Kip

You really don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

This truism becomes blatant when someone dies. I spent last weekend hearing all of the ways my father-in-law impacted the lives of people around him. I began to realize, after hearing enough of these stories, how much more my father-in-law has meant to me than I ever knew.

Two silver linings emerged while mourning his death.

The pastor at the church where the funeral service was held explained one of them. In the grieving process, everyone’s thoughts turn to God and the eternal. This proved true. Kip’s best friend shared how he no longer has questions about the afterlife because he knows his bud will be there waiting for him. 

I’ve never doubted that there is an afterlife. I didn’t need my father-in-law’s death to convince me of one. 

I have felt heaven before, in fact. In early sobriety, I felt heaven in waves. Slowly and reluctantly, I accepted who I am. In turn, I developed the belief that God accepts me too. This feeling—the feeling of being accepted by your creator—is a sensation like no other. For me, it is heaven. It feels like your soul is wrapped in a blanket. It has also felt like a part of me travelled this unspeakable distance, landing somewhere fully unknown and good. 

I see heaven as that feeling. And all who died who know that feeling or know their creator are in that feeling. So, yes, death, in my opinion, is a reunion, but our soul joins that blissful spirit that goes on freeing everyone else in their earthly lives. I guess my version of the heaven we go to is the heaven that is in us already if we seek it.

But, after this weekend, I like Kip’s friend’s idea better. At least in that version I get to hear him laugh again.

The other silver lining is hard to articulate.

So, bear with me.

I’ve never lost anyone closer to me than him. But I wasn’t alone in this fact last weekend.

As it turns out, being close to Kip was not a fact at all; it was a characteristic of his. He got close to people. I heard about his one-of-a-kindness all weekend. And this helps explain it: everyone felt close to him. He made people comfortable enough to give them that impression. What a life skill that is. It reminds me of one of my favorite prayers: Kip sought to comfort others, not to be comforted himself. 

I heard from several people who have fundamentally changed the way they live their life because of him. At first glance, I couldn’t see if this was true for me. Yes, Kip was more than a father-in-law. He was a confidant and mentor. But, did he change the course of my life?

Like many others close to him, I spent last weekend reflecting on such questions. 

The answers came more easily than I thought they would. The more I think about it, the more I realize that this whole miracle of the mundane thing is really Kip’s idea. 

The second silver lining of losing a loved one? You learn, albeit tragically late, just how much someone truly means to you.

I was never much of a motor guy or a handy man.

These are roles I grew into as a husband and homeowner. Kip showed me how.

His touch on my life is evident in this very blog. I wrote a post once about the miracle of mowing. It is Kip all over it. You don’t think about who is impacting your life while they are still making an impact, but once they’re gone? It becomes clear. Why is that? 

Kip taught me to take care of both people and things. He always put the needs of others first. Maybe I didn’t think too much of this fact because I was married to his daughter and thought this sort of treatment was reserved for her. But Kip treated everyone that way. Folks were telling me stories of how, from his hospice bed, he made phone calls to people he knew were struggling. This is radical considering the size of the tumor in his stomach and the suffering he endured. 

Kip put the miracle in the mundane.

He treasured simple exchanges and casual relationships. He exalted with each visitor and treated people how they wanted to be treated. As a result, a line of mourners spilled out the church door to sign the visitation book; over three hundred people continued on to the reception afterwards. 

And that was just the beginning.

My stepfather provided one of two eulogies. He mentioned Kip’s larger-than-life personality and boundless pride; he also mentioned how he and my mom, in honor of Kip, would go to the diner the next day and finally order the Sticky Buns he suggested they try years ago.

The audience squirmed a bit at the mention of those sticky buns—unbeknownst to him, the diner has been closed for a while now. 

But, as if to prove the miracles Kip worked in his life, Fred, a man in attendance, knew the family that made those sticky buns. Although the diner was permanently closed, they still sell them locally. Fred got to texting immediately and made a quick stop on the way to the reception. When he showed up, he gave my stepfather four boxes of those famous sticky buns.

A little bowled over, my stepfather thanked him. 

Fred just said, “I just did what Kip would have done.”

I’ve found myself operating in hyper W-W-K-D—what would Kip do—mode since he passed. He set a high standard of conduct throughout the course of his life. You might be wondering, exactly what would Kip do?

Kip would do the right thing the first time. He would treat others the way he wanted to be treated. He would tip generously those who served him, give freely to all who ask, and laugh often with those he loved. Kip would never miss an opportunity to sit and talk. Other people alway took priority, and yet, he still took care of business.

I will miss him, but I will never forget his presence. 

When a great man dies, he will never be forgotten.

I guess you can call it a third silver lining. 

I would have considered none of this so long as Kip were here to hear me. 

But as a result of his death and legacy, I now believe he can.