Friends

Wednesday's celebration of Steve's birthday was perfect -- the weather, the mood, the people gathered. (Though we missed many of you who just couldn't make it to Frisco so early in the evening.)

Steve's spirit was definitely among us. No doubt he was smiling and laughing, enjoying the company of family and dear friends.

Layne captured beautiful images. I am so thankful that we'll be able to reminisce over the photos in the years to come.

I am also thankful for friends who handled so many details of the day -- Liz, Zena, Jason, Andy, Mary, Shilpa and Kris.

My Briefing column today focuses on the importance of friendship, modeled daily by so many friends of the Damm family.

***

The love of friends makes life's milestones sweeter

As the sun was setting Wednesday afternoon, about 60 friends and family members gathered on a hill in our neighborhood park to wish Steve a happy birthday.

Steve – my late husband, father of our two children, son, brother and dearly missed friend and colleague – would have turned 41.

Our grief is still raw. He died just two months ago from complications of brain cancer, and the permanence of his absence hasn't become completely real yet, though it sets a little more each day.

We've always celebrated birthdays with gusto. Steve and I were a great team in throwing parties – collaborating on themes, invitations and cake. (I would bake; he would decorate. All cakes coming from our home now won't be near as pretty.) There was no question that we'd celebrate Steve's first birthday in heaven, but I had no idea what to do.

One of the grief counselors we work with suggested a balloon release. I loved the idea and imagined the kids and I and Steve's parents letting go of a dozen balloons.

That small plan didn't last long. I also wanted Cooper and Katie to be surrounded by what has become our extended family – an incredible group of friends who helped to sustain us through Steve's brutal cancer journey and who continue to support us as we navigate life after such a tragic loss.

We extended the invitation to anyone who wanted to join us. By 5:30 p.m., the park was crowded with the children who make my own children happy and the adults who constantly remind me of the gifts of friendship.

Cooper played with boys he's known for at least half his life. They watched for fish at the edge of the pond and climbed on jungle gyms and ran and hollered with carefree abandon.

When it was time to get quiet and reflect on Steve's life and death, one of Cooper's best buddies was at his side. They bowed their heads and folded their hands in prayer.

After the release, a group of friends surrounded Cooper. They laid flat on their backs to watch as the balloons and attached notes to Steve disappeared into the still sky. Then silliness ruled again, and they ran around until darkness set in.

For me, the afternoon was about honoring Steve, acknowledging his enduring spirit and sharing the special moment with loved ones. And I expect that someday Cooper and Katie will feel the same way.

But in the moment, what seemed to matter most to them was that they were among friends – the people with whom they feel comfortable and who make them feel good about themselves and who help create warm memories.

Life is just better when you're surrounded by the people who find similar enjoyment and share common interests. There's great joy in finding true friends who don't necessarily share all of your beliefs but still find a way to bridge the differences.

And the challenges that we all face are easier when the burden is shared among people we love.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. E-mail her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

More from the service

I'm continuing to add pieces from Steve's memorial service to YouTube. You can also find links on the top right corner of the blog. Here are the six so far.

Part 1 (includes "In This Room")
Part 2 (includes "Safe Within Your Arms")
Part 3 (includes children's time)
Part 4 ("It Is Well With My Soul")
Part 5 (includes Will's remarks)
Part 6 (Will's remarks continued, "Order My Steps")

***

Melissa, my best friend since eighth grade, wrote about Steve in honor of his birthday. The link is here.

Happy birthday, sweet angel Steve

Part of the note I attached to my balloon for Steve

Part of the crowd gathered, just before the release

Cooper, super son

Katie, super daughter

Balloons for Steve's 41st birthday and his first in heaven

Chocolate cake for us and Jim and Betty

***

Meanwhile, Uncle Jim was on the road to Florida, where he released these balloons.

***

Also, our dear friend Layne took beautiful photos. The link is here. I'll share a few on the blog later this week, when I write more details about our marvelous afternoon.

Thanks to all of you who spent time with us today to remember Steve!

***

Neices Molli and Brooke and friend Emily released balloons in Anna.

Steve's birthday eve

Wednesday afternoon we'll celebrate Steve's first birthday in heaven. You're welcome to join us. Click here for details.

***

I've started uploading audio from the memorial service. It seems appropriate to begin sharing such a joyful celebration of Steve's life on the eve of his 41st birthday.

Click here to listen to the first nine minutes of the beautiful service, which features the combined choirs of Holy Covenant and Schreiber Memorial United Methodist Churches.

This will be a multi-part process, so check back often for more excerpts. (YouTube accepts clips of 10 minutes or less, which is actually best for me. This is an emotional process.)

Guest blogger Liz: Run for Steve

The Dallas White Rock Marathon is less than six weeks away!

Now is the time to firm up what you are running (relay, half or full) and get ready to run for Steve.

The race is 65 percent full. If you're running the half or full and haven't registered, please do so. If you would like to be on a relay team, let me know.

We will be wearing a new shirt this year -- thanks to Will for the great idea! The shirts will be an uplifting tribute to our dear friend Steve. More information about the shirts will be coming in the next week or so.

I look forward to seeing many familiar faces at the race this year as well as many new ones. This will be a nice way to feel close to Steve, doing something he loved so much ... running!

Please let me know if you have any questions. You can e-mail me at runforsteve@gmail.com.

-- Liz

Standing still

It would be so easy to be paralyzed by grief.

After spending 15 years of marriage with Steve, there's nothing in my daily life that doesn't evoke a memory of my one true love. If I were to examine every detail, I would truly become paralyzed -- unable to make a decision, unable to move forward. I would just stand still.

For many reasons -- most importantly Cooper and Katie -- standing still isn't an option. So all day long, every day, I try to strike a balance.

Take the calendars in the house, for example.

