For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

 2 Corinthians 4:17-18

It was a week ago today that we got the news. It was the kind of thing you don’t expect to happen to such a degree that nothing feels real. We were shuffled into an unfamiliar classroom to wait. And then unfamiliar people started walking through the door. And they started saying unfamiliar words. A few days later, the Truman State cross country and track coach passed away, and the team was left destitute, with nothing but each other.

I went to the funeral this past weekend. I went to my coach’s funeral. The coach I was expecting to have for at least three more years. The coach that made sasquatch noises on the trails, told me he saw competitive fire in my eyes, and let me read his poetry. The past two weeks have brought a lot of uncertainties, and a lot of questions to my mind. The sudden death of someone constant in your life – someone you see every day and expect to see every day – is more than just unnerving. If you’ll give me a minute, I would like to share some of the things I’ve been processing through this.

First of all, a common theme throughout the past two weeks has been the thought that this “isn’t normal.” My teammates have reassured each other of this countless times, and even our athletic directors and counselors have said it. I wonder, though, why we have been so quick to take comfort in that phrase. Are we actually saying that the loss of a college coach isn’t normal, or that death itself isn’t normal? Of all things, this whole situation has brought to light the reality of the limited time we have on this earth, and that has rattled me. Like one of my professors said, the greatest mystery is that we are all going to die.

Those thoughts connect into my next, more positive realization. Thank you Gandalf, for reminding us that “the journey doesn’t end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take.” So, with that in mind, I believe we are forced to think about the moments we have now with a greater vitality and purpose than ever before. Like T. S. Eliot brilliantly brings to light, “Humankind cannot bear very much reality.” But bear it we must, at least to some degree, if we ever want to live.

My coach was not defined by his passage from this world. The funeral was not an account of the end of his life. Rather, it was a beautiful story of one man’s impact on a multitude of people. Friends, family, and many, many former athletes joined together with one thing in common. The funeral was full of stories of how this man influenced and changed lives. He made us laugh, and he brought us together in a unifying bond. The most incredible thing I realized was that I didn’t know the majority of the people in that church, but I had so many shared memories with them simply because we all knew the same great man. Our lives, I’ve realized, connect people. We live on in the little ways we’ve touched lives, and we leave creating a group of unified spirits, even if they haven’t ever met before.

The final point I want to touch on is the beauty of my coach’s wife. This woman is always serving others, whether it be in her classroom or on the field with us. At the visitation, this woman was focused on others, even in her mourning. Each person who walked up to her was greeted by name and fell into open arms. This incredible woman knew how each athlete was doing in their own individual events, and she gave her congratulations and warm love in a time of deep grief and hurt. This was a great example to me of a Christlike love – one that transcends present and individual circumstances and feelings all for the love of others. Of course we weren’t hurting as much as this woman was, but she wanted us to feel known and loved before we could even get out a single word.

I want to close by admitting that I am mourning. My team is mourning. Coach’s family and friends are mourning. Our coach was a great man whose life unified people of all ages and backgrounds. If I have learned anything from this brief span of time, it is that I want to live a life like my coach and his wife have lived. I want to use every moment to bring people together, and to love them no matter what. I am in awe of the beauty of life as it is, even with its end, and I want to do everything I can to show God in every moment, because my time here is limited.