Funerals change lives just like racing.
Yesterday I attended the service for a 7-year-old Peewee racer; I wish I could have recorded the whole thing. Walking into the church, I nearly fell over and not because I had to climb a few steps on crutches. No, hobbling into the viewing, I saw hundreds of sharp-dressed people, both strangers and friends, who filled the room. The loving energy filled my heart. Watching the slide show of photos it was hard to keep my tears from falling and I heard others sniffling so I knew I was not alone.
That’s what I learned yesterday, again. As much time as I’ve been spending by myself lately, I am never alone with my FTR family.
My friend Jacob, his girlfriend and I drove more than 3 hours to spend less than an hour at the funeral but we were there. We showed up and we came together for Evan and his family even if we never met them or knew their name before then.
Driving home, I started to question life while at the same time I had never felt more alive. I hoped our presence was somehow comforting for the family. I hope they know they are not alone.
“A part of us has died. But he lived. He really lived.”