One of our close, close, dear, amazing friends died last weekend.
We are gutted.
For him to be gone…
For his wife, who is one of my dearest, most sane friends in an upside-down world…
And for their kids — who our kids have known and grown up with since they were just little littles…
Our friend, Jeremy, had been through it the last couple of years. And I had the privilege of walking alongside him with ways to help him heal from what would seem insurmountable — including inoperable brain tumors.
But we did it.
And then, it was through a medical procedure for something different, something easier, that ended up getting botched and mishandled — misdiagnosed and missed.
And now, he’s gone.
I hate thinking of a world without him in it to roll his eyes and make fun of life with a smile that told you, “Everything is going to work out just fine, Stace — just f-i-n-e.”
I can hear his voice in my head and see that glimmer in his eyes.
Jeremy was so much more than the basketball-playing, crime-story-loving, Grammy-nominated songwriter and musician we’d perform with — and the minister we so enjoyed hearing from.
He was the damn proud dad to his four kids (and his grands) and completely smitten with his brilliant, beautiful, and so-very-intense wife — my dear friend, Carolee.
Or, as he called her in a voice that oozed utter devotion, “Mrs. Dalton.”
It was like they were living inside a movie, and she played the love of his life and he was hers.
Only it was real.
She was the yang to his yin. She’d lean in with laser focus and double down on a passionate thought while he’d lean back and relax into this atmospheric, playful ease he brought into every conversation.
He was light with his way of handling life.
He trusted in God and goodness.
He didn’t make life harder than it had to be.
He simplified complex things — whether about spirituality, politics, family, or philosophy.
He’d share his sound thoughts, then ask a question and really listen, while flicking his long hair back with a little rock-star diva-esque vibe (but he really wasn’t that at all), taking a sip of his 3rd quad espresso of the day. (I went through a whole season of drinking quad espressos, and it was entirely because of Jer.) Then he’d drop some hilarious commentary that distracted you right into seeing life more lightly, too.
His kids adored him. Wide-eyed adoration.
They weren’t the only ones.
Caleb and Seth adored him, too. Delighted in him, would be the word Caleb would probably use.
So much so, that when Seth was going through some of his teenage angsty times, and I wanted to throw him a birthday party, the only person he wanted to invite?
Jeremy.
Seth wanted to be near him — to ask him questions, hear Jer’s perspective, and laugh hilariously at the running commentary Jeremy would utter under his breath so only Seth could hear. Then Seth would crack up right in the middle of everything, and Jeremy would turn and look at him completely deadpan and straight-faced, like, “Dude. How random of you to just burst out laughing. Pull it together, son.“ As if Jeremy hadn’t instigated the whole thing to begin with.
Which of course would make Seth laugh even harder. And then we’d all be in on the joke.
That’s how Jeremy made you feel.
Open-hearted. Safe. Respected. Loved. Special.
And in on the joke.
And now, he’s gone.
He’s just f***ing gone.
I’m generally terrible at this part.
This thing called grief is for the birds.
I used to love intense, deep, dark emotions — the kind that feel like you’re drowning in the middle of the ocean on a moonless night. But something changed after having kids. It was like a switch of “let’s be light” flipped on.
I don’t know if I hit a saturation point from all the trauma and grief I carried from childhood.
Or from the ABC After School Specials that tore our hearts out one day a week.
Or from the chronic pain I’ve had in my body, or in my marriage, or from being such a different person in a world that doesn’t always think “different” is “better.”
Or from being an empath who feels people so deeply — and all the stories I’ve held as a spiritual counselor and health coach over three decades.
Or maybe something shifted after my father died 30 years ago. I felt so grieved and guilty for not doing more to save him at his young age of 49, that I got sick, anxious, and spiraled downward for years.
Maybe I’m just protecting myself from a pain that feels more powerful than I am.
I don’t know. But what I do know is this:
As verbal as I am, grief makes me go quiet.
You can tell when something truly aches me to my core by how silent I become. And how I hide away.
I went through a season, decades ago, of writing terrible Christian platitudes to friends who had experienced loss. I’m cringing just thinking about it and I deeply regret it. I wish I could fly around the earth like Superman reversing time so I could spare those grieving people from my ill-timed, ill-written words.
I should have more compassion on all of us who have ever done that. Because sitting with pain you cannot fix or heal is a common discomfort for human beings. I’m not unusual there. But I just know from my own experience that I haven’t done it well.
I think I’m changing, though. Going away in 2024 for six weeks to “Trauma Camp,” as I affectionately called it, helped me learn to be with pain better than I have in decades. I can see now how I’m not trying to fix it or make it disappear — I’m just being present with it, and with the people I love who are in the middle of it.
Grief isn’t something to avoid.
Trust me. I’ve tried.
It gets trapped in us and oozes out through our eyes and mouths and actions and angst when we least expect it, if we don’t give it the time, space, and honor it deserves.
My friend Lisa Espinoza is an expert at this. After losing her son, Chandler, she became a grief practitioner who knows how to be with pain in a way that is honest and brings real healing.
One of the most illuminating things I’ve ever read on the subject comes from Glennon Doyle — and it celebrates this horrible thing I want to avoid and never want to be an expert at (even though in many ways, I probably already am):
“Grief is love’s souvenir. It’s our proof that we once loved. Grief is the receipt we wave in the air that says to the world: Look! Love was once mine. I loved well. Here is my proof that I paid the price.”
Sigh.
Right now, Carolee and the kids are proving they paid the price.
And rightly so. They loved Jeremy so much and were loved so well by him.
They’re holding a receipt of that love right now.
And because we had the honor of loving and being loved by Jeremy —
we are, too.
We miss you, Jer. No fair leaving us in this crazy haze without all your hilarity, perspective, and care to serve as a roadmap and sense-maker of it all. Life is not going to be the same without you. But in your honor, we will figure it out — and carry your spirit forward in how we live and move and have our being.
We love you. Travel safely on.
Love,
Stacey
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Friends, the medical bills are beyond reason and the needs are real for the Dalton family. Please consider giving to our non-profit, Common Ground, so that we can be a source of comforting, practical love to them in their time of need. Click here to donate to our 501(c)(3) and we will send the funds along. Thank you so much for your love.