Losing a Friend

I recently received word from a classmate, Leslie, that my childhood friend, Jimmy Paauwe, passed away. Jim, or Jimmy as I knew him, was a really great friend in my youth, we lost our connection as we grew into adults. I will always cherish the time we had together. This week I spent some time reflecting on my childhood friendship with Jimmy, the intertwining of our families on Mayfield Avenue, and how those events have shaped me.

Jimmy, was a few years younger than me, and lived five houses up the street from my childhood home. His sister Kathi was my sister Karyn’s good friend. In those days there were few boundaries between friends and homes - we perpetually hung out together at each other’s houses sharing food, games and laughter.  Jimmy was the youngest of four siblings; Mike, Diane, and Kathi. His family paired up nicely with mine – Karyl, Karyn and myself (also the youngest).

It was early morning in the summer of 1970 when we heard the knock at our back door while we were eating breakfast at the kitchen table. It was an elderly neighbor who lived across the street and a few houses up. My dad answered the door and Mr. Smith stumbled through the news – “I’m here to inform you of a tragedy that happened last night to one of our neighbors.” He went on to tell us that Mike Paauwe (17) was killed by a car in a hit and run. Mike and his friend, Ricky, were walking east along Michigan Street when a car going in the same direction swerved off the road and hit them both, killing Mike instantly. I was stunned at the news and had a difficult time processing it. Honestly, I was only nine and had no experience with death up until that point. Mike was the first person I actually knew personally who died. Most of us have vivid memories of our first death experience.

Mike had his high school senior pictures taken a few weeks earlier and they arrived in the mail the day after his death. I remember staring at his picture that Mrs. Paauwe had placed on their mantle. It was eerie. “How could Mike be gone?” I thought to myself.  The day before he died I was walking our dog, Pepper, down Mayfield Avenue when I saw Mike walking toward me. As he approached he waved, reaching down to pet Pepper in stride. He walked with a pep in his step, like he didn’t have a care in the world. I remember looking back at Mike as he briskly walked toward his home, feeling privileged that he (a senior) even acknowledged me. I doubt that I would have retained that memory if Mike hadn’t tragically died the next day.

Jimmy stopped by the day after Mike’s passing. Saying I was sorry felt so incomplete, empty, and awkward. Jimmy was in shock, I’m sure. We wandered into my back yard, Jimmy stopped, stood silent for a few moments, looked up at me, and asked if I would be his brother now. I immediately said yes and we went on to find something to occupy our lazy, heavy, summer day. I recall a similar conversation with my father in-law, also named Jim, after my Dad’s passing. I remember asking him if he would be willing to fill the gap of Karl’s passing. He also said yes immediately. He stepped into thousands of hours of conversations, he watched my kids grow and shared his life and faith over the years. He has proven his sincerity to that commitment. I, too, did my best to fill the gap of Mike for Jimmy. We spent countless hours together filling our time with board games, bike rides, BB gun target practice, beach outings, basketball and birthday celebrations. Jimmy was an integral part of my childhood, as I tried to be an older brother figure for him and mentor to him. 

We walked into the funeral home as a family. I saw the open casket from across the room that contained Mike’s body. We made our way around the room and finally I was standing there looking down on Mike. I wanted to touch him, but I didn’t dare. He didn’t look real. He looked like a wax figure covered with makeup, but he did look at peace with his gentle smile. I didn’t understand how suddenly a life could be snuffed out or the permanence of death. I recall how Jimmy extended his hand out to me and offered his condolences as he passed through the line at my own father’s funeral, some 27 years ago now. That was the last time I saw him.

I’m saddened by the news of Jimmy’s passing after a long battle with depression. I wish I could have intervened as an adult, like I had in my youth. We lost our connection as so many do with childhood friends. I don’t know the circumstances that led to Jimmy’s death, nor do I need to know them because I want to remember our carefree days, the hours of laughter, and those intensely competitive games of chess, monopoly, and cards. I pray for those who love him most, including his two sons, one that he named Mitch. I pray that the goodness of Jimmy will live on through those he loved and those who loved him – including me.

So long my friend, may your soul be at rest in the loving arms of Jesus.