Saying "So Long"

I first met RadioGeek the fall of my freshman year of college. I had become friends with this one guy, Eventual Hubby, who was in the school's A Cappella Choir just like I was, and he knew RadioGeek from his home district, and they were both Youth Ministry majors. Because of choir, I spent a lot of time with Eventual Hubby, who spent a lot of time with RadioGeek, and soon RadioGeek was part of my regular group of friends. I’m pretty sure he was there the day the whole table was laughing at lunch, and the same crowd assembled at dinner, only to be just as rowdy, causing me to remark, “I haven’t laughed this hard since lunch!”—which only sent us off giggling again.

RadioGeek loved music as much as I did, even if his talents in that regard might have been a tad questionable. Moreover, he loved the same kind of music I did, so we had things to talk about. The names I grew up listening to—by golly, he knew who most of them were, and he liked them. Even at a Christian college, not everyone grew up doused in Christian music the way I had been. Most everyone hadn’t. But RadioGeek knew these singers and groups and was as much of a contemporary Christian music nerd as I was. He had the knack for filling in the precise 34 seconds of musical intro of Geoff Moore and the Distance’s cover of “I Can See Clearly Now” with his own “weather report” while we were in college. When I asked him to do it later for my own kids, he still had it…some twenty-five years later.

I had briefly considered making Communications my major—RadioGeek doubled in both Youth Min and Communications—so it’s something I picked his brain about once or twice. In the end, I chose English, but we’d shared a class or two along the way.

One of those classes was The Philosophical Quest. Required for all students, regardless of major, this overview of philosophy was team-taught by two well-known and -feared professors during our tenure at the school, and it was brutal. We formed more of a support group to get through it. Come to think of it, maybe RadioGeek had taken Phil Quest the semester before I did and barely squeaked by. I had someone to commiserate with as I slogged through the course.

RadioGeek worked the mail room at college, and I would often stop by to see if the mail had arrived yet. One day, I asked him what happened. Why hadn’t the mail come? He didn’t miss a beat: the Iraqis, he explained, had gotten hold of the mail and weren’t letting it go. (It was the early 90s. The Iraqis were responsible for everything bad.) His words had their desired effect, and I cracked up. From then on, it was a running gag. I no longer asked if the mail had come; I’d ask what the Iraqis were up to today. And every now and then, I’d find a slip of paper in my student mailbox that simply said: “You are loved” and signed with his initials. It was such a catchphrase of his that I didn’t need the initials to know it was from him.

Somewhere along the line, we took to calling each other by our last names. The rest of school called him “Radio” or “RadioG,” but to me, he was HisLastName, usually followed by three exclamation points. Sometimes said with amusement, sometimes said with frustration, but always said with affection.

When Hubby and I eventually got married, RadioGeek stood up for Hubby as one of his groomsmen. The day of the wedding, when all heck came unloosed and I was left alone at the house with no bridesmaids to assist me (my mother had sent them all ahead to the church), RadioGeek and one other groomsman hopped in a car and drove the twenty-five minutes from the church to my house to do whatever needed doing for me. I’ve never forgotten that.

After the wedding, RadioGeek remarked rather sadly that he’d no longer be able to call me by my maiden name. “To you,” I quickly reassured him, “I will always be that name.” The last time he was here to visit, he still called me that.

I knew, by the time Hubby and I married, that it mattered to me that RadioGeek found someone special to share his life with. I don’t think it was too long after his marriage to Sunshine that he introduced us on Facebook—something that both of us say he regretted aloud but was secretly thrilled with. We became fast friends, Sunshine and me.

RadioGeek and Sunshine came to visit us several times while we lived and served in the Cburg and Sburg area. There was one time, while the girls were still in school, that we went out to lunch, had some ice cream (Cookie Monster ice cream should be blue), and played a round of minigolf that had us all howling on the course.

It was RadioGeek's confidence that I have a great voice for radio—he wanted to hire me to do some voiceover work, but, he said, “I can pay you in cheeseburgers”—that led me to believe I could someday maybe do my own audio work for my books.

We went bowling one time when they visited, and the music had RadioGeek dancing in the lanes along with my daughter Oldest. (That’s one of her fondest memories of him.) I have pictures.

When the adoption of our girls was—at long last—finalized, RadioGeek and Sunshine came out for the celebration and happily billed themselves as honorary uncle and auntie.

When my father passed away, RadioGeek very graciously loaned me his wife for a week.

When hard times hit in my marriage, RadioGeek and Sunshine were there. They loved me and supported me, even from as far away as North Carolina.

Most recently, RadioGeek and Sunshine came to our area for a wedding, and they crashed at our house. They had enough time before the wedding to attend Sunday school with us on Sunday, and followed me to church. Once we arrived, RadioGeek quipped, “I very much enjoyed the over-the-river-and-through-the-woods-to-Grandmother’s-house-we-go route we took to get here.” When we got home from church that afternoon, I saw undeniable evidence of their visit: the sidewalk chalk had been found, and “You are Loved” was written in huge letters on my back patio.

RadioGeek, I wish more than anything that I could razz you one last time. Skip you in Phase 10 one more time. Howl at your stupid jokes one more time. I will miss your humor, your love, your gentle compassion, your wisdom, your friendship. My heart breaks for Sunshine and for all of us who must face the intervening years without you, until we meet again. I will miss you. And, yes, I know I’m loved.