Every time I watch the movie “Big Fish,” I cry. As I wrote last year, the yarns Albert Finney’s character spins conjure memories of my father’s fascinating life, only his stories are actually true.
I thought of “Big Fish” again on Saturday as we said goodbye to a childhood friend, Chris “Woody” Woodrum, only not in the same capacity. We all know Woody was a little crazy, so we know the dozens of stories told about his shenanigans are true.
As my wife and I walked into the small church in Lebanon, Missouri, I recognized a few people right away. Any nervousness I had dissipated quickly when we sat down in a pew on the back row and several other folks I grew up with walked in and took their seats.
Moments after we walked in, Matt and Duane, two of Woody’s best friends, came over and spoke with Shana and I for a few minutes. It was like we were back in P.E. class in the fourth grade, consoling each other while anxiously awaiting our turns to fail miserably climbing rope.
“I hoped you’d be here because I was really looking forward to seeing you,” Matt said.
If you read the blog after Woody’s passing, you know the background. The short version is my parents decided to move from Lebanon to Kansas less than two weeks before the summer break after seventh grade. I had very little time to say goodbye to people with whom I’d grown up. It was difficult, to say the least.
Social media helped. Many of us re-connected the dots on Facebook. I bonded the most, though, with Woody. He was always willing to answer questions about our classmates. We had several conversations in the months leading up to and after my father’s death. He’d been through it, and those talks were comforting.
“It’s always going to be hard,” he said. “You will miss them every day, and it will always hurt. But it does get better.”
Boy, was he right.
There were tears, of course, on Saturday. Woody meant a lot to a lot of people. He was funny. The service would have lasted a week if we’d shared every practical joke he pulled on each of us. He was incredibly kind. Many shared stories about how Chris helped them.
Matt, who had the difficult task of leading the service, somehow kept it together. Nobody knew Woody better, and I speak for everyone when I say thank you for sharing part of your brotherhood with us.
There were hundreds of smiles, much more happiness than you typically see at a funeral, which made me realize Woody’s service was similar to the end of “Big Fish,” notably the great line, “There’s not a sad face to be found. Everyone’s just so happy to see you.”
One of the interesting things about grief is you never know when it’s going to hit. I told my wife on the way down to Lebanon that Chris was one of a few people for whom I’d drive this far. We talked about him quite a bit during the four-hour trek into southwest Missouri.
I held it together until after the service, when the two of us walked to the back of the fellowship hall. As we talked, I said, “You know, I haven’t seen any of them for 33 years. I can’t help but think …”
I didn’t make it through it, voice cracking and tears welling in my eyes, interrupted only – and maybe thankfully – by a couple of classmates who walked up to say hello and offer a hug.
Woody had a link with everybody. He was always the first to post about the passing of a classmate. He organized get-togethers. He wanted us to stay connected.
As we left for the long drive home, I was finally able to say what I couldn’t a few hours earlier: I haven’t seen them in 33 years, and that always hurt. Woody was the glue. He kept us “together.” I can’t help but think he wanted me here today. Not for him, but for me.
That’s the Chris Woodrum I’m going to remember.