First, let me first thank all of you for your time here today and last night. I know many of you waited in line for several hours last night to say goodbye to Reid. And this is a wonderful tribute today to Reid.
Thank you for being by our side and Reid’s side throughout this journey, through the good times and the bad. Thank you to those who were at his side in his final days.
Thank your for your help with the everyday routine things that become anything but routine when a family needs to fight a battle like Reid’s
Thank you for your prayers, your voices, your cards, and your words. The words we’ve heard here today were simply just amazing and so wonderful. What a tribute! If he were to walk in here right now he’d wince and say to me, “Aw, Jeeez!” He would have been so embarrassed by this extraordinary outpouring of love and respect. But he also would have been so grateful. I’m sure that in heaven right now, he’s quietly beaming with the pride that comes with having left this world as a man who was so deeply loved by so many.
The last two years were difficult but I fear that the next ones will be even more difficult. It is therefore important to us that you help us make sure that Reid’s life, his suffering and his sacrifices have all served a meaningful purpose in this world, and that the good that has come from all of this touches as many lives as possible.
It is important that Reid’s short life on this earth be a life that has made this world a better place. The change already started, within days of his initial diagnosis two years ago. We’ve already seen so many indications that he has made such a difference, through your actions as well as through his.
But that can’t end today. It simply can’t. From this day forward and for years to come Lorraine, Weston and I need to see continued evidence that Reid helped changed the world. If we can continue to see that evidence, I’m sure that someday soon we will be able to smile instead of cry when we call his name in our hearts.
Reid and his journey in life – both when he was well and when he was ill -- taught us so many things. But now we need to acknowledge and understand what we’ve learned through Reid. We need to acknowledge what we’ve learned about ourselves, about our world, about our lives, and about our spirituality.
Then, it is important that we challenge ourselves to convert that learning into actions, attitudes, and perspectives that change us -- and therefore our world -- for the better. If we can witness these changes in how we behave, in how we prioritize, and in how we tackle life, we will be able to keep Reid alive inside all of us forever.
Let me share just a few of the lessons Reid and his life taught me.
I learned that for every loss, there is usually a gain.
Weston lost his only brother and his only sibling but he gained two sisters. Reid’s ordeal cemented a relationship that Weston and Reid had been developing with Meredith and Jane since they were children. As far as I’m concerned, Meredith and Jane are now Weston’s sisters.
I lost a son, but I gained an appreciation for everything about him: How he looked, how he talked, how he thought, how he cried, what he feared, how he laughed, and what he loved. The frailty of his life forced me to concentrate on every moment I had with him, as I was having it. I’ve learned how to concentrate on capturing important moments in my life as if they will never occur again – which they seldom do. More importantly, I’ve turned that lesson into a habit. That habit will help me make sure that I’m not letting the important moments with Lorraine, Weston, family, and friends simply slip away as easily as time does.
I lost the opportunity to witness and share in what was no doubt going to be Reid’s bright and promising future. I gained an intensity of a relationship with Reid, Weston, and Lorraine that may not have developed otherwise. His illness forced us to address as a family the most heartfelt, poignant, and terrifying issues and decisions facing our lives here on earth. We’re a closer family as a result.
I lost the opportunity to see Reid marry, have children, and feel the same kind of pride for his sons or daughters as I have for him and Weston. This ordeal forced Reid and Weston to face head-on some of life’s most difficult challenges and they did so with remarkable vigor, courage, kindness, brotherly love, and class. From this I gained a pride in Reid and Weston that virtually erupted in me and which can only be described as magical. I also gained something else, although it is bittersweet: I gained comfort in the fact that Reid will now never feel the kind of pain I am feeling today, that of losing a son or daughter. It is truly unimaginable.
As a family, we lost two years of normal life. But as a family, we gained a closeness that 50 years of normal life could not have duplicated. We lost a big part of our family, but we gained an incredible bond that will hold our family together like never before, even in death.
I lost the confidence that I could control my world and save what mattered most to me. But I gained confidence in the belief that our life here on earth is in God’s control. On at least six separate occasions in the last two years, doctors delivered devastating news to Reid about his prognosis. Each time, I held Reid’s hand as we digested the news and said to him, “Don’t worry. We won’t let anything happen to you.” I couldn’t keep that promise and I will have to live with that for the rest of my life. It is clear that God is driving to his plan, not mine. I need to trust him.
I lost the comfort of thinking that I’ve always done my best. In the later stages of Reid’s disease, when Lorraine and I were at his bedside crying because yet another treatment had failed to stop the tumors, he selflessly reassured us that we had done everything we could, the best that we could. As much as I wanted to believe that, I will live the rest of my life knowing that I could have done a better job making sure that not just some, but all, of Reid’s doctors did the best job they could. What I gained from this was the realization that God gives us roles and opportunities in his plan, and the only thing worse than squandering one of those opportunities is regretting not having done the best you could with an opportunity you’ve been given.