Today we changed the monthly calendars from October to November -- another month away from September. Turning the pages isn't easy, as the simple motion is a physical reminder of the time that has passed since Steve passed away.

There's one calendar that won't change, though. Every year I keep a Mary Engelbreit day-by-day calendar in the kitchen. It used to be my ritual to tear off the page each morning, a small gesture to acknowledge the new day.

The 2009 version that sits near the kitchen sink still shows Sept. 5/6. I can't bear to tear off that page to reveal Sept. 7. I can't bear to physically acknowledge the many days that have passed since the extraordinary morning that Steve's body stopped working.

I expect that by Jan. 1, 2010, I'll be ready to tuck away the calendar, with Sept. 7 through Dec. 31 still intact. And I hope to be able to start a new calendar.

Trying new things is as difficult as keeping the same habits.

Cooper, Katie and I eat out about once a week. When we choose a restaurant that we're familiar with, I of course think of Steve. My inner dialogue goes something like this: "We sat at that table last time we were all here together. Steve ordered this menu item. We laughed about such-and-such."

I'm reluctant to try a new restaurant. It makes complete sense that the rest of the world will change and evolve and grow and that I will do the same, but it's so difficult to acknowledge that. It's difficult to experience something new and know that I won't be able to share it with Steve. So much of our relationship was based on sharing with each other what we'd learned when we were apart.

Yesterday I cooked one of Steve's favorite vegetarian dishes -- tamale pie -- for our Halloween dinner with Jim, Betty and Uncle Jim. I made it about once a month every fall and winter for the past seven or eight years.

Preparing the dish and eating the dish were tangible reminders of sweet Steve. Like so much during this grieving journey (a journey that's barely begun), it was bittersweet. How could I possibly make one of Steve's favorite recipes without him here to enjoy it? But how could I not? The aroma of the dish as it baked evoked such strong emotion -- so much love, so much wistfulness.

I frequently remind myself that Steve fully expects us to continue exploring, living and loving life. But sometimes even that knowledge isn't enough to take away the crushing pain of his absence. It's all part of the journey.

Love

Friday morning Katie and I were spending special time together before her gymnastics class.

We were reading a Disney version of Tarzan when she placed her hand on my arm and said, "Mommy, I need to cuddle with you because I'm sad that Daddy died, and you have lots of Daddy's love in you."

Katie as Tinkerbell and Cooper as Davy Crockett -- both filled with lots of Daddy love

Steve's birthday: New time

Steve's 41st birthday is next Wednesday, Nov. 4.

We're remembering the awesome Superman Steve with a balloon release at our neighborhood park and hope you can join us.

Here's the problem. Last week I told you we'd gather at 6 p.m. But sunset will be about 5:30 p.m. because of the end of Daylight Savings Time.

So, we need to gather at 5:15 p.m. instead. I'm really sorry if this excludes folks who are driving to Frisco after work.

We'll have note cards available at the park, in case you want to write a note to attach to your balloon. And we hope to have one balloon per person. This will be more easily achieved if I have an idea of who is coming.

If you think you'll be able to attend the little celebration in honor of Steve, please e-mail me at tyradamm@gmail.com.

• 5:15 p.m. Wednesday, Nov. 4
• Playground/park at the corner of Hunters Creek and Hidden Creek, Frisco

Grief bursts

Valerie, the hospice grief counselor who visits in our home every other week, often talks about grief bursts -- moments that overwhelm us.

The past week was filled with grief bursts around here.

***

I've learned that seemingly "easy" Steve-related tasks are best performed with a loved one nearby. A couple of weeks ago I was alone when I picked up copies of death certificates from the county office.

I was not prepared for how difficult it would be to see the cause of death, time, date, location, etc., in print. After I picked up the 20 copies, I hurried out of the office, sat in the minivan and sobbed, taking care to not get the official documents damp -- I don't want to make a return visit unless absolutely necessary.

Since then I've asked for help. Tuesday, for example, I filed for Social Security survivor benefits at the McKinney field office. Melane was able to meet me there, providing great comfort as I answered straightforward yet still-emotional facts about Steve's life and death.

Monday morning I'll have Liz and Zena by my side as I answer questions before a judge during a brief probate hearing at the Denton County Courthouse.

***

Just after I got home from the Social Security outing Tuesday, my laptop computer completely failed -- at the same time I was expected to log in to the Dallas Morning News system to begin an editing-from-home shift.

I tried all my old tricks, and nothing worked.

My usual backup plan is to use Steve's laptop. His was a work-issued computer, though, and is no longer here.

My next backup is our aging desktop computer. It no longer connects to our wireless network, though -- something that Steve was expert at fixing.

When I called Nicole to tell her that I would be unable to work, I burst into tears. Steve would have been able to help me find a solution, and without him I felt overwhelmed.

(In truth, I have Uncle Jim via telephone and many friends nearby available to help. But it's not the same as having my own resident IT expert. And I irrationally want absolutely nothing to change -- no electronics purchases, no changes to Windows 7 -- in Steve's absence.)

***

A few months ago I received an e-mail from Angie, a woman about my age who is caring for her dad. He is fighting a brain tumor, and his name is Steve. We've since corresponded frequently.

Angie's dad isn't doing well this week -- he's requiring more frequent doses of morphine and other comfort drugs -- and her family is never far from my thoughts.

I think that their situation has triggered more frequent recollections about Steve's final hours. I remember so many details from that Sunday and early Monday morning. But I couldn't remember if I had told Steve that I love him while he was still conscious -- and if so, had he heard me? Had he responded?

I spoke on the phone with Gretchen and later Melane. They reminded me that I had held his face in my hands as I told him, "I love you." And he definitely heard me.

***

Katie has been struggling the past couple of weeks. She's had more outbursts, more extreme 4-year-old behavior.

