Ryan

Ryan died on Monday.

I had held out hope that the doctors had underestimated his stubborn nature and he would wake up any day to demand beer and wings. They hadn't and he didn't. So, yesterday I dressed up the kids, stocked my purse with tissues, tied a tie on The Husband and set off for the funeral.

I knew it would be unspeakably sad. Ryan was only 31 years old, and a death that young is always extra hard. What surprised and delighted me was how much laughter and joy Ryan's family managed to include. Since he wasn't religious, the service was a series of eulogies separated by songs he loved. Pink Floyd, The Beatles and Nirvana. What made me truly grateful was that the speakers, his sister, best friend and mother, spoke lovingly and frankly about Ryan. His sister spoke about the horror of not being able to date in high school because he didn't approve of anyone. His best friend talked about skipping school and unfortunate drug use. His mom, and much of the family, wore Chicago Bears gear because he had asked them to.

I had never met most of the people at the funeral yesterday. While almost all of us wept through the entire service and little after-lunch, there was also a collective joy I'd never felt at a funeral before. Everyone loved Ryan for all the same reasons. He was funny, kind, loyal, sharp as a tack and one of the finest people I'd ever met. Yesterday we all shared the pain of losing that from our lives, but we also shared the privilege of our lives having been touched by Ryan in the first place. The funeral was very sad, but it wasn't only sad.

I think Ryan would have been very pleased. Go Bears.