Gone But Not Forgotten

Dear Sean,

I miss you my friend.

I remember our first encounter like it was yesterday. It was 1990. Our youth group was entering Six Flags Magic Mountain. All 46 of us exited the bus and got into the group ticket line. Everything was going smoothly until you tried to walk through the gate.

Your shorts. Your jean shorts.

They were below your rear end. Held together by a belt below your butt, which was covered by a pair of plaid boxer shorts that were essentially functioning as pants.

You were stopped by security, who made it clear that you would not be allowed to enter further by pulling your attire up about five inches. You got angry, and I stepped in.
After a little persuasive conversation, you agreed to comply…albeit reluctantly. “Yo, I’m Sean. What’s your name, man?”

And that’s how we met. It was pretty much an adventure from there.

You were a handful at youth group (and most places!). You had your posse, which included Weeman (Jason), Donnie, Ken, and Peter. You guys always rolled in, skateboards in hand, which served as your chairs on the floor. And I remember a Tuesday night when I shared some of my stories. I talked about my father and how he had never told me he loved me. “Love” didn’t mean as much to me as “like.” Love was a mysterious command, and like was a choice made freely and with affection.

“Dude, God likes you.” I don’t know how many times you told me that. It was usually the last thing you would say to me. Almost like an afterthought…but a very profound one at that.

Sean, you were that kid that was too smart for his good. Yet you always disliked school. I suspect it moved too slowly for you. Your mind moved quickly. About as quickly as you did, whether it was snowboarding, skateboarding, or cycling…you were fast. And you discovered how to trust your quick instincts as well. Who knew under the street exterior was the making of a very shrewd businessman, investor, and entrepreneur?

You married your high school sweetheart. You were the Bad Boy, and she was the girl most likely to never get in trouble her entire life. It was a classic love story. Then she went off to college. Tragically she was molested, became pregnant, and decided to keep her unexpected child. And who decided to step up his game? You did. Maybe because your dad didn’t show up for you, maybe because of your crazy devotion to Sunny, or maybe because it was what Jesus wanted you to do. Or all of the above. You did. You stepped up. Big.

After you married, you began a whole new life. Never finishing anything, you set out to raise a family of four beautiful kids. You discovered your wonderfully insane gift of understanding the world of finance. You crushed it in the world of day trading. Your ability to make mind-bending decisions about investments, stocks, and start-ups was like watching a world-class athlete at the peak of their career. Walking into your “war room” was mesmerizing to me. You must have had six-eight screens in the darkened office as you maintained the concentration skills of a big game hunter waiting to pull the trigger on a hunt for an elusive prize.

You grew as a man. You plugged into a church. You bought property. You went from a boy to a man in front of our eyes. It was a marvelous miracle to behold.

And then there was that fateful morning in Irvine. I was there for a conference. You were on your way to work. It was 4:30 am at Starbucks on Bristol. And we bumped into each other. It was sweet. So very unexpected and so very wonderful. We hugged and laughed about our tendency to get up at 4 am. And you said, “Bro, we need to talk.”

We did.

You laid out some struggles and challenges you were facing with work. With yourself. Within yourself. Before long, you made some major life moves. Moved back to the South Bay. I had resigned by then, disqualifying myself from pastoring due to marital infidelity. We were there for each other. We went skateboarding, cycling, ate Mexican food, and dreamed about the second half of our lives.

Then came the call. “Sean has taken his life.”

Sean, you took your life. Oh, how you must have agonized. The torment you went through, only you and God know. Sean, I wish we could have talked that night. I wish we could have prayed, laughed, and cried together once more. And I genuinely believe you wish you could have a second chance to undo that decision. Alas, we don’t have that luxury in this world. You are so missed. Your serious face in conversations. Your BIG hugs. Your transparency. Your commitment to action. Your loyalty to your friends and family. Your generosity. Your simple and profound love of Jesus. Your total abandonment to Him in worship.

And Sean, I want to remind you of what you have come to know so profoundly.

God likes you, my friend. You began to go through a very difficult and troubling season—inner turmoil complicated by a variety of external factors and forces. I began to call and/or text scripture verses to you. You were scared. And I was scared for you.