I sat in the back of Ss. Peter and Paul Church Monday watching as the casket holding a person who had recently become a good friend of mine rolled by, and I said goodbye for the last time.
Andrew Michael Walters, of Godfrey, died of heart problems on a Wednesday at age 26, but the memory of his young life won’t ever die for the hundreds of people that filed in and out of the church on the day of his visitation, or for the people who stood in the back of the church during his funeral because there was nowhere left to sit.
Tears rolling down my face, I wondered—what if he were standing next to me watching the whole thing?
Could he have guessed that his obituary would be among the top stories read on his hometown newspaper’s Web site, or that the same paper would feature an article on his life, an honor not just bestowed upon anyone?
I’m sure he knew he was popular to some extent, but could he have ever imagined the sheer amount of people who would mourn his loss after he was gone?
The line of people wishing to pay their last respects at Sunday’s visitation snaked in and out of the pews and seemed almost infinite. His parents even made the comment that they really had no idea how many people loved their son.
But how could we not have loved him?
“He was always smiling,” people said at his funeral. “He was always laughing and making other people laugh, and if he was having a bad day, no one would ever know it.”
“He would do anything for anybody, and he never said a negative thing about another person,” they went on.
He was the type of guy that everyone loved. It almost seems cliché to say right after someone dies, but with Andy, it’s true, and it was never more obvious than it has been the past week.
I wonder if he knew all that, and if he didn’t, I hope he does now.
A high school friend of his said it best at the funeral: “Even those who didn’t know him all that well—to those people, he was their buddy.”
His death impacted not only his closest friends and family, but also a number of others, including myself.
I can remember years ago when I only knew of Andy, and had never talked to him personally. I can remember the first time I hung out with him—when he and my best friend and I went to see One Lone Car open for Tobi Kai and the Strays at Mississippi Nights. I can remember coming home from a movie date with my then boyfriend, after which we met Andy for a drink at the Big Muddy Pub in downtown Alton.
With the beginning of sand volleyball season, I got to know him much better from seeing him every Thursday night and partying with him after the games. Then I got to see him even more as he became a frequent visitor at my boyfriend’s apartment. For three months I got to be closer with him, the three months just before he died. Although it seems unfair that it was such a short time, I am thankful that it happened.
He may have never guessed, because I didn’t until he was gone, that those three months were enough to leave a permanent mark on my life and inspire me to be a better person like he was.
I wonder if he knew all that, and if he didn’t, I hope he does now.
It’s been a week since he’s been gone, but the pain continues as we all attempt to go on with our normal, everyday lives.
I can only speak from my own experience, but there are days when I wake up with a song I heard at the funeral stuck in my head.
There are days when I need some company so that I don’t sit around and think about how we’ll never see that Dave Matthews concert we had talked about.
There are days when I’m OK one second and in tears the next, knowing that the last time I wore this dress was the last time I got to see him alive, knowing that I’ve heard his laugh for the last time or because I realize he won’t be there for tonight’s weekly volleyball game.
The world is missing a little something without Andy, there’s no doubt, but he will live on in many people’s hearts and memories.
I wonder if he knew all that, and if he didn’t, I hope he does now.
I wonder if, while dealing with health problems three years ago, the thought of what his funeral would be like ever crossed his mind, and whether it turned out the way he would have imagined.
I’ve thought of how mine might go, but I’ve never imagined anything like his turned out to be in reality. Then again, I’m no Andy Walters.
I wonder if he knew what it would be like, and if he didn’t—I hope he realizes now how special he really was.
Andrew Michael Walters, of Godfrey, died of heart problems on a Wednesday at age 26, but the memory of his young life won’t ever die for the hundreds of people that filed in and out of the church on the day of his visitation, or for the people who stood in the back of the church during his funeral because there was nowhere left to sit.
Tears rolling down my face, I wondered—what if he were standing next to me watching the whole thing?
Could he have guessed that his obituary would be among the top stories read on his hometown newspaper’s Web site, or that the same paper would feature an article on his life, an honor not just bestowed upon anyone?
I’m sure he knew he was popular to some extent, but could he have ever imagined the sheer amount of people who would mourn his loss after he was gone?
The line of people wishing to pay their last respects at Sunday’s visitation snaked in and out of the pews and seemed almost infinite. His parents even made the comment that they really had no idea how many people loved their son.
But how could we not have loved him?
“He was always smiling,” people said at his funeral. “He was always laughing and making other people laugh, and if he was having a bad day, no one would ever know it.”
“He would do anything for anybody, and he never said a negative thing about another person,” they went on.
He was the type of guy that everyone loved. It almost seems cliché to say right after someone dies, but with Andy, it’s true, and it was never more obvious than it has been the past week.
I wonder if he knew all that, and if he didn’t, I hope he does now.
A high school friend of his said it best at the funeral: “Even those who didn’t know him all that well—to those people, he was their buddy.”
His death impacted not only his closest friends and family, but also a number of others, including myself.
I can remember years ago when I only knew of Andy, and had never talked to him personally. I can remember the first time I hung out with him—when he and my best friend and I went to see One Lone Car open for Tobi Kai and the Strays at Mississippi Nights. I can remember coming home from a movie date with my then boyfriend, after which we met Andy for a drink at the Big Muddy Pub in downtown Alton.
With the beginning of sand volleyball season, I got to know him much better from seeing him every Thursday night and partying with him after the games. Then I got to see him even more as he became a frequent visitor at my boyfriend’s apartment. For three months I got to be closer with him, the three months just before he died. Although it seems unfair that it was such a short time, I am thankful that it happened.
He may have never guessed, because I didn’t until he was gone, that those three months were enough to leave a permanent mark on my life and inspire me to be a better person like he was.
I wonder if he knew all that, and if he didn’t, I hope he does now.
It’s been a week since he’s been gone, but the pain continues as we all attempt to go on with our normal, everyday lives.
I can only speak from my own experience, but there are days when I wake up with a song I heard at the funeral stuck in my head.
There are days when I need some company so that I don’t sit around and think about how we’ll never see that Dave Matthews concert we had talked about.
There are days when I’m OK one second and in tears the next, knowing that the last time I wore this dress was the last time I got to see him alive, knowing that I’ve heard his laugh for the last time or because I realize he won’t be there for tonight’s weekly volleyball game.
The world is missing a little something without Andy, there’s no doubt, but he will live on in many people’s hearts and memories.
I wonder if he knew all that, and if he didn’t, I hope he does now.
I wonder if, while dealing with health problems three years ago, the thought of what his funeral would be like ever crossed his mind, and whether it turned out the way he would have imagined.
I’ve thought of how mine might go, but I’ve never imagined anything like his turned out to be in reality. Then again, I’m no Andy Walters.
I wonder if he knew what it would be like, and if he didn’t—I hope he realizes now how special he really was.
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