Her bursts are completely understandable. She's had no control over the past two years of her life -- half of her life. And now it's painfully obvious that her Daddy isn't coming back.

I'm offering her choices whenever possible and employing all of my dealing-with-a-preschooler tricks with varied success. And I'm continuing to give both Cooper and Katie multiple opportunities to express their feelings. We talk a lot about not keeping things bottled inside -- I think she's actually listening.

***

Our hospice grief session was Tuesday afternoon. After Lisa and Valerie leave, there is always a Cooper meltdown of some sort. It's as if he needs a "reset" -- a big breakdown followed by a couple of days of less anxiety.

He was sobbing about how life is unfair. And that if God had really cared about Daddy, God would have cured him of cancer.

***

Cooper talked more about Steve this weekend than he usually does without prompting.

Just before bedtime, he told me he was so sad about D-A-D-D-Y. "Bad things happen in this world. You don't always see it coming," our little philosopher said.

Then during his nighttime prayer he said, "God, please tell Daddy hi from me and save a good spot in heaven for me, Mommy and Katie."

***

Katie and Cooper, before church this morning

Despite these bursts, we are continuing to function and most of the time live joyfully.

Every day is a victory. We get out of bed every day. We eat (though admittedly I need to do a more consistent job of this myself), Cooper and Katie get to school on time, I get my work done. We socialize. We share our joys and sorrows at the end of the day. We make plans for the future. We are doing our best to honor Steve.

Katie, Saturday morning after she scored her first-ever soccer goal (photo by Layne Smith)

Save the date

Steve's 41st birthday is Nov. 4.

Our family is celebrating and remembering Steve with a balloon release that evening, and we welcome loved ones and friends to join us.

I'll have more details next week, but for now:

• 6 p.m. Wednesday, Nov. 4
• Playground/park at the corner of Hunters Creek and Hidden Creek, Frisco

Old haunts

Steve loved art. His favorite was modern, though he appreciated all kinds. He also loved sculpture and dreamed of creating his own bronze works.

He especially loved the Nasher Sculpture Center, a beautiful oasis in downtown Dallas. When the two of us would go alone, we would linger around each piece, and Steve would study angles, imagine technique, admire the surrounding trees and grass.

When we attended as a family, we would walk (or run) more quickly, spending more time with the whimsical pieces and exploring the grounds themselves -- ponds, bamboo, fountain. We'd also sit in the James Turrell skyscape and talk about the sky.

On one trip we even met Raymond Nasher himself. (He passed away in 2007.)

Cooper, Katie and Melissa

Yesterday, the three of us plus Melissa (who was in town to visit and help all weekend) returned.

The arts district now features two gorgeous additions -- the Winspear Opera House and Wyly Theater. We spent a couple of hours at the celebratory open house, watching a few performances (including a pianist in the opera house), snacking and walking through the Nasher.

I always feel Steve with me, but his presence was even stronger while I walked those familiar garden pathways. I loved that Cooper and Katie admired one of Steve's favorites -- a Henry Moore piece -- before I even had a chance to tell them what it meant to Daddy.

And just look at the joy in these two faces.

Legoland

Three times Steve and I had planned to take Cooper and Katie to Legoland -- spring break 2008 (California), June 2009 (England) and July 2009 (California).

All three trips were canceled. We didn't dwell on the missed opportunities -- Cooper and Katie didn't even know about one of them.

About a month ago I decided that we would try one more time. After Steve passed away, I felt strongly that the three of us needed a change of scenery and routine (though we don't yet know what our new routine is exactly). Legoland seemed the ideal choice.

Even though we'd be going without Steve, I knew he would approve.

We left Saturday (just as I was recovering from H1N1 flu) and returned late Tuesday. We had a wonderful vacation together.

(The trip wasn't without trouble. I left my wallet at home and required a heroic rescue from Layne, who delivered my driver's license and credit card just in enough time for us to make the flight. The rental car's GPS device didn't work. Nothing like a little drama to make you appreciate everything that goes well!)

We spent two full days at Legoland -- roller coasters, playgrounds, shows, exhibits built entirely of Legos, an aquarium. We also spent some time at the beach, watching the sun set over the Pacific and chasing waves. (You can see more photos here and here.)

The folks at the Sheraton Carlsbad Resort & Spa treated us very well. I had worked with them earlier this year, making sure that they could accommodate Steve's special needs. They were gracious when we had to cancel at the last minute and so welcoming when I contacted them again after Steve passed away. When we arrived the first night, they had milk and cookies waiting for us plus stuffed animals for Cooper and Katie and park passes for the three of us.

We spoiled ourselves with a few room service meals. In fact, when we ate breakfast downstairs one day, Cooper was exasperated. "Why do we have to leave our room to eat?!" I explained that most people leave their rooms to eat and that room service is a wonderful luxury.

It was nice to be so spoiled for a couple of days.

Leaving town didn't mean that we left behind our sadness over Steve's death. We talked about him frequently. I thought of him just about every moment -- how much he would have loved riding Coastersaurus or watching Katie dance or watching Cooper build a car of Legos or just resting in the hotel room after a full day at the park.

On the drive from the airport to the hotel, I felt a slight moment of panic. I was in a faraway city with our children, driving in the dark -- without Steve. He wasn't there to drive or navigate from the passenger seat. He wasn't there to help take bags out of the car or admire the view from our balcony.

Flying home was especially difficult, too. We'd escaped reality for just a few days. Going home again would be another reminder of our most tragic loss.

Despite the bittersweet emotions, I am proud of the three of us -- setting out on adventure, solving problems together, making new memories and doing our best to honor Steve.

Not knowing

In February 2007, Steve developed Bell's palsy.

A couple of nights after a scarily high fever, he woke up with the right side of his face feeling "funny." He couldn't drink his morning coffee without dribbling. By early afternoon, the entire right side of his face had fallen and wouldn't move.

