Gone, but surely never forgotten

A few days before we left for our vacation last week, a childhood friend of mine passed away. His memorial service was held the day before we flew to Mexico.

Jason had been a friend from my elementary and junior high school days. His house was a just a few doors down from my parent’s in Palmer, and we met for the first time at our school bus stop.

The Jason I recall from my childhood was a smiling, laughing presence who was friends with everyone. The adult Jason for whom the memorial service was held had not changed at all. He died young, too young. And he left behind so many friends and loved ones that there was standing room only at his service.

My first childhood crush was on this boy. I still recall the rough days of junior high when I was being bullied by some kids from school. Jason stopped them from throwing rocks at me by walking me home from school, his mere presence beside me was all the incentive they needed to halt the childish cruelties of the others. And when I lacked the courage to tell my parents of the bullying, he told his, who in turn saw that it was halted.

From that moment on, my crush on this boy was cemented. I looked up to him for the courage he had that I thought I lacked. It was only later in life, when I was standing up for myself by myself that I realized I could thank him for setting the example I followed.

I never did get the chance to thank him. Now I never will.

The first giggly schoolgirl note I ever passed to a boy in elementary school was to him, with its ubiquitous question of “Do you like me? Yes, No, Maybe, Circle One.” I still remember he circled both “Yes and Maybe” and that it lit up my heart with excitement for weeks afterwards.

I rather lost touch with him after junior high, because he stayed at Palmer and I went to Wasilla High School. Then I lost even further contact with him as I went to college out of state and later married a military man.

Yet every December when I came home to Alaska, I saw him at our church’s Christmas Eve service. We always made it a point to say a few words to one another and give quiet smiles to each other over shared memories of our youth.

His memorial was beautiful. There was an incredible video tribute given by many teary-eyed grown friends of his, and I silently grieved that I never knew the adult Jason that they did.

But the boy from my childhood who protected me from bullies and had the courage to do what I could not was still evident, and the tears fell freely from the eyes of hundreds as other stories and memories were replayed.

The enjoyment that Jason took from life, his love and excitement in just being and his enthusiasm he had for his friends and family made it evident that he took nothing for granted. As I sat through the service and realized that this young man, the exact same age as myself, had been taken from us prematurely, I realized that I too needed to live every day of life to its fullest.

I need to hug my children more and scold less. I need to give more kisses and fewer pushes out the door. I need to hold my husband and make sure he knows how much I love him every day, because a life lived fully is truly only so when others know they are a part of it.

It’s yet another lesson, more than 20 years removed from the first, Jason has taught me — and another one I will never be able to thank him for.

Tiffany Horvath is the mother of two and the stepmother of one. Her husband, Drew, was deployed to Iraq and returned home in December. She writes every Sunday abut life at home as a wife and mother.