Andy.

Andy Boettger had way more life ahead of him. He had more to do. More to see. More to say. More drums to play. More law to practice. More music to share. More books to read. More Jesus to love. He was only 49 years old. And yet, I just arrived home from a weekend in Ames, Iowa where yesterday, I attended his funeral. The universe really fucked this one up. No parent should have to bury their child. Children should not have to speak at their father’s funeral. Friends shouldn’t have to eulogize their 49-year-old childhood friends. Instead, they should be planning 50^th birthday parties, buying tickets to the next concert they’ll see together. Finding a football game with rival teams that they will stand and cheer on together. People were doing all of those things when Andy died suddenly on July 7^th.

I met Andy in the summer of 1988 when I was 13 years old and we both arrived at the Joseph Baldwin Academy for Eminent Young Scholars (otherwise known as JBA) on the campus of what was then Northeast Missouri State University. I learned from Andy’s uncle this weekend, that he had been flown in a private plane to the NMSU campus in Kirksville, MO for camp. If I had flown to summer camp in a private plane, I would have told anyone who would listen. Andy never told any of us that he arrived this way. He probably didn’t want to brag or stand out. That’s just how he was. 

We spent 3 weeks together in the summer of 1988 and then again in the summer of 1989 on the campus of NMSU taking college level classes and living in the dorms. It was the first time I’d been away from home for any amount of time, and I LOVED it. Before I got there, I was really angry at my parents for sending me away to what we still lovingly refer to as, “nerd camp”. In retrospect, it was probably one of the best things that ever happened to me in this lifetime. During my time at camp, I not only met Andy, but I also met Taline (from Texas) and John (from Minnesota). The four of us quickly became close friends, powered, mostly I think by a sense that we had found our people: weirdos, silly people, smart kids who thrived on learning new things: NERDS.

In the days that followed the end of JBA, we would write letters to each other to keep in touch. Hundreds of letters. It was the 80s, and there were no iPhones, no social media, no internet, and no long-distance phone calls that didn’t cost a fortune. I have been thinking about those days after camp was over, and how I sat sobbing on the couch in the house I grew up in, absolutely heartbroken that I wouldn’t see my friends again for at least another year, maybe more. I realize now that JBA was my first true love, and also my first heartbreak. It was the first time that I felt a true, real, honest connection with people – a connection greater, in some ways than what I’d had with my family. I can’t explain to you why this was. It just was. Ask any of us and we’ll say the same thing. Andy, Taline, John, and I became as close as we did not just from the days we spent at camp with one another, we remained as close as we still are because we spent time writing to one another, planning visits when we could, and once we got older, being very intentional about seeing each other anytime we could make it happen. We have been with each other through graduations (a bunch), weddings (many), divorces (a few), babies (MANY), our babies’ graduations (a few so far), deaths of a parent (two). These friends I made when I was 13 are my family. Losing Andy feels like losing a family member, someone I have loved dearly for almost my whole life.

I adored Andy from the day we met. Not only was he handsome and smart, he also had a dry sense of humor and a wit about him that I couldn’t NOT fall in love with. Thankfully, my teenage crush on Andy was just that, nothing more, and we were able to have a lovely friendship that spanned 35 years. When Andy spent his first year in college at KU, I drove over to the campus in Lawrence, and we had dinner together on at least one occasion. My 17-year-old brain and heart were certain that this was it: we were going to fall madly in love and get married. Shockingly, this would not be the case. Instead, we debated things like religion, politics, pop culture, and music. We laughed and smoked cigarettes in the parking lot before heading our separate ways and back into our separate and much different lives. Andy was never meant to be a romance; he was, and will always remain a brother to me. 

Andy had a deep faith in God, but he never, ever tried to tell me I was wrong, or tried to persuade me when I struggled with my own faith over the years about the things I believed. I think he would be the first to tell you that some of the finest humans he knew and loved don’t consider themselves Christian, but rather believe that being humble, just, and kind are traits that anyone SHOULD have. I have a lot of issues with Christianity, but listening to his friends and family talk about Andy’s faith this weekend reminded me how lucky I was to be friends a person who accepted me exactly as I am: God or no God. It also reminded me of the importance of believing in something bigger than myself. This weekend, my friend John asked, “Isn’t that how people explain horrible things, like losing a friend at 49? By believing that there is something better out there?” I suppose he’s right, even in his deep skepticism, which I share. But I, too, need to believe in things that I can’t see to help me make any sense at all of the death of my sweet friend.

For example: Andy loved owls. He would almost always send some sort of owl emoji when he texted, and one of the last texts he sent our group chat was an owl with heart eyes for my birthday. The night Andy died, I was outside on my patio crying, and talking to him (because YES, I do that) when an owl began hooting in the trees above. I’d say that I could not believe it, but of course I could. I do have faith in the unseen, just in a different way than my old friend. I think he knew that. When we arrived at Andy’s home on Friday night in Iowa for a celebration of his life with his parents, the first thing I noticed was a carved owl on his front porch. And inside the house? More owls. Of course, there were more owls.

Andy and I often communicated through songs. He would send me something to listen to, and I would in return, do the same. The week before he died, he sent me a text asking if I’d heard the band Susto, and I had not. I didn’t listen right away…life got in the way, and I honestly forgot. Until he was gone. That night, I opened my Spotify and began to play the album he recommended. These words stopped me in my tracks:

What if we could fly
Right out the window
Go find a new place
Somewhere clean enough to breathe
One look in your eyes
It fills me up with hope
It changes my mind
Tells me
I'm not dead yet
No I'm not dead yet

There I was, sitting listening to this song that he’d suggested, and I couldn’t even text him to tell him I loved it. And I couldn’t call him to give him a rash of shit for sending me a song with those lyrics. The lyrics that I didn’t listen to until after he was dead. Fuck. Life certainly has a way of gut punching you sometimes. 

I honestly don’t know what else to say about this situation, other than it’s complete bullshit. I am angry. I am more sad than I’ve been in a very long time. My heart feels like it did when I was 13. It is broken, and this time there is not an “until next time” to look forward to. I will continue to mourn Andy until I am no longer on this earth. I mourn for his children. The older ones who had plenty of time to learn from their dad, and who know fully what they are missing in his absence. The younger ones who knew how much their dad loved them but might not have fully grasped yet the enormity of what they might learn from him in the coming years. I mourn for his family. I mourn for all of the things he didn’t get to do in this life. I mourn for me, and for my friends John and Taline, who also lost a brother.  It feels like a gaping hole inside of me, and I’m sure it will for a very long time. 

Friday night, before his funeral, I slept terribly. I tossed and turned and had weird dreams all night. Andy showed up in every single one of my dreams that night, except for the last one. In the last one, my dad was sitting with my Grandma Jeanie, who had curlers in her hair. She would hate that I’m including that detail, but it made me happy. I don’t really know why she was there, but when we were handed the funeral program I noticed that the one hymn that was listed was the one that ALWAYS reminds me of Jeanie. I don’t know if those things are related, but I think in some way they must be. And while I can think of a thousand other lines from a thousand other songs that we’ve shared over the years, it seems fitting to end this drawn-out brain dump about my pal with the words from that hymn. Andy would approve, I am certain. And while we don’t share the same faith? I have to believe that he is happy wherever he is. I believe that his faith has created that for him. Hug your favorite people. Call them. Make plans with them: even if they don’t come to fruition. Tell your friends that you love them every single chance you get.

When Christ shall come, with shout of acclamation
And take me home, what joy shall fill my heart
Then I shall bow, in humble adoration
And then proclaim, my God, how great Thou art

Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee
How great Thou art, how great Thou art...