We spent a few hours in the emergency room and eventually received the diagnosis of Bell's palsy.

About four weeks later, his symptoms were mostly resolved.

I have no doubt that that episode was the harbinger of the Damm Spot -- a signal from his body that something unusual was taking place in his brain.

Typical standard of care is to order an MRI if symptoms haven't resolved within a month.

For a long while, I lamented that we didn't insist on an MRI back in early 2008. I thought, "If only we had known that a tumor was growing. If only we had had a baseline image."

I've since realized that not knowing was for the best.

I'm not sure that knowing would have changed Steve's prognosis. We were never going to be able to operate on the tumor. More than likely we would have been paralyzed by the fear of the tumor, always on edge, always wondering if it was growing.

I don't think we would have lived life quite so fully had we lived with that fear.

And we had a great time from March to November 2007.

We spent spring break in Florida, spending time with Matthew and Gretchen, going to the beach, taking Cooper and Katie to Animal Kingdom.

We adopted Margie from a Scottie rescue group.

Katie's 2nd birthday party

We celebrated birthdays and holidays with friends and family.

We danced the "chicken dance" at Bavarian Grill.

We spent an adventurous day in Glen Rose.

I traveled to Shanghai with Jackie and Sydney, leaving everyone else behind for a week.

Cooper and Steve on a copper mine tour near Calumet, Mich.

We traveled to Wisconsin and Michigan, never wasting a moment on the Upper Peninsula or Mackinac Island or in Milwaukee.

Steve ran as part of a 12-person team in the Wild West Relay, helping run 195 miles through Colorado.

Steve and Katie, ECDP spirit night

Katie started preschool.

Cooper became a Cub Scout, with the best Scout daddy ever by his side.

Steve and I attended his 20-year high school reunion.

We all ran in the Gary Burns Fun Run.

I wrote a chapter for Fodor's guidebook to Texas, often taking Cooper, Katie and Steve along on adventures all over Dallas and Fort Worth.

Before the parade

We attended the Adolphus Neiman Marcus Christmas parade with dear friends.

We lived joyfully, without fear or an impending sense of doom or constant worry.

Steve and I were incredibly thankful for our shared life during his cancer journey -- partly because we were so incredibly thankful for all we had shared in the years before. And that includes the few months when the tumor was growing, when we didn't even know it was there.

One month

Cooper, Steve and baby Katie, November 2005

It's been one month since Steve passed away. I miss everything about him.

His smile, his laugh, the way he would mockingly scowl

His hands, his eyebrows

The way he danced

How much he loved washing dishes

His wicked sense of humor

His patience

How he doted on our children

How he unabashedly cried out of joy or sorrow

His eclectic taste in music and literature

How he could perform the entire SNL parody song "Lazy Sunday"

His knowledge of Greek and Norse mythology

How he'd root for Michigan on football Saturdays

His meticulous record-keeping of all his practice runs

How he liked to tell people he wished his name was "Sven"

My list could go on for days.

I know I'm not alone. Feel free to list in the comments what you miss about amazing Steve.

Steve in Miami, a few years before we met

Tasmanian Dolphins

I wrote a couple of weeks ago about the team idea for the three of us.

Kevin (a dear friend from church who also designed this blog's charming template) wasted no time in designing a logo for the Tasmanian Dolphins.

He also offered to get shirts made for us. Cooper nixed the idea of T-shirts that we would wear in public but approved the idea of a night shirt.

Mike and Rose (also sweet friends from church) own an EmbroidMe franchise and made the shirts for us. Kevin's fun logo is on the front, and each of us has our name on the back.

Cooper and Katie, early Monday morning before school

Every few nights, the three of us wear our shirts on the same night. They are tangible reminders of our goals and the importance of our work together.

Reminder of our goals, on a dry-erase board near Cooper's and Katie's bedrooms

Drawing a crowd

We continue to be cared for and supported by an amazing group of family and friends. Take a slice of Saturday, for example.

Brae, Cooper, Angie, Kelly and Jess, after Cooper's game (during which he lost a loose tooth)

Cooper's soccer game drew a big crowd. Aunt Ami (who spoiled the three of us for a full week), Uncle Jim (in town from Houston), Michael (dear friend from college who was visiting from D.C.), Brae (Cooper's teacher), Angie (Cooper's guidance counselor), Jess (a teacher from Cooper's school), Kelly (former assistant principal from Cooper's school), plus Katie and me.

Ami, Jim, Michael, Katie, Liz, Tyra and Noe

Ami, Jim and Michael stayed after Cooper's game for a picnic and to help me keep track of Cooper and Katie while we waited for team photos and Katie's game. As always, Layne and Liz (longtime friends and parents of superstar Noe) help us during Katie's games.

We are incredibly thankful for the continued prayers and support from so many of you. Cooper, Katie and I take great comfort in the physical, spiritual and emotional reminders that we are not alone.

Connection

In second grade and again this year, Cooper has been encouraged to make text-to-text and text-to-self connections when reading.

When he works in his reading journal, he'll often write a note about how something in the book he's reading reminds him of something he's read before or something that's happened in his life. (If a story mentions ice cream, without a doubt Cooper will write about our summer 2007 vacation to Mackinac Island. We ate ice cream at least once a day.)

This afternoon Cooper found two worms on the back porch -- one much longer than the other. He called the bigger one the daddy and the smaller one the son.

The bigger one had already died. The smaller one was still alive.

Cooper came into the house for a plastic cup to cover up the daddy.

As he told Aunt Ami and me about the worms and how sad he was, he interrupted himself.

"This is a life-to-self connection."

Faith in the future

I took a three-week break from writing my Briefing column. My first column since Steve passed away was published today.

You can read it here. Or here.

