Yesterday was Mike
Dickey’s birthday. He was a month older than I. We met when we were ten years
old, in fifth grade, when my family moved from the working class near east side
of Indianapolis to the hardscrabble countryside near Oakland City. I preached
at his funeral 68 years later.
Mike was a problematic
friend. He thought I was better than I was, and so he expected me to be better
than I was. Especially when it came to things pastoral and personal, he assumed
that I could do anything. “Let’s go see Don. He’s dying of cancer. You’ll make
him feel better.”
I did not come close to
the level of appreciation for my presence that Mike had. [And instead of
telling me that was an awkward sentence, he would say something like, “You’re
so smart I can’t even understand you.”]
Strangely, he wanted me to
notice his own good works. I think that was because he did not tell anyone else
about them. He assumed I was the arbiter of good deeds. He would tell me of
something he had done, something far beyond what I might have thought to do for
that person myself, and then cock his head like a puppy, waiting for me to tell
him that yes, that was a good thing to do.
Through the years, on
those rare occasions when I have told the truth about our experiences as kids
and teens, such as how terrible I was as a bassoon player, he would always
protest. “No, you were an excellent musician.”
“You were a great
ballplayer.” “You were the smartest guy in the class.” “You were a smooth
dancer.” “You were such a good writer.” “All the girls thought you were
wonderful.” I loved him in the early years for his naiveté. I loved him in the
later years for his poor memory.
It’s a lot of pressure,
having a friend like that, who makes you better than you are just because he
assumes you are better than you are. I miss him. A whole lot.
JRMcF
I tweet occasionally as
yooper1721.
No comments:
Post a Comment