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.
