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Death Of A Household Name

My father died two years ago today.

He was a legend,
a historic figure,
a household name—
and it’s very likely you never heard of him or met him or would recognize his face.

He wasn’t rich or famous or even infamous, yet he was a bona-fide superstar.

My dad’s death was something you were probably not even aware of when it happened, yet that day altered the course of my life and that of my mother and my siblings and our family and his friends, in ways that words could never adequately convey. It was defining for us, in every imaginable manner that word can be understood even though it didn’t make the news or trend on social media for even a millisecond.

The cavernous space his passing left in our hearts and daily routines forever changed us, along with so much about our faith and our family and about the way we see the world today. We are simply profoundly different now. This day (like so many for us) is one of tremendous mourning and remembrance.

Because even though my father  wasn’t a man of fame or celebrity or renown to most of the world, he was all those things to me.

He was absolutely legendary in my early life; that mythical, massive, awe-inspiring father of my childhood, the one whose name I called upon when I was scared and whose chest I napped on and whose shoulders I sat upon and whose presence made me feel safe and secure and loved.

He was that steady, gentle fixture of my checkered teenage history; the one who cheered me on and endured me and bragged about me and sacrificed daily so that I could study and travel and have all the things he never did.

He was the clear, sturdy role model for the father and husband I would emulate when starting my own family; setting the example of generosity and compassion and faithfulness that would form my greatest of personal aspirations.

And yet as massive and transcendent as he was to me, to the rest of the world he was inconsequential. In that way, it often feels like I am grieving alone.

I share all this, because I want you to know that someone understands that you too have famous people who you’ve lost; legendary, monumental, household names whose passing changed your personal history irrevocably. For you their death has been more earth-shattering and path-altering than any celebrated singer or politician or humanitarian or athlete. They were the peerless superstars of your story and I know how hard it is to be without them, how much it hurts to grieve them, how much you wish the world knew of their greatness and goodness. 

But I also share this to hopefully remind you of your worth too; to remind you that you are that important to those who you live life alongside. Regardless of whether you have acclaim or notoriety or celebrity or whether or not you even realize it, your life is invaluable  and irreplaceable. You may rightly feel quite insignificant in the grand scheme of things but even if you are, you needn’t worry—you don’t really exist there in the most meaningful ways. You truly exist in the small and intimate and quiet sacred spaces where your life rubs up against people who know you well and who you know well, and for them you are as important a figure as has ever walked the planet. You already are a household name.

Never doubt for a moment how much you matter and never underestimate the massive, beautifully original space you occupy in the lives of those who love you.

My father doesn’t matter to you but that’s OK, he doesn’t need to. He never did need that while he was alive. He was already famous. He was “Dad”, “Husband”, “Papa”, “Uncle”, “Boss”, and “Best Friend”. Those were his household names. To me and to my family and those who knew him well—a man simply couldn’t matter more.

Friends, love well while you can love, be ever mindful of how much your life is worth, and treasure fully those for whom you are a household name.

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