The present may be tough, but I have faith in the future

In one extraordinary moment 25 days ago, everything changed. I became a widow.

Steve and I were holding hands when he took his final breath early Labor Day morning. He had been in a sleep-like state for a few hours, unable to communicate but aware of the people and love surrounding him.

It's almost ridiculous to write that the end came quickly. Steve had lived with a deadly, inoperable brain tumor for almost two years. Though we prayed multiple times a day for a miracle, we also knew that the tiny mass of rogue cells in his brain stem was stealing time from our future together.

Still, the end came quickly.

On Saturday night we were laughing and telling old stories. A few hours later he could barely breathe. A few hours after that, morphine had forced him into a mercifully relaxed state.

Then he stopped breathing altogether, and his spirit was set free from a body that should have lasted longer than 40 years.

With his final breath, I lost the physical presence of my best friend and the father of our two young children.

I have spent every moment since adjusting to life without Steve.

Grocery shopping is different. He and Katie were the only banana eaters in the house. Now there is just Katie, and I have to remind myself to choose the smallest bunch.

Sleeping is different. I am alone in the master bedroom. I no longer need to wake up every couple of hours to check on Steve's temperature or breathing. But my body isn't fully convinced, and I often wake up – and hear only silence.

Watching television is different. We loved to watch The Office and Project Runway together, after Cooper and Katie were asleep. I now watch them alone, after our children are asleep, still somehow expecting to hear Steve's unique laugh or feel his hand on top of mine.

Receiving mail is different. There are just three names on the cards that fill our mailbox.

Shopping for autumn and winter is different. I constantly remind myself that I don't need to look for a new cardigan or wool socks or sweatshirt for Steve.

Processing information is different. Two friends have experienced two different crises in the past few weeks. At least once a day I ask myself why Steve and I haven't discussed either situation. Then I remember – though I can talk to him whenever I want now, I desperately miss our face-to-face, heart-to-heart, real-life talks.

Being a parent is different. I am the lone recipient of our children's good morning hugs and bedtime kisses. When I say "I love you," I now add "Daddy loves you, too," lending a voice to his spirit.

With so many transitions, so many changes, so many adjustments, I am finding immeasurable comfort in what remains the same.

My faith is unshaken.

I believe in the inherent goodness in people – come to life every day in the hugs and phone calls, meals and cards, visits and acts of kindness that continue to sustain our family.

I believe that love never dies. Steve's body is gone, and we can't eat dinner or catch a movie together or dream about our next vacation or retirement together. But the true love that we shared and that was born in our children can't be extinguished.

I believe that extraordinary moments, even when heart-shattering and life-changing, must be remembered and honored. And that eventually, maybe even years later, we'll discover the greater purpose or meaning behind the most tragic events.

Right now, though, I mostly just miss Steve.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. E-mail her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Stephen Damm Award

UT Southwestern Medical School has approved a new internal award for "the resident or fellow rotating through neuro-oncology in academic year 2009-2010 who best exemplifies the excellence and compassion in patient care for which Steve Damm was well known."

The idea of the award began with Dr. Chitnis, the neurologist who was assigned to Steve during his stay at Zale Lipshy in December 2007, and Dr. Maher, Steve's neuro-oncologist.

Dr. Maher or I will present the award, which includes a $500 gift (funded by Dr. Chitnis) and a plaque, at the end of the academic year.

Steve was an influential advocate for quality patient care during his tenure with Children's Medical Center and as a cancer patient.

He relished his role as an administrator, which allowed him to work behind the scenes to ensure that children from families who could least afford quality health care received the best possible care.

As a patient, Steve was gently assertive. Together, he and I pushed for the best possible care. He was quick to praise excellent care and willing to demand better treatment when necessary.

I am thankful that we are able to celebrate Steve's legacy with this special award and will keep you posted on more details.

Scripture from Steve's service

Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?

As it is written, ‘For your sake we are being killed all day long; we are accounted as sheep to be slaughtered.’ No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us.

For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Romans 8:35-39

***

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul. He leads me in right paths for his name’s sake.

Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long.

Psalm 23

***

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. From now on there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will give to me on that day, and not only to me but also to all who have longed for his appearing.

II Timothy 4:7-8

***

‘With what shall I come before the Lord, and bow myself before God on high? Shall I come before him with burnt-offerings, with calves a year old? Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams, with tens of thousands of rivers of oil? Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?’

He has told you, O mortal, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?

Micah 6:6-8

***

‘Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

Matthew 6:19-21

***

Let love be genuine; hate what is evil, hold fast to what is good; love one another with mutual affection; outdo one another in showing honour. Do not lag in zeal, be ardent in spirit, serve the Lord.

Rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer. Contribute to the needs of the saints; extend hospitality to strangers. Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them. Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.

Live in harmony with one another; do not be haughty, but associate with the lowly; do not claim to be wiser than you are. Do not repay anyone evil for evil, but take thought for what is noble in the sight of all. If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.

Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave room for the wrath of God; for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.’ No, ‘if your enemies are hungry, feed them; if they are thirsty, give them something to drink; for by doing this you will heap burning coals on their heads.’ Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

Romans 12:9-21

Tyra, Cooper, Steve (holding niece Molli), Aunt Melane, Uncle Greg and niece Brooke, 2004

Peer pressure

This weekend was my 20-year high school reunion -- Newman Smith High School class of 1989. When Steve started declining so quickly late this summer, I decided I wouldn't attend. My priority was to be at home.

And after he passed away, I didn't change my mind. I didn't want to have to answer one of the typical reunion questions about marriage. I didn't want to be around so many people and so much noise.

I did want to see longtime (not old, of course) friends, though. Konrad suggested a Saturday brunch somewhere. I offered our home, and Konrad took charge of organizing.

About 20 friends visited here yesterday -- a great compromise.