I lost the ability to ask the question, “Why?” I lost that ability because it became clear that there are no answers for some questions, at least no answers that we can understand. Why was life so short for Reid, when he loved life so much? Why did the body he treated so well betray him so badly? Things just didn’t make sense. They still don’t make sense. The timing of the setbacks in Reid’s ordeal was so ironic that there was an almost intelligent intent to how each setback crushed what would have been the most wonderful peaks looming just ahead in his life. What happened to Reid seemed to follow a scripted tragedy designed to make the most of Reid’s sacrifices. Maybe it was. What I gained from all this was the conviction that there is a master plan and a purpose to our lives. Reid’s difficult but wonderful life no doubt was meant to serve a greater purpose. What I also gained is the confidence that at this moment, everything now makes sense to Reid. Everyone who knew Reid knows that he liked it when things made sense. I envy him.
In addition to learning that for every loss there is a gain, I learned that doctors and nurses are fabulous people at the heart of medicine, trying their best to heal the patient. But their effectiveness is often constrained by the infrastructures and institutions in which they practice medicine. It is important for us to challenge the decisions being made in the care of a loved one, because the decisions can be shaped as much by rules, regulations, and fears of the institutions as they are shaped by the professionals themselves. Sometimes medicine doesn’t seem like it has a heart. It does. You first have look to the doctors and nurses in order to find it, and then open up your heart to theirs.
I learned that we are more fortunate than we often think we are.
I’m the saddest man in the world right now because of this loss. But I am the most fortunate man in this world because I helped bring Reid into this world and I was by his side for more than 20 years. I have extraordinary memories and they will be forever inside me and available to share. I have a wonderful family today and Reid will always be an integral part of it.
I was fortunate to know that Reid’s life was likely to end prematurely. I know that sounds kind of odd. But tragically, so many young lives are lost each year and for many that loss is sudden. I was warned that Reid’s life was likely to be shortened. I was fortunate to have the opportunity to acknowledge and grasp and capture what I knew I was likely to lose.
I learned not to take anything, or any moment, for granted. I’ve learned not to wish time away. Each moment, no matter what it is you are doing, is too precious. There were moments when we in hospital together as a family, supporting Reid under very trying physical and emotional circumstances. Yet many of these were also moments that I wished I could have sold my soul to have frozen in time forever.
I learned that miracles are real. We all prayed for a huge miracle, asking God to step in and heal Reid back to full health. We didn’t get that specific miracle, but I witnessed many others. The outpouring of support for Reid was so huge and so widespread and spiritual, that it can only be explained as miraculous. The spirituality that was awakened in each of us was a miracle. Each comeback Reid made was a miracle. Each extra day we had with him was a miracle. Reid was a miracle.
I learned that angels do indeed exist, and that you may be sitting next to one right now. They visit us just when we need them the most and sometimes we don’t recognize them right away. They don’t appear to us in the popularized form bearing halos, wings, and white gowns. They visit us in the form of family and friends and neighbors, and in the form of strangers who appear out of nowhere to offer comfort or help. They come in the form of nurses and clergy and colleagues at work. They come with names like Bethany, Weston, Mike and so many others.
I learned something about the nature of God. Many times these last two years God seemed to abandon us, but our family and friends never did. I realized God wasn’t abandoning us; I was just looking in the wrong place. I learned that people are the essence of God here on earth. I learned that God is in each of us, visible in the extraordinary goodness we’re all capable of. If I couldn’t immediately see that goodness, or hadn’t seen it before, it’s only because I’m the one who wasn’t looking for it hard enough. And Reid did a miraculous job of exposing the goodness, and the God, in each of us. As I look out at all of you today, I’m looking out at the essence of God, his work here on earth.
I learned that the depth of emotional pain is proportional to the depth of the love it seems to replace. This day hurts so much because we loved Reid so much. But we need to realize that those sensations of love and pain are occurring at the same time. One doesn’t really replace the other. Emotional pain just tends to be overpowering, so we can’t let that pain make us forget the love. We can’t let the pain keep us from enjoying the love and happiness that formed the foundation of our eternal relationship with Reid.
From these lessons I have a number of challenges for you and me.
During Reid’s illness, it was clear that Reid’s suffering was serving a greater good. During his battle, too many positive changes were occurring in how so many of us addressed our priorities, our spirituality, our lives, and our fellow travelers through this life. As we leave this church this morning, I want us to challenge ourselves to continue and expand the changes in our behaviors, actions, and perspectives. If we can meet that challenge, we’ll know that Reid is still alive in us, and still alive in this world, continuing to do the good he was destined to do.
I will be challenging Reid’s doctors to formally share with colleagues around the globe every detail of what they learned about Reid’s cancer, and about how to treat a patient of Reid’s youth, intelligence, and will-to-live. Reid’s enormous investments and sacrifices in the pursuit of beating this disease now comprise not only a rich clinical lesson, but also a rich lesson on the roles of hope, heart, family and spirituality in the treatment of life-threatening disease.
