tribute to a friend

They say that funerals are for the living. For those that have passed on, the struggle is over. If they are a child of God, they have the ultimate victory. They are safe from the troubles and evils of the world and they are resting in the arms of their Savior. They are free from pain and death...they have won their fight, no matter how long or painful. 
The ones that they leave behind have to continue that battle. They have to keep living even when they don't want to. They have to keep going and keep believing because it's all that we can do. Funerals are for the living because it is now our turn to fight. Somehow we have to pick up the fractured pieces of our hearts, even though we know they will never be whole again. Funerals are for the living because we are the ones that need hope now. We are the ones that need strength. 
* * *
A little less than a year ago, I was at the hospital for my regular check-up and as usual, I was looking around in the hospital gift shop. I saw a pretty purple bracelet raising awareness for a particular kind of cancer. Not long after, my parents told me that the son of a family friend had been diagnosed with cancer. It was actually the same cancer as the awareness bracelet! Immediately, we prayed for him. My parents would share updates once in a while, but I didn't think about him too much until we found out he would be staying at a hospital near us and that since his family wouldn't be able to be with him all the time, he might be staying at our home in-between treatments.
I remember when my parents along with J and I first came to meet him at the hospital. I was a little nervous and hoped that he was talkative. Nathanael turned out to be a pleasant and engaging man, and I was relieved. Over the next few months, I visited him in the hospital a few times and we sent a few texts back and forth. 
Little did I know that we would become close friends. At the end of each of his chemo regimes and stem cell treatments, he would stay at our home to recover. Nathanael introduced me to $0.95 pizzas, read me the entire Wikipedia article about his favorite show, "I Love Lucy", and sent me so many selfies over Snapchat that I joked he had a female alter-ego named "Nathanula". He got along well with my bestie, calling her his "long-lost twin". Sometimes in the evenings he played my guitar while I played piano. (Other times he just banged on the piano while I was in the middle of a song). He loved my family's little dog, Mitzi. He made fun of my favorite music (and, to be fair, I made fun of his).
The first time we truly connected was a night that I stayed up late because I didn't have to work the next day. We sat in the living room talking about cancer, Jesus, and depression. After that conversation, I knew that I had a very special forever friend.
Another fond memory of Nathanael includes the time I broke my phone. Without being asked, he spent the entire day taking it apart, researching how to fix it, and calling the phone company multiple times for help. Another time we went out to a movie with two of my coworkers. Afterwards one of them let Nathanael ride his moped. The only problem was... the moped only had one working brake... and my coworker might've forgotten to tell him... until Nathanael was too far out of earshot.
No matter what, Nathanael was always there for me with a helping hand, a listening ear, sarcasm, or all of the above. I alternated between yelling, "You're such a butt!" and telling him I loved him. 
Though he was fighting cancer, he remained positive. He was a Christian and loved the Lord. He talked about maybe becoming a music leader. I remember seeing him off to his hospital appointment where he would find out if the chemotherapy was working. When he returned home with good news, I gave him a huge hug. I couldn't stop smiling because I knew everything was going to be okay.
After four and a half months of living with us off-and-on, Nathanael was declared cancer free. After he went home, the house seemed strangely quiet without the sounds of his video games drifting up from the basement. I could play the piano without interruption, but I missed seeing him perched on the sofa when I got out of bed each morning. I still bought our pizzas, but they were too big for me to eat alone. Nathanael and I didn't talk as much over the next few months. He was in remission and had a job (and a special someone). He got a car and shortly after was in a car accident (he was not very happy about it). Our lives seemed to be going separate directions, though I knew we would always be friends. 
Then we received the news that his cancer had come back. I didn't know what to say to him, only that I loved him. He chose an aggressive treatment plan, but complications arose when his body became infected. 
Nathanael went to be with the Lord on June 7, 2016.
He called himself "the little brother" that I "never wanted"...  I share this not to be disrespectful to his true family, but out of gratefulness for the opportunity to meet this incredible man. I only knew him for a year and lived with him a few months, so I cannot begin to understand the grief that his family and friends are experiencing. I simply wish to say thank you: thank you for allowing me to be part of his life, no matter how short. 
* * *
Funerals, remembrances, and epitaphs are for the living. When we gather to celebrate a life well-lived, it is a chance for us to say goodbye and somehow try to heal amidst the hurt. Those that have passed on and are with the Lord do not need the assurances of our love, the tearful memories, or the stories of times spent together. But we do. Because we are the ones left behind.
Yes, I miss him. I miss receiving selfies at 3am and knowing that my honorary little brother was only a text away. I am sad that I didn't watch The Fault In Our Stars with him when he asked me. I will miss singing with him as he played my guitar. But even more so, I am sad that he won't be able to watch his siblings and relatives grow up... that he won't get to go to college like he wanted and that he won't be able to have a family. I'm sad that I won't get to tease him about finally being an old man once he became middle-aged. 
Funerals are for the living because we are the ones who need them. Somehow we have to find meaning amidst confusion and hope amidst loss. Somehow we have to find a reason to keep going when it seems like we can't. Somehow we have to live worthy of those we have lost. 
Therefore I write this not so much as for Nathanael, but for the rest of us.