A few of them suggested more than once that I should attend the reunion. I finally gave in to peer pressure, arranged the best sitters for Cooper and Katie (Aunt Mel, Uncle Greg and Aunt Ami) and went to the party with Karen and Swati (just like old times).

Swati, Tyra and Karen

Yes, there were lots of people and it was noisy, but my fears didn't materialize. Just about everyone I spoke to already knew about Steve, and our conversations were comforting, not upsetting.

***

Last week Cooper volunteered to read Scripture during today's early church service -- our annual Children's Sabbath.

Early this morning he balked at the idea.

"I don't want to go to church, Mommy," he said as he snuggled under my quilt.

I asked why.

"Because Daddy loved church, and it makes me sad to do what Daddy loved."

I told him that I sometimes felt the same way and that on some Sundays we could stay home. But on this day we needed to go, to honor his commitment.

"But I might cry," Cooper told me. "And I don't want to break down in the community."

We talked about crying in front of others, and I assured him that it's OK to cry.

Our morning routine helped turn him around, and by the time we arrived for the 8:30 service, Cooper was ready.

He read Genesis 1:31a and 2:1-3 with confidence and ease.

God saw all that he had made, and it was very good. Thus the heavens and the earth were completed in all their vast array. By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day he rested from all his work. And God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it he rested from all the work of creating that he had done.

Music from the service

Steve played a significant role in planning his memorial service. This summer he met with Andy, our senior pastor, to talk about the message and tone. He met with Debbie, our music minister and his choir director, to continue that discussion and to suggest hymns and anthems.

Andy and Debbie helped to create what I consider the perfect service for Steve and truly the most beautiful service I've ever attended. Every detail fit Steve perfectly and reflected meaningful moments and themes from his life.

Steve loved music -- listening, singing, dancing, performing, creating. As we celebrated his life, we also listened and sang. Choirs from our church (Holy Covenant United Methodist) and Jim and Betty's church (Schreiber Memorial United Methodist) performed together, creating gorgeous sounds and filling the sanctuary with a joyful noise.

In This Very Room (Ron Harris)
"And in this very room there's quite enough love for all of us,
And in this very room there's quite enough joy for all of us,
And there's quite enough hope and quite enough power to chase away any gloom,
For Jesus, Lord Jesus ... is in this very room."

On Eagle's Wings (Michael Joncas)
"And He will raise you up on eagle's wings,
Bear you on the breath of dawn,
Make you to shine like the sun,
And hold you in the palm of His Hand."

Safe Within Your Arms (Mark Hayes)

Cooper's favorite Christmas song, sung by children attending the service:
The Little Drummer Boy
"I am a poor boy too, pa rum pum pum pum
I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum
That's fit to give the King, pa rum pum pum pum"

It is Well with My Soul (Horatio Spafford)
"When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul."

Order My Steps (Glenn Burleigh)
"I want to walk worthy ... my calling to fulfill
Please order my steps Lord ... and I'll do your blessed will
The world is ever changing ... but you are still the same
If you order my steps ... I'll praise your name"

Here I Am, Lord (Daniel Schutte)
"Here I am, Lord. Is it I, Lord?
I have heard you calling in the night.
I will go, Lord, if you lead me.
I will hold your people in my heart."

Steve's all-time favorite anthem:
Creation Will Be at Peace (Anna Laura Page)

Lord of the Dance
"Dance, then, wherever you may be
I am the Lord of the dance said He
And I lead you all wherever you may be
And I lead you all in the dance said He"

The Lord Bless and Keep You
"The Lord bless and keep you
The Lord make His face to shine on you,
And be gracious, gracious;
The Lord bless and keep you
The Lord lift His countenance on you,
And give peace, give you peace;
Shalom, shalom."

The light

Last Wednesday I put on hold three plane tickets for a little getaway for Cooper, Katie and me. I needed to purchase the tickets by midnight Thursday.

I remembered the deadline all day Wednesday and Thursday.

About 11 p.m. Thursday, I was ready to go to sleep. I tried to turn off the one remaining lamp in the bedroom.

I turned the switch. The light was still on. I tried again. The light was still on. I did this about 10 times with no change.

Then I thought that maybe I had forgotten which way to turn the switch, so I went in the opposite direction.

Still the light was on.

So I unscrewed the light bulb and fell asleep.

I woke up at 6 a.m. Friday with a start. I forgot to purchase the plane tickets. I hurried to check the flights -- the price had increased by more than $100 per ticket overnight.

(No worries. I checked another airline and was able to buy tickets for the original price.)

After all that activity, I realized that that malfunctioning lamp was no accident. I'm pretty certain that Steve was somehow trying to communicate with me to stay awake a little longer and purchase the tickets before the deadline.

I've also realized that I need to be more open to other special Steve moments.

The lamp has worked correctly ever since that night.

Michigan question

It's college week at Cooper's school. Students take college memorabilia, wear college gear, dress up for career day and more.

Between Steve and me, Steve definitely had more school spirit. He was a third-generation University of Michigan graduate. He was in the marching band. He loved Ann Arbor.

We've always sent Cooper to school in a Michigan shirt for these kinds of events.

He wore his maize and blue today, and after school we talked about his friends' allegiances -- mostly University of Texas, Texas A&M and University of Oklahoma.

For the first time in two weeks, Cooper asked a question that I would have deferred to Steve. It certainly won't be the last time.

"Mommy, who are Michigan's enemies?" Cooper asked.

I had to pause for a moment. This is when I would normally call Steve, text Steve or just find him in the house to verify the answer first.

I answered Notre Dame, Ohio State and Michigan State.

I hope that you Michigan men and women will set the record straight if I answered incorrectly.

Messy mess

Steve lovingly called Katie a "messy mess" when she was, well, messy -- emotionally or physically messy.

He would definitely call me a messy mess now.

