“Your Uncle Eric died this afternoon.”  My sister and I just walked in the front door after a day at school when our dad told us.  I felt nauseous, shocked, and upset.  Eric had been in St. V’s for about two weeks with a respiratory infection.  He had been sick before but had only been hospitalized for a few days in Mercy Hospital in Defiance before he went back to the hospital and was transferred to Toledo.  My dad, sister, and I all went up to see my mom and Grandma who were staying with Eric in the hospital a few days before, and it was looking better for Eric.  Eric had gone into a coma only a few days after being admitted to St. V’s.  Even though he had been in a coma, he did have brain activity; then he didn’t.  He had gone brain dead.  That night when my mom and grandma came back to our house, I knew nothing would ever be the same. 

Eric was my mom’s only sibling, and he was her little brother.  My uncle was a biker.  A six-foot tall man with tattoos up and down his arms, legs, back, and neck, he was the kind of person most people were afraid of.  He had been in jail before, but that didn’t mean he was a horrible person.  Every time I saw him, he would always say, “Hey, kiddo!  You staying out of trouble?”  He was intimidating at first look, but he was one of the nicest and most amazing people I knew.  Eric met me for the first time when I was around the age of one, and then he disappeared from my life until I was about six or seven.  It seemed like he was starting to make up for the lost time and forgotten birthdays in the early years of my life, but the make up was cut short.  He had two daughters, Chelsea and Courtney, who changed him from the party hard guy he was to a hard working, full time dad.  He didn’t go out and drink or party very often after they were born.   Chelsea had just turned four, and Courtney was only three with a birthday soon approaching when Eric died.  They won’t get to know the kind of person their daddy was.  They won’t get to have their daddy scare the boys who broke their hearts or have their daddy walk them down the aisle when the time comes. 

The days leading up to the funeral are a blur of tears, memories, and warmed up food from many different people.  The day set aside for viewing was one of the hardest days at the time.  Everyone kept pushing me and telling me, “Go up to the casket,” and “I will go with you if you don’t want to go alone.”  No one understood that I was already alone.  My grandma was hysterical and wouldn’t take care of anything, so my mom had to take on that job.  She paid Eric’s bills, set up a day for my family to clean out his house, and took the time to get a grave marker made.  My dad and sister were in the corner of the funeral parlor looking around and talking to the people they recognized.  I was standing in a room full of strangers and family, but I might as well have been standing there alone.  No one seemed to understand my feelings and unanswered questions.

On the day of the funeral, so many people showed up that the funeral home employees had to open up a second room to hold all of the people.  I’ve never seen so many bikers and members from both sides of my family come together like they did that day.  When the funeral began, I expected to see a big, mean-looking biker come up and talk about Eric, but instead, a tall, scrawny guy with glasses walked up to the pedestal that was set up.  He looked as if the wind could knock him down and blow him down the road like a tumbleweed.  “My name is Jimmy Fry.  I am a pastor at Free Christian Church of God, and I am going to tell you about my friend, Eric,” the man said.  He was the last person I expected to be friends with Eric because he was the preacher’s kid, and Eric was a rebel with a record; but he talked about Eric in a personal way and said many personal detail about Eric that no one knew.  He tells that story very often.  His “My Friend Eric” sermon is, what I like to think, his most famous sermon.  He has told it many times to his church, his youth group, and was even invited to go and tell Eric’s story on the radio.

Jimmy Fry has become known as my adopted uncle.  He looks out for me and has talks with the boys I date, just like Eric would have; however, Jimmy is not anywhere close to being as intimidating as Eric.  Jimmy helped my family through that tough time and we have become very close to him, his family, and his church.  Eric may be gone, but with Jimmy’s help, his story will live on for many years to come, and soon, everyone will know the story of “My Friend, Eric.”