Goodbye to a Wise and Godly Friend

GODSTUFF

SAYING GOODBYE

When I left the house Wednesday morning, it was supposed to be for a quick run to the Walgreens a few blocks away to pick up a prescription. Instead, I found myself driving west on the Eisenhower, headed for my alma mater, Wheaton College.

Grief drew me to campus like a massive magnet pulling at my heart.

It was the first true spring morning, with sunny skies and temperatures edging up toward 70 degrees — the kind of day when college students emerge from their winter cocoons to sit barefoot under the trees.

I wanted to feel the newly green grass under my feet and the warm breeze on my face. More than that, I wanted to feel connected to an old friend who isn’t there any more.

On April 11, my college buddy Mark Metherell died in Iraq when the vehicle he was riding in near Sadr City struck a roadside bomb. He was killed instantly. Mark was 39, a native Southern Californian and former Navy SEAL who had been working in the private sector helping to train Iraqi forces.

A week ago, when I signed on to my Facebook account and saw that Mark’s best friend had written “I’m sad that Mark died in Iraq today” as his “update” message, I hoped it was a joke. Mark and his best friends — two guys named Dave who were his college-mates and, more recently, his neighbors in Laguna Beach, Calif. — have a wicked sense of humor.

When the other Dave sent me an e-mail saying “it’s no joke,” my heart gained 50 pounds and sank in my chest, where it remains, a painful boulder.

How was it possible that one of the most alive people I’ve ever known was gone?

Mark was a year ahead of me at Wheaton, but he stayed for a fifth year to finish a degree in literature (and biology), and we graduated together in 1992. While he wasn’t one of my best friends, he was certainly one of my favorite friends — ever.

Mark was many marvelous things. Wryly and riotously funny, he could convey more humor with one wonky eyebrow than most people can with their whole bodies. He was deeply intelligent and wonderfully wacky. An adventurous, sea-loving surfer (even in Lake Michigan), he was literate, faithful, kind.

And he was a hero to me long before he proudly served his country in the armed forces and beyond.

When I remember our blissful spring college days, I think of Mark. As I walked through Wheaton’s quad earlier this week, I half expected to see him, a lanky John Cleese-ian figure swathed in khaki and flannel, loping across the lawn.

Truth be told, I willed him to appear. He didn’t, of course, so I kicked off my flip-flops — one of Mark’s sartorial mainstays; he called them “flippity-floppities” — gripped the ground with my toes, sat down and had a good, long cry.

I ached for his beautiful wife, Sarah, and their darling year-old daughter, Cora. I yearn to hug them and the heartbroken Daves and the rest of those who knew and loved Mark best.

I want to tell them what Mark surely would have: that they are loved and treasured for who they are, for the strength and beauty of their spirits, for their wit and friendship, for being the vessels of grace for us that they are.

I’ve read so many stories I’d long forgotten (or never knew) about Mark this week, as friends have shared them online at www.mark metherell.com. Like the time he presided over a particularly raucous off-campus party, seated regally in a throne-like orange chair, completely nude. Or when he told me he might join the military so he’d have material for the novel he was writing.

My fondest memory of him, however, took place in a dive bar called Punky’s not long after we had graduated. Mark didn’t engage me in conversation very often (I didn’t think he liked me that much, actually), but he took me aside in a brotherly fashion to tell me something important.

I was about to embark on a new romance, and I don’t think he approved of the suitor. Mark said he wanted me to know he thought I too often sold myself short and that I was special. He said I deserved to be cherished by someone who would appreciate all that I am.

Years later, when I met the man who did just that, I had Mark’s words to thank for helping me recognize it.

To me, godly is the word that best describes Mark. By that, I mean he embodied all the qualities I like to believe God possesses.

Loving. Wise. Strong. Tender. Surprising. A friend who is listening and watching even when we aren’t aware of it.

As I drove away from campus, a reggae song came on the radio.

“We’re jammin’, jammin’, jammin’ in the name of the Lord,” Bob Marley sang. “Jammin’ right straight from Yah.”

I could picture Mark grinning approvingly.

Goodbye for now, sweet face.

See you on the other side.