The post I wrote yesterday about golf prompted another memory—one of the most painful, and somehow one of the sweetest, memories I think I’ve ever experienced.
Shortly after my dad died in 2000, I went golfing with three friends. It was my first time out since Dad died and I had a feeling that it was going to be difficult, but I had no idea what I was in for. Before I left for the course, I grabbed a couple of Dad’s clubs and put them into my golf bag. I was fine until we got to the green on the sixth hole. I was on the fringe—yes I missed the green and had to chip on, and when I went to pull out my trusty five iron (don’t ask) to chip onto the green, I saw my dad’s one iron in my bag and that’s when reality hit—full force. He was gone.
I did what guys do. I fought back the tears. Usually I can win that battle. But this time, I felt powerless and they forced their way out of my eyes. I turned away as best I could, but one of my friends caught me, and he came over and put his arm on my shoulder. I pointed to my dad’s club and whispered “It was my Dad’s.” But by then, he already knew exactly what was happening. He’d lost his own father several years prior, so he knew how quickly the simplest memory can sneak up and overwhelm a person.
It’s funny how a mere golf club can hold such power. Of course, it had nothing to do with the make up of the club and everything to do with the person who once held it. But as sad as it made me, having a friend who knew what was happening and who cared enough to show that he knew, eased the pain. So, over the course of about 30 seconds, I experienced the gut-wrenching pain that comes with loss followed by the euphoric high that comes from knowing that a friend cared about my pain.
Sometimes words aren’t even necessary to comfort somebody. If my friend said anything to me while we were standing on the green, I don’t remember a single word. But I’ll never forget his actions.