I don't walk around crying all the time, but it's definitely possible at any moment. I feel completely competent in taking care of Cooper, Katie, the house and usually myself, though at the end of the day I marvel at how everything fell into place (often with the help of others).

The grieving process -- which is going to take a long, long time -- is unpredictable. There are no textbook stages. There is no one correct way to do anything. It kind of reminds me of the first 21 months of the cancer journey, only this is astronomically more difficult for me because it's without Steve.

***

Thursday night was Katie's first soccer game ever.

The three of us had wonderful company. Jeannie had volunteered to help that night, plus Liz was with us. (Noe and Katie are on the same team.)

Still, I ached for Steve to walk the sidelines, cheering on his darling Katie. It was just four years ago that Cooper played his first game, and when I close my eyes I can see a healthy Steve smiling and waving at 4-year-old Coop on the field for the first time.

I know that Steve is always with us now. That he's in our hearts and watching out for us. I truly believe that. In the moment, though, I'm selfish and want the real, live-in-the-flesh Steve.

Cooper gives Katie some sideline advice between quarters.

***

Friday night the three of us gathered in Katie's room like we do every night for stories before bed. Without thinking much, I selected Caps for Sale.

The book about a hat peddler and some mischievous monkeys was one of Steve and Katie's favorites. For weeks at a time, he'd read it to Katie every day. I didn't expect that I'd have trouble reading it.

By the third page of this normally cheerful book, I was sobbing. I couldn't continue.

Cooper gently took the book from my hands and began to read instead.

***

I miss Steve's voice. I miss his weak voice from three weeks ago and his strong voice from the pre-cancer days.

So last night I called his cell phone to listen to his outgoing message.

Oh my goodness. The warmth of his voice surrounded me. And then, when it was over, I was a big ol' messy mess. I sobbed for about 30 minutes.

***

When I cry around Cooper and Katie, they try so hard to cheer me up. I often tell them that it's OK to cry, that it's a natural way to let out emotion.

Still, they tickle me, make silly faces, hug me, tell me jokes.

From last night:
Cooper: Knock knock.
Me: Who's there?
Cooper: Olive.
Me: Olive who?
Cooper: Olive Daddy.

Then Cooper offered to tuck me into bed and make me breakfast in the morning.

I politely declined. Instead, I tucked each child into bed, fell asleep on my own and woke up in plenty of time to get ready, make their breakfasts and drive us all to church this morning.

Before church this morning

***

Cooper, Katie and I are not alone. Everyone who loves Steve is grieving.

There are so many of you who continue to help us daily and who continue to pray for us. We are abundantly blessed and sincerely thankful.

We are also receiving help from trained professionals.

Cooper's guidance counselor at school has been working for a year and a half to establish a nurturing relationship. He completely trusts her and has been spending time with her a few days each week.

Hospice continues to provide services. The music therapist meets with Cooper and Katie in our home every other week. An adult grief counselor has started visiting at the same time, so we have a team approach for our care.

We'll resume play therapy for Cooper and Katie in the next couple of weeks.

I have my own grief counselor.

In the next weeks or months we'll begin attending sessions with Journey of Hope, a grief support center in Plano.

We won't use all these resource all the time. We'll rely on a mix of services depending on our needs. And we'll always rely on prayer and grace.

***

Cooper's soccer team has new uniforms this season. On the back of each blue jersey is the player's last name and number. On the front left corner of every jersey are the initials SED -- for Stephen Edmund Damm.

Longtime buddies Dylan, Cooper and Reilly after yesterday's game

***

At the end of Katie's game Saturday, Coach Hollie gathered all the players for the post-game talk. She asked Katie to sit in her lap.

Coach Hollie explained to the 4-year-olds that Katie's Daddy had passed away. And then she presented Katie with a soft stuffed bunny, dressed in a soccer uniform, as a gift from the team.

The bunny's name is Hope.

Hollie, Katie and Hope

Guest blogger Liz: Run for Steve

We will be running the Dallas White Rock Marathon again this year in honor of our friend Steve. This year's race is Sunday, Dec. 13.

This was one of Steve's favorite races, and we will run in his memory, as a tribute to our amazing friend!

I am collecting names of everyone interested in running for Steve. If you are planning to run, please contact me at runforsteve@gmail.com and tell me which event you will participate in -- full, half or relay.

Anyone and everyone of all skill levels is welcome to join the Run For Steve team!

If you would like to be placed on a relay team, please let me know. If you don't want to run, there are still plenty of chances to support the team on race day. We'll need shuttle service to and from the race and relay points. Most importantly, we'll need lots of people along the course cheering on the Run For Steve runners!

We are planning to have brand new shirts for the team this year -- featuring a quote from one of Steve's favorite movies, Fletch. More info will be coming soon.

Last year Steve cheered us on from the finish line. This year I know he'll be running right there along side all of us!

-- Liz Smith

From Cooper and Katie

Last week Cooper, at the suggestion of his school guidance counselor, wrote about his Daddy. The text was included in the order of worship given to guests at the memorial service. (There were about 600-650 people gathered to remember Steve.)

Ten Good Things About Daddy by Cooper

He was sweet.

He was funny.

He was caring.

My happiest memory is when he was there when I was born.

He never gave up fighting the cancer. He took all his medicine.

Nothing ever could stop him.

He helped children by starting a children's company.

He was helping to cure children.

He loved our whole family.

He donated his body to the doctors to help cure cancer.

And now we have to let him go.

***

We also included two recent Katie quotes.

"We all helped Daddy feel better."

"Daddy is still in our hearts."

***


This morning before school, Katie told me, as she pointed to her face: "This is a happy face because you're still alive, Mommy. And this is a sad face because Daddy isn't."

Cooper, Katie, Steve & Tyra, spring break 2007 (as Steve is recovering from Bell's palsy)

Thousands of moments

Behind just about every single thing in our home is a story and memory.

