The Only Speech I've Had Cut Short

This happened a couple weeks ago. At a funeral. It was awkward.

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***

So apparently I’m a public speaker. This is not my first thought when I wake up in the morning—I love my dog and I need coffee—but speaking has been part of my life for more than 15 years now. And I guess the fact that I get paid for it means, well, I’m a public speaker.

When I started out, like nearly everyone, the thought of talking in front of people made me super nervous. It helped that I was being invited to talk about mental health and suicide prevention. In the early days, just before walking on stage, I would always remind myself that it wasn’t about me, that maybe someone in the audience is struggling and maybe I can say something that encourages them.

A person realizing they’re not alone. A person realizing they can ask for help. Those were the goals and those remain the goals a decade and a half down the road.

Like so many things in life, even things that start out scary or hard, if you practice, if you do it enough and you get good feedback, you start to believe that you can do it. Confidence comes. After a while the butterflies leave you alone.

Rob and I were close growing up, in our late teens and early twenties. He was positive and kind, sensitive and funny and easy to be around. We laughed a lot. My time with Rob felt effortless. I’m not sure why we stopped hanging out. There was no conflict or drama that I can remember, but we grew apart.

And somehow close to 20 years went by.

We reconnected roughly a year ago, at a funeral for another friend, our buddy Jeff who we called Burger. It was great to see him. Rob shared that he had battled cancer, that it had been really hard but he was now cancer-free. We traded numbers and talked about getting together.

And then the cancer came back. This was the end of last year and things did not look good. But we were in touch again and I was thankful for that.

Along with two friends, I went to visit Rob in January at his home in Saint Cloud, an hour west of where I live. His wife and son and mother were there. We spent the afternoon together. It was hard to see him struggling but the whole thing also felt sacred, getting to spend those hours with him, none of us in a hurry. What a gift presence can be, connection can be, even or especially on a difficult day. Rob made clear how much our visit meant to him and we did our best to say the same.

After that we stayed in touch consistently. Every text arrived important. The future was uncertain and I did my best to appreciate the time we had, to check in, to ask how he was feeling, to tell him that I loved him.

I told Rob I wanted to come see him again. But this time I didn’t hear back.

We ran out of time. Things took a turn and suddenly he was gone. There wouldn’t be another visit. I would not hear from him again.

***

At the funeral, they asked if anyone wanted to share a story. I’m of the belief that this is the best thing that happens after someone dies—people telling stories, laughing through tears, learning about the life of someone we love by hearing perspectives beyond our own. And the open mic implies, “There is no rush. We’re devoting time to this and we would love to hear from you.”

Folks were slow to volunteer at first. A couple family members spoke but no friends.

This worried me. I didn’t really have a story. Part of me wanted to say something to honor Rob but more than that I just wanted at least one of his friends to speak. I wanted Rob’s family to know that his friends loved him, that we remembered him and would continue to. Of course we had stories. We just needed one person to brave the butterflies, to believe the story was worth sharing.

I knew my friend Justin had a story. Heck, Justin had 20. He’s hilarious and a filmmaker by trade, which means he is a storyteller. I made a deal with him.

“Let’s go up there together,” I said. “I’ll speak if you will.”

Justin wasn’t sure at first but other friends encouraged him and a few seconds later we were walking toward the stage.

Justin talked about the time he and Rob were guests on a local public access television show. Justin was Rob’s manager. Rob was “Rob the Roman Rapper.” The only problem was that Rob couldn’t actually rap. This didn’t stop him from performing. Freestyle. On live television.

The video has been circulating among our friends and we can’t stop laughing about it.

Justin finished and looked over at me.

“The boat,” I told him, wanting one more.

The DBA was the time of our lives. DBA stands for “Driveway Basketball Association.” There was no association but Justin had a driveway and we played basketball on Sunday nights. My DBA memories are on a list that includes being in love and becoming an uncle and my little dog Gracie. As happy as I’ve even been.

I’m pretty sure our whole crew felt the same. We took it so seriously. We would add lights to the roof of Justin’s house. Everyone had a part to play in setting up and tearing down. We loved it.

Rob was a regular. And while his dribbling and shooting were comparable to his rap skills, the man could rebound. If someone missed a shot, there was a good chance the ball was ending up in Rob’s hands.

Justin’s neighbor had a little boat that lived on the edge of the property line, maybe eight steps from the hoop. Rob was the nicest dude in the world but these games could be intense and we all needed ways to blow off steam. Sometimes when Rob would make a mistake or the ball would go out of bounds, he would lift the front of the boat. He would do this several times in quick succession. I have no memory of anyone else even trying, let alone doing it.

The way Sacramento Kings fans have embraced “Light the Beam,” this is how we felt when Rob would lift the boat. A moment every time.

Justin told the story and I was glad he did. It’s good to laugh together, especially on a hard day.

And with that, it was my turn to speak. I didn’t really have a plan but things began okay. My speech was mostly what I’ve already shared here, about knowing Rob and how much I enjoyed his company when we were younger, and then losing touch and reconnecting, and how good it felt to do so.

I shared my regrets about the gap in our friendship, the 20 years of quiet. I knew many in our friend group could relate. I said that maybe we could honor Rob by closing those gaps in other relationships, by not letting so much time go by, not pretending that tomorrow comes endlessly. I would give anything, we all would give anything, for one more night of DBA with him. By this point I was crying but I felt good about the words.

“Alright, we need to wrap it up.”

It took a second to make sense of what was happening. Public speaking, when it’s going well, when it’s heartfelt, puts me in what might be called a flow state. Audience members interrupt from time to time. I’ve experienced blinking clocks at conferences when the allotted time is up, but you know that number when you start. In 15 plus years, what was happening here was a first. Someone else was speaking and that someone turned out to be the pastor. Looking back, I’m actually glad I didn’t get mad. Maybe it was shock.

“Well that was quite a moment. I just got played off at a funeral,” I said, before returning to my seat.

What happened next surprised me. My friends had my back. My buddy Ron, who is one of the kindest people I know, was so mad that he wanted to confront the pastor. He didn’t but he wanted to.

“That was not okay,” Ron kept saying.

“You should have told the pastor you’re a professional speaker,” someone else told me.

(I’m glad I didn’t say this to the pastor.)

“Dude, you weren’t even going long.”

(We are surfers which means we do sometimes say “dude” in real life.)

One by one, my friends made it clear that they were invested in the whole thing, that they believed in what I was saying and they wanted me to finish.

Maybe my years of counseling are paying off because other people were more fired up than I was. Letting go felt good. But also it meant a lot to know my friends cared, to know this awkward moment mattered to them. Which made me feel like I mattered to them. And thankfully we were all able to laugh about it right away. At the reception, people kept mentioning it and so I kept saying it was okay because now we have this story we’ll be laughing about for the rest of our days.

If the end of my speech was meant to be about coming together, about appreciating the people in our lives, maybe what happened turned out better than anything I could have said. Because it allowed us to connect. We bonded in the awkward, in frustration, with laughter on a day of grief. And isn’t that usually how life goes? The world doesn’t need more perfect speeches. But what a gift to find a friend.

***

After the funeral, a bunch of us met for lunch. I had stayed at the church talking to Rob’s family, so I was one of the last to arrive at the restaurant.

“I’m sorry I’m late. The service ended up running long.”