When my grandchildren were little, I hated it when they cried. I hate it more today, now that they're grown, because today it takes grown-up hurts to make their tears flow. This past weekend they lost a friend, and there's no way anyone can kiss that kind of hurt and make it well.
This particular friend was the best man at my granddaughter's recent wedding, the best friend of her new husband. He was traveling through Texas Saturday, on his way to Galveston to board a cruise ship, when he was killed in a head-on collision.
I'd met this young man only briefly, but I stopped by the funeral home tonight to offer a little support to my family members who knew and loved him. The place was packed. As I waited in a long line, I had the opportunity to listen to others speak about him. They cried as they talked about how much they'd miss him and how he was the one others turned to when they needed their spirits lifted, then they laughed as they told stories about the way he went about lifting them. And then they cried some more.
He touched a lot of people in 28 short years. I suspect that won't stop just because he can no longer do it in person.