Being human involves loss. None of us escape it. The variety of loss we can feel is an almost infinite spectrum. In the last few years, I have experienced repeated loss, ranging from lies and betrayal to devastating grief. As I move through each, I have witnessed my thoughts occurring in the most non-linear ways, though overall, there seems to be some sort of commonality to it all. To that end, I think grief is an incredibly non-linear process while also being consistently linear when we factor time into the equation. I will, most definitely, be exploring grief as a subject in my writing as I have found it to be similar to the depths of the oceans in its vast scope.
I recently lost someone very dear to me, someone I spoke to weekly for almost 13 years: my mentor and friend, Andy Achenbaum. He was the epitome of a scholar while also being one of the most humble humans I have ever known. Today is his memorial-funeral service, and for logistical reasons, I can’t be there. So, I am heeding his voice in my head and writing instead. May he rest peacefully knowing how well he was loved.
Dear Andy,
Today, right about now actually, many people will be gathering to celebrate your life and to mourn your loss. I’m sorry I can’t be there, though I know you understand, perhaps better than most. I feel certain that the words that are being shared would make your heart smile, even if you didn’t always feel deserving of them. I hope that deep down you knew how loved you were, how important you were to so many.
Heeding your (constant) advice, I’m writing. It was the one thing you pushed me toward week after week. “You gotta write, kid!” you would say with your booming yet supportive voice. Then we would brainstorm ideas or discuss life in ways that would make us both feel better about it and inspire topics to explore on the keyboard. You have been, and will forever be, the voice in my head encouraging me, guiding me, and supporting me to live my dharma, to follow my path, and to create my journey through words. I carry those words with me as I type this post. Now, though, instead of across the wires on a couple of smart phones, I hear you in my heart and my mind. Thankfully, I have some voicemails saved. Something I wish I had done with my father before he had his stroke and lost his words so many years ago.
The last (almost) two weeks have been surreal. I have lost count of the times I reached for the phone to pop you an email or make a quick call. It’s hard to believe that I can’t do that anymore. Part of me is still in denial, actually. I might be there for a while. You understand. Plus, I am looking at a year since Lucas passed just two days away. I’d love to admonish you and tell you you chose a horrible time to die, but I think, actually, you were trying to make it easier on me. Lump all the grief together, and get it over with. You said something similar last year as I mourned his loss on the heels of so much other heartbreak.
Still, I wish we had one more call, one more meal, one more email. Just one more so I could tell you all.the.things and you could tell me yours. It’s funny how our relationship evolved over the 13 years from mentor/mentee, to friendship, to confidants… ultimately arriving at a place where all three intersect. It’s something I don’t think I’ll ever experience again, and for that I know how very lucky I am that you stopped me that morning in the Dean’s office and corralled me to your own mini-library of an office so that we could chat. I will miss our chats more than I will ever be able to properly express. It’s like there’s a hole in my life now that will never be filled…
But, I am writing. You will, of course, be happy to hear that as you watch from above. I am writing more and I will be writing more. Writing is a balm we both shared, and I loved that over the last few years you were sending me your work as well as still reviewing mine. Though, I think I finally hit the pinnacle of my writing when you commented on one of my recent pieces that you wished you had written it yourself. There’s no greater complement I could have received from you. So, while I won’t be able to send you anything else, I know that the years you spent nurturing me have truly made a difference.
To that end, I wrote you a eulogy last week that I shared among my friends. It’s something I know would have made you smile deep in your heart, while also prompting a measure of surprise and self-deprecation. I’m sure today’s eulogy at your service will be equally as heart-warming and surprising to you, though at the end of the day, I hope you truly come to know how deeply you were loved, respected, and appreciated.
With that, I shall not say goodbye, but that I will see you again. We will talk again and laugh again, I am certain. Until then, I will carry you with me in my mind and my heart, as I hear your voice echoing in my head: “You gotta write, kid!”
Much love always,
me
My Eulogy for Andy
Though I may not be giving the Eulogy at his service, it doesn’t mean I can’t eulogize the person I loved in writing. Plus, I’m a writer… it’s what I do. I also think this would tickle him considering that almost weekly, he said to me: “You gotta write, kid. It’s who you are.”
Of all the professors and teachers I’ve had in my life, he was the only one I’d call a mentor. He knew me the best… but that was because he chose to. He took the time to get to know me. He made it important. The first time we spoke privately was also the day we decided to talk weekly—a tradition that lasted for almost 13 years, long after the cap and gown ceremony was over.
He had asked for that first meeting. I say “asked” but it was more of a command. About six weeks into my degree, Andy bumped into me in the administrative offices as I was requesting a meeting with the Dean. Almost with a sixth sense, he asked me why I was there and I told him I wanted to leave grad school, that it wasn’t for me and wasn’t what I expected. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Come to my office. Let’s talk.” I responded with something dismissive like, “Sure… another day,” to which he replied, “No. Now,” as he walked away and I dutifully followed. We talked for over an hour. If he had anything else to do or anywhere else to be, he never let on. His entire focus was on me and listening to my concerns and frustrations—and probably fears, if I’m honest. He listened and didn’t try to fix it. He just listened. And at the end of pouring out my thoughts about grad school and life, he simply offered me an invitation.
