(Friday, November 9, 2007)

I miss Jeff.

Dr. Jeffrey Byers was an amazing man. For the people who knew him, this is a statement of the overwhelmingly obvious. He made his mother proud. He adored his wife. He treated his nieces and nephews as if they were his own children. His friends universally regarded his friendship as a privilege. He was a man who thought carefully and deliberately about who he was and who he wanted to be. Then he put the resulting philosophy into action and lived his life with compassion and integrity. I admired Jeff’s integrity. I envied Jeff’s integrity. I wanted to be like Jeff, and I still do.

I miss Jeff terribly.

The tragedy of Jeff’s death assaults us with grief. A man as young and vigorous and loved as Jeff should not be dead. We react to this injustice in a myriad of ways, but two reactions are universal: an uncompromising sense of loss, and an image of our own mortality. I won’t speak much of my feelings of loss today – I don’t have to; it’s the easiest thing in the world for you to understand. I see that as I look at the loss expressed in each of your faces. I would, however, like to talk for a moment about mortality, or rather, immortality.

I know some of you had conversations with Jeff about spirituality – I never did, though I suspect I know some of his beliefs. And I know there is a great range of opinions on the subject among people here today. I think, however, that I am only qualified to speak about my own views of immortality, so I hope you will indulge me on this topic, and let me share with you my thoughts.

I have two views of immortality. One is scientific. Jeff was a scientist – he loved being a scientist – so I think he would appreciate this. Possibly the most important and universal law of physics is the conservation of mass-energy: the mass and energy that exists in the universe today has always existed, from the beginning of time, and will always exist till the end of time. And this applies to each one of us as well – every atom and molecule in our body has always been. As Carl Sagan liked to say, we are all made of stardust. Jeff was made of stardust, and now he is returning that dust back to the world he borrowed it from. It will not be lost, but will go on to become something new. I pleases me to think of that, and I think it would have pleased Jeff, too.

Jeff was a scientist who loved science, but he loved people more. And it is through that love that Jeff will, in a deeper and more important sense, achieve immortality. Through Jeff’s life, by the way he lived, Jeff has changed us. These changes are not temporary – they cannot be taken back. They stay with us. Our immense feelings of loss come from knowing that we have been robbed of all the good Jeff still had to offer. But what he achieved in his life we continue to carry with us, and in that very real, very concrete way, Jeff lives on.

A few hours before Jeff’s accident, on September 7, my second daughter Anna was born. Jeff would have loved to have seen Anna (he loved children), and I am heartbroken that she will never get to meet Jeff. But Jeff will be a part of her life, nonetheless. Maybe Anna’s big sister Sarah will teach her how to color her toenails with crayons, the way Jeff taught Sarah. Or maybe Anna will watch me act, in some small way, with integrity and compassion, the way Jeff taught me. I can’t take Jeff out of my life, and of course I don’t want to, which means that he will be in Anna’s life too. And I am so very glad for that.

I miss Jeff. I will always miss Jeff. But I am lucky, because missing him means simply that Jeff was part of my life, and I will always be thankful for that good fortune.