Heads up:  Garth isn’t going to be happy with where this is going.

When I say there is an army surrounding me, I mean an army.  Hundreds upon hundreds.  College friends, high school friends, neighbors, his work friends, my work friends, our small groups, our church, his clients, former students, former colleagues, our volunteer groups…the love has poured out in almost over-whelming amounts.  And I only say “almost” because every card, meal, text, visit, and invitation is so needed and appreciated.

I’m not sure how we deserved such wonderful people in our lives.  My gut says it was Chris:  the giver, the heart, the better friend of the two of us.  I’m a horrible friend.  I don’t call, I hate the phone, I don’t bring over meals, I don’t send birthday cards.  In fact, I typically do the lazy thing and just post a “Happy Birthday” on a Facebook page.  I am happy, friendly, and witty, but Chris was the better friend.

And at the moment, Friends in Low Places has three meanings:

1.)  I am in a low place.  And the army of both his and my friends have surrounded me during this otherwise lonely walk.  I have friends as I walk through this low place.

2.)  After hearing one mother and three men cry giving his eulogy, I realized I’m not the only one in a “low” place.  We are all struggling to lose a friend, a neighbor, advisor, mentor, brother, son, and husband.  And as we know where he is, we are quite literally his friends, on Earth, in lower places than he is.

3.)  Last, during a moment when I desperately needed a laugh, it was the (inappropriate) song my step-mother suggested for the memorial service.  I bet Garth didn’t see that coming when he wrote the lyrics.  And a (small) part of me kind of wishes we’d played it.

And however undeserving I think I am, our friends, in low places, have shown radical acts of friendship.  Truly profound acts of love, support, and compassion have poured over me during this dark time.   I wish I could name every single act of kindness, friendship, and sympathy, including those by our families.  But here is a short summary of the most amazing acts of friendship:

• Some of our best friends had just given birth to their third child just a few weeks earlier.  Struggling with time management and sleep depravity themselves, they selflessly set up and managed a meal train for me to ensure I had meals for the next two months.  The baby still isn’t sleeping through the night, but I have meals, and leftovers, and a schedule of visitors for weeks because of them.

• Friends we met too briefly a few years before had moved back to their home-state of Michigan.  But they flew back to NC, just to provide support, pray with me, and reach out to be here in person.  Because, unfortunately, they knew the pain of loss a little too well themselves, and knew the best they could do was be here.

• His coworkers from all over eastern North Carolina came to his visitation.  And after, they gathered at a local brewery, taking up an entire room, reminiscing and toasting in Chris’ honor.  Amazingly, at the exact same moment, in the room right next door, a group of Chris’ clients had gathered to do the exact same thing.  Two toasts to my husband, happening at almost the same time, in the same place.  I sure hope he caught that moment as he looked down from his “pull-out cloud”.

• Our college crew agreed they should organize a celebration.  As the family greeted hundreds in the receiving line after Chris’ service, our friends came to my house to set up tents, tables, chairs, and a pig-cooker in my backyard.  They handled the drinks, the meat, the sides items, the parking, the communication, the ice, the furniture, the set up, the clean up…so that no one in our families would have to lift a finger on this horribly difficult day.  One, with a newborn baby in tow, came over the night before at 10pm to begin setting up, then spent the entire morning making 60 hand-pattied burgers.  That afternoon, we toasted to Chris, told stories, threw around the football, and just hung out on my lawn, to celebrate the life of Chris in the most perfect way, his favorite way:  a tailgate party.  A perfect celebration of his life, organized completely by friends.
  • Sidenote:  These are the same friends that serenaded me on my wedding day with “Honkytonk Badonkadonk”, in front of my grandmother, then turned around and covered our car with an abominable mixture of cake icing and vaseline.  Go big, or go home, they said.

• A friend and professor from Virginia was in the middle of her final exams.  She found someone to cover for her and came down to spend the week, just to be at my beckon call.  She became the “point man” for Chris’ tailgate.  And at one moment, as we sat alone on my porch, she even joined me – not judging me – as I requested, “Can we talk to Chris like he’s here?  Can we say all the things we’d want to say to him?”

• My childhood best friend, a Kindergarten teacher, was about to give students their end-of-year assessment:  a task by far best performed by their beloved teacher.  Without question, she called in a substitute and drove up, just to be sure I could cry on her familiar shoulder for a few days.  We hadn’t spoken in months, maybe even years.  But it didn’t matter, as I’m sure it never will.

• Two of our best friends, a couple struggling as much as I was with the loss, dropped everything to be there for me no less than five times.  Once, the night of, to be with me.  Twice to sit with me and figure out every detail of our finances and bills.  Once to be my Uber driver and do my grocery shopping.  Once to go with me to financial appointments.  And they continue to offer to drop everything.

• My step-sister (and friend) was about to celebrate her 10-year wedding anniversary in New York City.  But somehow, without hesitation, she and her husband cancelled their perfect days of celebration, so that she could be with me almost every night the week of.  She missed Jimmy Fallon to sleep and cry with me.  The night of her 10-year anniversary, they ate pizza in our kitchen and she still slept by my side, while her husband spent the night on my very uncomfortable couch.

This doesn’t include the dozens of meals that have been fixed and the constant flow of messages of love.  I cannot explain these acts of radical friendship.  And again, I’m truly not sure I deserve them.   I know I am lucky, and this is not what every widow experiences.  But somehow, through the grace of love and friendship, here they are.  I know Chris is smiling, tearfully looking down, at our friends in low places.