For you and me, I want to challenge ourselves to remember some very important things.
Remember how compassionate and generous you are capable of being. Over the last two years, we’ve seen the most extraordinary generosity, compassion, and concern from so many people that it’s almost as hard to believe as what has happened to Reid. We saw the best everyone has to offer, and it was spectacular. We saw and felt yours hearts. Remember how you came to our rescue. Don’t forget how to come to the aid of the people who need you. That aid has miraculous implications. When you sense someone needs you, but it just doesn’t quite feel “convenient” to come to their aid, think about Reid’s compassion and selflessness. Some of the most heart-breaking moments in the last two years for me were witnessing Reid’s concern for those people who were suffering because of what he was going through. Reid cried only a few times in the last two years; almost always it was because he was witnessing someone crying for him. Each time he saw that, he desperately tried to console that person with some of the sweetest compassion and empathy I have ever seen. I’ll never forget the way he rubbed my arm or hand when he felt me trembling with fear about what might happen. Reid came to my aid as often as I came to his.
Remember Reid’s definition of the word ‘perseverance’. When you feel like giving up, think of Reid. Think of how he continued to plan and live despite the pain, setback and outlook he was handed over and over again. Think of how hard and long he fought to live, even under these conditions.
Remember to guard yourself against self-pity. When you begin feeling sorry for yourself, think about Reid. He never asked why got cancer. Near the end, he did ask why his cancer couldn’t be one that finally responded to any of the scores of treatments and half a dozen surgeries he had to endure. That’s about as much self-pity as he allowed himself. He was entitled to a whole lot more, but that just wasn’t his style. And we know that Reid’s style was one you just simply wanted to be around, all the time.
Remember to live clean and strong. Respect your body. This was one of the most bitter ironies for Reid. Lorraine remembers Reid’s first chemo session. As the medicines were about to drip into the line that was embedded in his chest, it bothered Reid so much that he taken such good care of his body, so careful how he treated it and what he put into it. And now, to try to save his life, his body was being flooded with poisons.
Remember that fear is what you make of it. The next time you feel afraid, think of Reid’s incredible courage. Those who were often at his bedside know what I mean. Those who know of his battle only through his journal just know a piece of it. As was his style, he protected as many as he could from the realities of how fearful his medical treatments and outlooks were. His courage was more unbelievable than you know. But what Reid did was make fear the least important thing in his life; to him, there was simply too much important living to do.
Remember that each opportunity handed to you is an opportunity to do your best. The next time you don’t quite feel like giving it your best, think of Reid. Remember how hard he worked toward perfection in everything he did. Had he lived, Reid, unlike most of us, would not have had much to regret about how he used his opportunities, or how hard he tried.
Remember that each day is a gift. The next time you feel your energy fading and you find yourself wasting the day, think of Reid. Think of how badly he wanted more time and how well he would have used it. Remember how he planned and executed and arranged. Think of his energy, even when at the height of his treatment, and how he filled every moment with vigor and activity.
Let me close by saying that Reid gave us so many things:
His inspirational examples of courage, perseverance, and optimism in the face of a bitter battle against a tough adversary
His refusal to be bitter despite giving up so much of what was normal, of what was supposed to be.
His ability to find light in the darkest of times. His ability to make the faintest of hope seem like the brightest of futures.
His compassion, kindness, selflessness and support even when it was he who needed them most.
That smile and that twinkle in his eye
The sound of his laugh
His sense of humor and humility.
His contagious love for life
His friendship.
And his love.
Reid’s final gift comes to us in the form of a powerful opportunity.
As we leave here today, we have in our hands the opportunity to apply what Reid taught us, and to sustain and expand the changes we’ve made in ourselves and in our world, through the positive changes we’ve made in our behaviors, priorities, perspectives, and spirtuality.
We have been given the opportunity to make a greater difference in this world than we otherwise would have, had we not known Reid.
Making that greater difference will keep Reid alive not only in us, but in this world, forever.
* * * * * * * *
The next few weeks, months, and even years are not going to be easy for us. Whenever you or I think of Reid, we’re likely to feel that flutter of heartache, right here in our chests. But we need to remember that that’s really Reid, just reminding us that now he lives right here, in our hearts.
And if you’re lucky, through that heartache you’ll hear Reid’s voice. Maybe you’ll hear him tell you that he’s OK and that he’s happy. Maybe you’ll hear him show you a way to do something a little better, or a little closer to ‘perfectly’. Either way, upon hearing that voice, you’ll smile, because you’ll know it’s Reid right there. And when you smile, you’ll be able to see Reid smile.
And that heartache will turn to joy. Joy in the knowledge that you had the privilege of knowing Reid. Joy in the knowledge that now you have the privilege of helping Reid continue his work on this earth. Joy in the knowledge that you have the privilege of helping Reid make this world a healthier, kinder, gentler, better place.
Reid, you entered this world as our son. You quickly became our dear friend. And you left this world our hero.
We love you and you’ll be with us forever.