My best friend since 1982, D., who was my best man at my wedding in 1992, has died of COVID-19.   The family today asked me to officiate as minister at the funeral Saturday, Nov. 14th.  I was a hospital chaplain for 10 years, so of course I will, and it won't be my first.  But I have to admit that today I went off alone and spent a couple of hours this afternoon crying. 

I never cried when I was sexually assaulted by a pedophile I fought twice, for 4 hours the first time, for 8 hours the second time. 

I never cried when my father beat me bloody as a kid and gave me PTSD. 

I wet myself in terror, but I still didn't cry when the Uruguayan dictatorship's military tortured me in the street. 

I didn't cry when they were done torturing me and only failed to execute me because the gun they held to my temple jammed twice when the officer in charge pulled the trigger once and again. 

They did get my terror but I did not, not not ever give them the satisfaction of my tears. 

But losing D. made me cry today for hours. 

My friend D. will be sorely, truly, deeply missed.  We stuck together through thick and thin for 38 years, through grad school, doctoral studies, divorces, and career ups and downs for us both, through moves halfway across the country, and we both had made plans in retirement next year.

We weren't done yet. 

So why?