I got an unexpected call in my office this morning informing me that my good friend, Michael deBeer, died yesterday.

Mike was only a few years older than me—32 or 33, I can’t remember—and was one of the most active people I knew. In fact, he was kayaking with his girlfriend and her family when he died.

They said he died from a heart attack, which is simply impossible for me to imagine. Mike was young and active. He didn’t fit the bill.

His death doesn’t make medical sense to me, and it makes even less sense theologically. I have a very hard time understanding events like Mike’s death. They make me sad, they make me angry, and they tempt me to look at the world with increased cynicism. Which is exactly the opposite of what Michael would want.

Michael loved life with an excitement matched only by an eight-year-old on her way to Walt Disney World. The smallest things held immense joy for him: dinner and Scrabble with friends; sitting on his living room floor playing with his cats; going on an impromptu walk; being with his girlfriend; speculating about the nature of God and eternity. He lived every moment to its very fullest.

And so I imagine that Michael wouldn’t like my cynical reaction to his unexpected, unfair, and incomprehensible death. I imagine him saying to me, Carpe Diem! I imagine myself shooting him a sarcastic look, betraying my annoyance at his unyielding optimism; but I also imagine myself having to listen. Because more than anyone I know, Michael seized the day. More than anyone I know, he encouraged me to do the same. And more than anyone I know, he actually makes me think about listening to him.

Carpe diem. Seize the day. Mike didn’t waste a single day. His life was way too short, but his life was also full. And I’m sure he’s already making the most of his new life. I’m going to do my best to try to keep up with him down here.

Noelle

Michael was my friend, too, and I share all your sentiments. I'm in shock and deep grief. Mike and I met on the mat practicing aikido. We became friends and I became his priest in Toledo-- though the relationship was more like brothers, with Michael often playing the elder role. I remember when our church community bid him farewell as he left for Richmond. His absence was tangible for us-- his presence was simply palpable, that was his gift.

I agree that he wouldn't want us to become cynical, but it's my own natural response when life seems to capricious.

Carpe diem, indeed.

Everything you've both written rings true for me and my friends and husband, as well. We went to Amherst with Mike and he was such a vivid part of our school experience that I have to remind myself every day that he has passed; it just won't register in my brain. If you knew Mike, then I'm sure you're familiar with what we termed "Mike DeBeer questions." Those are the deep, philosophical, open-ended questions that Mike would wander into your dorm room at 2 am to discuss, thus keeping you from finishing your work, or sleeping, or anything else. He was never wedded to a particular view that he wanted to force on you; rather, he loved the dynamic of the discussion: the what-ifs, the twists and turns, the interplay, the back and forth. He'd quietly smile and laugh through the whole thing, no matter the topic, because he was just so pleased to be engaged in the endeavor of thinking. And he truly wanted to know what you thought. (Was any war just? What was the nature of humanity? What was the meaning of life?) It makes us very sad to think that we won't be able to do that with him again. But I don't think he's done with his pondering... in fact, it makes me smile to think that a whole bunch of angels are getting much less sleep these days...