A Celebration of Life

by Paul Papa in Desert Superbloom

It was going to be difficult. No, not difficult, gut wrenching. One of those events nobody ever wants to attend because it wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t yet twenty years old, traveling down a road I myself had traveled more times than I can remember. The road, U.S. 287, takes travelers from my hometown in Laramie, Wyoming, to Colorado, more specifically, Ft. Collins. They have better food there—or at least different food—so it’s a common trip for anyone in Laramie to take, especially college kids. Sixty-four miles, a little over an hour.   

                But 287, as we called it, was a dangerous road. A very dangerous road. A hungry road that ate up cars and the people who dared drive them. 570 crashes in the past five years, more than 100 of those resulting in injuries, and 15 taking lives. He was on that road, inside an SUV with his college friends, likely laughing, joking, and enjoying an abundance of life, the way all young people should.

                It shouldn’t have happened.

                His name was Charlie and I knew him from afar. His older sister and my daughter were best friends. They spent many hours together—the three of them—mostly at their house. Not that they weren’t welcome in ours, it’s just that their house was far more fun, more lively, filled with children. Five in all, six if you count my daughter—an only child. She spent so much time over there, her mother and I started to feel like we should be paying child support.           

                This was to be a celebration of life—of his life. What we used to call a memorial service. I wasn’t sure what to expect. I’d attended quite a few funerals in my time—including my own father’s—and had become a bit numb to them. All saying relatively the same thing. But there was just something about this one that hinted it would somehow be different. This was not going to be your average funeral, because Charlie was not your average human.

Only days before, my wife and I attended a candlelight vigil here in Las Vegas put on by Charlie’s old swim club. Charlie was a swimmer (we used to call them “fish” in high school). And although I’d never seen him in the water, from what I understood, he was a very fast fish.

                I expected people to attend the vigil, but what I hadn’t expected to see was more than 100 people all gathered to remember this young man. Much of it was quiet remembrances as people set lit candles afloat in the pool where he once swam. Looking at their faces, watching them embrace each other as if doing so would somehow make it not real, somehow bring Charlie back, it didn’t take long to come to the understanding that these people weren’t strangers mourning the loss, as we all would, of a life taken too young. No, all these people had gathered together to remember someone who was more than just a friend. To be in the company of others who knew him, respected him . . . loved him.  

                As the silence drifted away and people began to speak aloud, they told stories of what Charlie meant to them. How he would raid their backpacks for food and how he would be the first to encourage them—paying special attention to those who needed an extra boost of support. They remembered his hugs, the ones he doled out unreservedly, and how his giant wingspan embraced them, made them feel welcome, made them feel loved.

As we left the pool, I couldn’t help but wonder, if this many people attended the candlelight vigil, how many would be there for his celebration of life? It was an answer that shouldn’t have surprised me. On the day we gathered to celebrate Charlie, we arrived early, then watched as more and more people began to fill the pews. The main room connected to a cultural hall through folding doors. Chairs had been set up there to handle the overflow. Fifteen, maybe twenty, rows of chairs, ten on each side, with an aisle in between.

Each and every row was full. 

I stood there, looking out over all these people in attendance, some who had traveled all the way from Wyoming, trying to fathom how anyone could possibly survive the loss of a child. It was then that I began to ponder my own memorial, wondering just how many people would attend. I was sure it wouldn’t be the nearly three hundred or more who had shown up to Charlie’s. But why? Why had so many come? Charlie was in no way famous—at least in the conventional sense of the word. He wasn’t a celebrity, a famous cook, or a brilliant scientist. He hadn’t run for office, cured cancer, or written a bestseller that turned the world on its ear. No, he was just Charlie. How could this one person, this one young man, have forged such an abundance of humanity in such a scarcity of years?

                As the fullness of the organ faded into the background, Charlie’s father took a deep breath, then started his remarks by saying: “There is a six-foot-seven, hundred-and-ninety pound hole in my heart where Charlie goes.” He continued with how he didn’t want to be sad, but rather wanted to celebrate Charlie and how his son impacted the people around him.

 Charlie was a handful. He was as goofy a kid as you would ever want to meet, an abundance of energy, a car with no brakes, a spinning tornado, a fearless adventurer who fancied himself Spiderman. When his sister suggested that Spiderman would be able to easily climb the palm tree in their backyard, Charlie set himself to the task, armed with nothing but two butter knives and a strong conviction. He routinely launched himself over furniture, onto cars, and atop walls. He fell more times than humanly possible and likely concussed himself more than his parents would care to know.

