother we let tag along, and would needlessly pretend to forget his name, often confusing him with other underclassmen who looked nothing like him. I think I may have called him Timmy for half a semester, the name of a kid who was actually 4 feet eleven.

After high school everyone still hung out, collectively discovered alcohol and rebellion, got hopped up, made bad decisions, took some ill-advised trips to TJ, and just generally tried to navigate adulthood. A few years went by in which I had been completely MIA, having had a total life upheaval at 25, when I inexplicably showed up to a party one night at Driskell's(far right)house, completely out of the blue. Surveying the raucous scene I had not been a part of in almost 3 years, I quickly noticed a tall, strikingly handsome kid lingering in the kitchen that I didnt immediately recognize, which is rare in this town, not to mention at one of Driskell's house parties - which is to say that everyone is still swimming in the same plastic baby pool as we always have, not a lot of room for newcomers. Although I immediately pegged him for a foreigner, he slowly became strangely familiar as I continued to stare awkwardly trying to place him. He was dragging a very sloppy, very inebriated girl around his neck like an albatross, and I noticed his face was bright red from the embarrassment and the weight. He had the aura of a sweet kid without guile who looked a little out of his league. The night had probably started out just him and the guys laughing and talking smack as per usual. But as tends to happen at Driskell's house, mayhem had ensued, someone was dancing to Bel Biv Devoe in a speedo in the living room, people were sprawled on the lawn, and now he was alone, strayed from the pack and caught on a bar stool with Ms. Malibu Rum. Noticing me smirking, he came over to me and said Hi. I honestly still had no idea who he was, figured he must have been from Calvary, seeing as you cant show up to a soiree in OC without atleast one alumni on the premises, but continued to find it profoundly amusing that he was so clearly uncomfortable with the forwardness this drunk girl was displaying. As opposed to one of his cohorts nearby who was making nice with the girls' friend and playing the part of the perfect wing man, the kid looked mortified at the possibility of the public dry-hump fest this was quickly turning into. The girl was slobbering and singing and yelling and trying to kiss him, and I kept laughing because he looked uncomfortably like he was on a first date gone terribly wrong. Not their first date - HIS first date. Like ever. We were making small talk when the girl finally got irritated with the lack of attention to her antics, and walked off. Relieved finally, the kid looked me straight in the eye and asked me genuinely how I had been, hadnt seen me in awhile, how was my family and my sisters... It took me maybe ten minutes of conversation to figure out it was Dave Deane. I remember thinking how shocked I was that he had gotten so friggin' cute, like alarmingly so, and that despite the fact that he had every reason in the world to play the "you used to be kinda mean to me 10 years ago and now I am going to pretend I am cool and dont know you, or possibly try to enact my revenge on you" game that so many are found of these days, he never did. He was always polite, always sincere. Always made the time to ask questions, listen, and be interested.

I cant remember the exact last time I spoke to him. But I do remember the last time I gave him a hug. A few years ago he had us all up to his new apartment in Studio City, and as I was walking up to the building, he was standing outside. Again, as with every one of his friends, his face lit up and he wrapped me in a hug, and thanked me for coming. And he meant it. I will hold on to that now, as well as what I remember most about that night - listening to Dave tell me about his longing desire to be a stuntman in Hollywood. And me telling him he was crazy, while feeling that pang of concern in your chest Im certain are the beginnings of a maternal instinct of some sort. He had that look in his eye of the sort of naive fearlessness that keep mothers up at night worrying about their children. I felt a similar fraction of that when I began hearing that this same group of guys had all begun purchasing motorcycles a few years ago, Dave included, and were devoting alot of time to their use. When you find yourself as part of a large group of male friends, there will always be a sort of underlying protectiveness that belies your friendships. Be it emotional or physical, crazy exes or motorcycles, you either play the protected or protective. I choose the latter - whether they like it or not.

Yes, this is now the second death of a peer for me in a few short weeks involving a crash of some sort. Yet, because these deaths are a few degrees of separation from me personally, I mourn not only for Chris Laurie and Dave Deane, but I grieve for the mutual friends and family we share who are utterly devastated, and whom I physically cannot be with right now to grip onto and cry and ask why. For someone like me who consistently needs to be doing something, being able to do absolutely nothing is so awful it makes me angry. But, as my wise sister said to me the other day, "what is it that you could actually do for them besides wipe their tears - prayer is the strongest thing we have to give."

And so I pray. I pray for those who ache and bleed this pain, I pray for those who are self-imprisoned in darkness trying to see the light, and I pray for those whose hearts have turned and cannot/will not/do not pray. I ask everyone reading this to please do the same.

To my friends who will grieve and mourn together today - I miss you, I love you, and life is so short. We need to forgive and let go of things and continue on in friendship and love. I dont want to lose anyone else without them knowing they were loved and prayed for.

To everyone else - tell everyone in your life that you love them. Tell them of the time they made you laugh, made you proud, made you glad you are friends. Today. Right now. This minute.

Make this all count. For His Sake.

"And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away." Rev 21:4