Andy was like that. He didn’t often tell you what to do, but he offered a question or a thought or an idea to shift perspective. To me, that’s the sign of a true teacher, someone who helps guide you to get to the answer yourself rather than telling you what it is. On that day, I chose to stay enrolled, at least through the end of the semester, which was his invitation, alongside talking regularly. We decided to meet weekly, and it was, without a doubt, one of the best decisions of my life. With few exceptions, we met or talked weekly from that point forward for almost 13 years, straight up until he left us.
What started out as a mentor/mentee relationship grew into a most-cherished friendship, though I will always refer to him as my mentor for the rest of my life. It was a role, he himself felt proud and humbled to embody for me, as he told me often. And I was, and will always consider myself, lucky to have known him in that way.
I have many more stories about my time with Andy, most of which are echoed in the stories others have shared with me since his passing. Classmates from grad school have validated my experience with him time and time again in telling me of their own interactions with “Professor Achenbaum” or “Dr. A.” Each and every one has warmed my heart, and I know that they would have made Andy both blush and smile to be remembered in such ways. His humility when it came to making an impact on students’ lives was a trait I always admired. He didn’t lack confidence as a professor (he was born to teach) but he often expressed bewilderment when he heard of his impact. Bewilderment followed by deep gratitude. It always made me happy when I could impart someone’s message of thanks to him, knowing it would make his heart smile.
After retirement, Andy’s world changed. From a life lived in front of many people (mostly students) for decades, his world became more focused on family, friends, and faith. He loved his family deeply, as he often shared with me, just as he looked forward to his encounters with old friends and colleagues. He said he was glad to be able to count me in that group especially as it dwindled down somewhat. I will always feel that I am the lucky one for being included in his inner circle. Andy was a cherished friend who helped me through some of the worst times of my life, even becoming a bit of a surrogate father after mine passed.
As his social interactions decreased, his time to explore his faith increased in proportion. A social activist in his heart, the struggles around the globe irked him immensely and we often spent at least some of our weekly calls trying to make sense of it all.
Over the years, we had grown to become each other’s confidant, or safe space to share our innermost thoughts about everything from the cost of toilet paper to the political landscape and various religious teachings. Andy was, in my opinion, the definition of a “scholar” as he voraciously read and studied anything and everything. Insatiably curious and uncommonly kind, he could have a conversation with anyone, and often did. He thrived on human connection and the exploration of ideas, and he had a true sense of morality underlying his own. It was a privilege to engage with him and his mind on a regular basis—especially when his wry humor came into the picture. I loved making him laugh, as it was true and hearty.
He could quote Rumi just as easily as he could quote scripture or some Greek philosopher. It was one of the things I admired most in him: his encyclopedic ability to remember words and then share them at the most opportune time. We enjoyed discussing these things so much that I, at one time, thought I wanted to pursue a PhD in Comparative Religion. Though he offered to be an advisor for me, he ultimately dissuaded me from this path. Instead he encouraged me to keep writing—to keep thinking and exploring and then sharing my journey and knowledge in the written word.
Over the years, I gave him all of the drafts of my work, and he happily read them and shared his honest feedback with me. And I was truly honored when he started asking me to do the same for him and his writing. More than any other person, Andy has played an integral role in what writing I have shared and what I have held back from view, often waiting for better timing. He encouraged me in all that I did, and gently redirected me when he felt I needed some prodding in a different direction. He challenged me and supported me, always inviting me to explore the bigger picture before asking me to describe how something impacted me personally.
It was, however, our conversations about faith and spirituality that will be forever etched in my heart. Over the last few months, perhaps a year, I noticed that his focus turned more inward. Even when we didn’t get a chance to speak, his emails were always glimpses into his soul, and each one was signed simply: “Love.” Over this time, we had numerous conversations about the meaning of life, and what happens after death. Maybe he knew his time was running out. If he did, that may have been the one thing he kept from me.
Lately, as our conversations turned more inward, we discussed what it meant to leave a legacy—leave something behind—as well as what we can hope for when we leave this earth. His legacy, I feel, will be much more profound than he might have expected, at least as I remember him. As for what happens when we leave this earth, he was hopeful I think, as are many, that it means grace. That above all else, we are gifted with grace. I believe he has found that it does.
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For Andy: I love you and always will. Thank you for being in my life. I will miss you more than you could ever know, or perhaps would ever accept. May you rest peacefully, my mentor, my confidant, my friend. Love.
What a beautifully moving and emotional eulogy. My heart goes out to you during this difficult time of loss.
"Goodbyes are only for those who love with their eyes. Because for those who love with heart and soul there is no such thing as separation." Rumi.
May you find comfort in the memories and love that will always remain in your heart.
Martina, I’m in tears. These are tears of love, sad and grateful at the same time. Thank you for your words and even more for sharing them. They help me feel braver (in many ways) as we all move forward. Thank you thank you thank you. ❤️