He was also sweet and very, very kind. At some point in his youth, Charlie discovered water and in it a purpose. As this goofy little boy grew and grew and grew, he found himself at home in that water. He practiced, practiced, and practiced some more—even sneaking out of the house once when he was grounded just to go to practice—until he began winning, standing on the podium regularly, and in first place more often than not. With a goal of the Olympics, Charlie decided to attend the University of Wyoming instead of Hawaii because the higher Wyoming altitude of 7,200 feet would help increase his lung capacity and make him a better swimmer.            

                Along the way, this once goofy young kid proved himself a leader, bringing comfort to those in need with encouragement in the form of a kind word, a playful tease, or sometimes just a silent hug. Charlie saw everyone as a friend. As his family noted, even a stranger was simply a friend he hadn’t yet met. And to Charlie, friends were family.

                 I had a dog once who was a challenge. He peed on everything he saw, barked his fool head off, and didn’t seem to listen to a single word I said. Yet he protected his sister and loved me more than any other dog I’ve ever had in my life. He truly adored me. When I came to bed, he would always, every time, even when he seemed to be asleep, get up and come to me, pressing his body against mine and gazing up into my eyes. Sometimes he would lick my nose—something that drove me insane—mostly he just sat there with me. He was a challenge, yes, but he was simply pure love.

This was Charlie, the golden retriever of people, a captivating person who smiled with his entire face. Someone who touched the lives of every single person he met. There was nothing wrong with Charlie. If you didn’t like him, the fault was entirely yours. I suddenly understood how and why Charlie was able to touch so many lives. How he made such an impact on those around him. Why they all came to celebrate him. As each person took the podium—friends and family alike—they told stories of Charlie. Happy stories. Funny stories. Uplifting stories. And the room seemed somehow lighter, brighter even. As bright as the multitude of flowers that adorned the pulpit.

There is a phenomenon that happens every year, just outside of Las Vegas on a desolate piece of earth known as Death Valley, where summer temperatures routinely reach into the 120s. Starting mid-February, vibrant flowers cover the surface of the desert in a technicolor display of reds, yellows, oranges, blues, and violets. It’s called a superbloom, and it’s almost like a miracle, truly a sight to behold, but one that doesn’t last long. The flowers bloom fast and die just as quickly. Still, people travel from miles around to witness this fleeting moment of natural beauty. And when it’s over, there appears to be nothing left but barren, dry desert.

But it isn’t so.

You see, even though the flowers are only there for a short time, they leave behind another abundance, one that cannot readily be seen on the surface. This abundance is in the form of seeds that are dropped from those flowers and implanted into the earth, waiting their turn to bloom and drop their own seeds to carry on the cycle—the superbloom—year after year.  

Charlie’s father told a story of how he received cards, texts, and messages after Charlie’s passing, many from people he did not know. All of them said relatively the same thing: “You don’t know me but your son, Charlie, made a huge difference in my life. He went out of his way to be kind to me when . . .” The blank could then be filled in with “I messed up a huge race, the other kids were making fun of me, I failed a paper, my parents got divorced.” As Charlie’s father noted, “The stories were all different, but they were all really the same.” And that is why so many came. Everyone Charlie ever touched wanted, no needed, to feel his spirit, to get one . . . final . . . hug.      

Charlie may have had an abundance of energy, but he also had an abundance of love, of joy, and of affection. What he didn’t have was time, but somehow he managed to fit all that love and life into the little time he had. And while the loss of Charlie may at times feel like that searing desert in Death Valley, once every last tear has been cried and the flowers have shriveled and gone, Charlie will still be there. For Charlie has planted his seeds in the hearts of everyone who knew him, and those seeds will bloom over and over again. Then, having bloomed, they will spread even more seeds, making the love Charlie shared—the seed he planted in each and every person he knew—perennial as the flowers.

Though the superbloom in Death Valley is fleeting, that’s what makes it so special. Like those flowers, Charlie’s time with us was oh so short, but that’s what makes it so precious. There is far too much hate in this world and not nearly enough love. As the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” Love is a candle in a dark room. A light where no light can exist. It warms everyone and everything it touches.

How many people do we touch in our lives? How often do we give comfort to those in need, a helping hand, a kind word, a bit of encouragement, or even a warm embrace? Are we like Charlie? Do we seek out those who are struggling, avoided, forgotten, picked on? Or do we simply pass them by?

Charlie was light and he shared that light with everyone he met—family, friends, not yet friends—and because of that, people loved him, wanted to be around him . . . needed to be around him. He wasn’t perfect, nobody is, but as one of Charlie’s sisters noted: “Charlie was the best of all of us.” And that’s what it takes to have such an impact on so many lives, to have them remember you, to want to be near you at least one more time. It sounds so simple, and, in fact, it is. Love drives out hate. Love brings people together. Love was Charlie. Charlie was love.