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...