As I sat quietly in the dim, hallowed hush of the church the other day, waiting for Richard’s memorial service to begin, I found myself wandering through the spaces of his life that hadn’t yet been named. In the days leading up to this, the obituary had cataloged his achievements, and friends had traded stories of his sharp wit and that signature humor that lit up a room. But there was a specific silence in that chapel—a silence not of forgetting, but of a truth so natural, so foundational to who he was, that no one had thought to put it into words.
Richard was “The Man to Call.”
It is a title that doesn’t appear on resumes or in the flowery prose of a standard eulogy. He was a man of contradictions: he was funny, irreverent, and could dismantle a bad idea with a single remark. Yet, if you found yourself staring at a jail cell door at midnight, if you had tumbled down the stairs in the dark, or if you were facing a doctor’s appointment you were too terrified to attend alone, your hand instinctively reached for the phone to dial his number.
Being “The Person to Call” isn’t a trait found in self-help books. There are no seminars on how to become the person who answers the phone when the world is falling apart. But sitting there in that pew, I realized that perhaps there should be. It is the highest form of human quietude.
I’ve tried to dissect what, exactly, lived in Richard’s soul that made him this way. I’m certain some of those midnight calls were met with his trademark grumbles and a few mumbled “What have you done now?” quips. Was it sheer physical strength? Richard wasn’t a man of iron and steroids. And yet, when you were flat on the floor, he was the only one you trusted to pick you up.
I think the secret was simpler and far more rare: Richard was a man who was profoundly present.
He lived in the “always.” It didn’t matter if the sun was high or the world was asleep; if there was a need, there was Richard. He didn’t offer platitudes or “thoughts and prayers” from a distance. He put on his shoes, grabbed his keys, and showed up. He stood in the wreckage of his friends’ lives and stayed until the debris was cleared.
As the music began to swell in the church, I realized that while we were there to say goodbye to a great soul, Richard’s legacy isn’t trapped in that building. He remains the man to call—a steady, sarcastic, beautiful constant in the hearts of everyone who ever needed a hand in the dark.
To be the person who answers when the world is calling is not just a way to be remembered; it is a way to have truly lived.
just wow ❤️😢
Thqnks Missy.
Wow, Webb! That’s a stunning tribute!
Thanks Tammie.
True legacy of love.