The first was my grandfather-in-law, McCoy Christensen. He died Sunday, a day after having a stroke while walking laps in the Orem Rec Center pool, where he was a regular. At age 94, his passing maybe shouldn't have surprised us. But it did. Partly because he was in such great physical and mental condition. Partly because he was still making so plans for future: trips to go on, books to read, stories to record. But mostly, I think because he'd been such a steady and steadying presence in so many of our lives. A few days after he died, I was talking with my brother-in-law, who said it's still hard to imagine birthdays and holidays and other family gatherings without him.
Grandpa Christensen was a WWII veteran, so when we buried him yesterday, a group of veterans and soldiers came to give him a final farewell with military honors. They fired off a salute, played a mournful rendition of "Taps," folded the flag on his casket and presented it to Grandma Christensen with a solemn thanks for his service.
The second was my "uncle" (actually my mom's cousin's husband,) Will Smith. He was 53 when he died of a heart attack on Monday. On Facebook for the past while, I've been watching Uncle Will, a former coach, cheer his son through his college baseball career. My mind, though, has never caught up to the Will Smith with adult kids, since the cool young uncle he was when I was a kid still looms so large in my mind.
I remember, on one trip to Bakersfield to visit family, we went to this big maze. The details are hazy: I remember towers you could climb to get a sense of where to go, which was hard to track once you got down into the tall wooden walls that blocked your view of everything--except, in a genius design element, just enough of a gap at that bottom to let you see the feet of people walking by you on the other side.
My brother and I begged to be on a team with Will when we split into teams. He let us lead the way enough, though, that we rushed ourselves lost again and again. I remember once, when we'd gotten ourselves stuck in yet another dead end, he just laughed and had us all slip under the bottom of the wall to get through to the other side. Maybe that was cheating, or maybe it was just another way of solving the problem. To my childhood self, it felt a little like magic.
The third was a co-worker, Pradeep Beryl. We didn't work closely together, but would pass each other in the halls, chat quickly in the break room. He had an easy smile. People who worked with him more closely likely his combination of approachability and efficiency.
He was the only other Indian in the Department: from Bangalore, a member of the Solomon family my grandpa knew well. I'd met different members of the family when they passed through town and stopped in to visit. He was 35--same age as me.
Early last week, he went down to visit Zion's National Park. He'd gone on the hike up Angel's Landing. I've been up before myself--it's a beautiful, breathtaking hike with no shortage of scary parts with steep drop-offs. Pradeep must've slipped and fallen. We got word a few days later they'd found his body.
I know people have been living and dying for millions of years, but it still feels so strange to have people there, and there, and then gone. Sometimes after a long life, sometimes in what feels like it should be life's middle, and sometimes still so early, with so much assumption of a future here on earth before them.
It's Easter today. I can't see it now, can't prove it now, but I'm trying to hold on to the promise of this day. That the strangeness of death isn't the end of our stories together. That death is a wall the spirit finds a way to slip under--and that maybe just beyond, there are angels to catch us, a familiar face to thank us for our service, and so many people to see once again.