The painting above the mantel that we bought at an estate sale about a decade ago. The bargain antique kitchen table, chairs and sideboard. The black-and-white portrait from our Caribbean cruise in 2000.

These reminders are beautiful and comforting. But sometimes just a glimpse triggers tears.

***

Yesterday I returned to the endodontist for an X-ray, to see if my root canal from two weeks ago looked good. The endodontist, known for her perfectionism, wasn't pleased and wanted to redo the whole thing.

When I realized that I was about to get more shots in my gums and the roof of my mouth, I burst into tears. The only other time I'd had dental work -- two weeks ago -- I was able to go home and tell Steve all about it. I shared with him how much it hurt, and he hugged me with his one good arm and told me that it would be OK.

Yesterday, though, I couldn't sit on the edge of his bed and give him the blow-by-blow account. There was no Steve hug in the end.

Of course, I can always talk to Steve, and I know that he's with me during joy and sorrow. And there are lots of you who offer hugs every day and tell me it will be OK. But I can't ignore how much the sadness crushes me, often during moments I don't anticipate.

***

My mom, who is still bedridden in a nursing home in Temple, has been worried that I would have trouble sleeping in our bedroom -- the place where Steve passed away.

I have had trouble sleeping, but not because of the location. I had become so conditioned to wake up throughout the night to check on Steve, to listen to his breathing, to make sure he was resting. My body is slowly catching up to reality, slowly allowing me to sleep at longer stretches. I still wake up in the night, but not as often as before.

Our room and our home represent so much more than Steve's illness. There was and is so much life here; I'm not at all haunted by his death here. I am thankful that he wasn't trapped in the hospital when he passed away, and I am incredibly grateful that I was by his side.

***

Cooper and Katie are adjusting well. All three of us have our moments, as you would expect, and I am comforted that they trust me enough to fall apart with me.

Last week they were squabbling more than they should. Their tempers were short. I pulled Cooper aside and spoke with him about the importance of us getting along -- especially now -- and about not directing our anger or sadness about Daddy's death at one another. (We talk a lot about appropriate ways to express our volatile emotions.)

I was desperate to find a meaningful analogy for Cooper. And then it came to me. (I think that maybe Steve was whispering in my ear.)

First we talked about the Dolphins, Cooper's soccer team. I asked him what his team tries to do.

"Score goals."

And would you ever argue with your teammate on the field when you're trying to score a goal?

"Oh, no!"

Then I told him that the three of us -- Mommy, Cooper and Katie -- are a team now. And our goal is to heal from our sadness and to always honor Daddy. I told him that the healing will take a very long time. But if two of the three team members are fighting, it's going to take even longer. The arguing will hold us back from our goal.

Since then, the three of us talk frequently about being a team. We've named ourselves -- the Tasmanian Dolphins (a nod to Katie's soccer team, the Tasmanians, and Coop's team, of course). We're going to have T-shirts made. When we pray together at night, I ask for God's help in guiding our team and helping us heal.

Pastor Andy's meditation

Our pastor, the Rev. Andy Lewis, wrote and delivered the following meditation during Saturday's service.

***

“Steve, you have raised the bar for the rest of us …” This sentiment was expressed recently by Tyra’s beloved Aunt Ami, and this afternoon as we have celebrated Steve’s life the bar has seemed to rise higher still … and deservedly so.

Several months ago, I stopped by the Damm’s home to visit with Steve. Steve was seated at the family’s dining room table ... laptop open, Walker Texas Ranger at his side, putting in a couple of hours of work while Cooper played with Legos on the floor nearby. That day, Steve reflected on his work with Children’s Medical Center, through which he established and supported clinics for under-served children.

He joked that when he was looking to move away from health-care consulting, if he had been offered a job at a dermatology office that specialized in botox injections, he would have taken it. But instead God’s hand opened a door for him at Children’s and gave Steve a chance to serve.

Serving others had become one of Steve’s core values. As a part of a worship service at Holy Covenant this past spring, Steve allowed me to interview him about what I would call his ministry through Children’s.

He spoke passionately about the pervasive need for quality, accessible healthcare for children in Texas and called his congregation to respond by volunteering at one of his nearby clinics or emailing our representatives. Steve was in the thick of his battle with cancer, and yet he was fighting for them, fighting for justice.

What is good and what does the Lord require of us? Work for justice, says the prophet Micah.

Steve was a gentle and kind man. He cherished his family. Whenever he mentioned Tyra to me, tears of appreciation and respect welled up in his eyes. Tyra - he often called you his angel, his hero.

Whenever he talked about Cooper and Katie, he beamed with pride. Cooper and Katie - I know that Steve’s wish for you is that you enjoy your childhood (laugh and play and learn and dream everyday) and someday grow up, fall in love with your soul mate, get married, have kids of your own, and do all of the things your Daddy did … and more.

Steve treasured his family; his heart belonged to them. But his kindness extended far beyond his relationships with family and close friends … or you could say that he considered most everyone he met his friend. His colleagues at Children’s adored him. The various nurses who attended to him over the past 20 plus months received royal treatment from him. One commented that if Steve were perfume, she’d bottle him up and keep him for herself.

Tyra shared that she sometimes thought Steve was too kind to be in the business world. His job was to analyze data, but he always made his decisions based on people.

What is good and what does the Lord require of us? Be kind, says Micah.

A little over a month ago, Steve and I talked about his hopes for this day. He wanted us to laugh and sing. He wanted us to experience the goodness of God. In that conversation, he reflected on the Damm Spot and how it had changed him.

He said, “There’s no cause, no answer to the question - why?’ He said, “I’m not going to say that the Damm Spot is the best thing that ever happened to me. But, it has made me more spiritual, more aware of God’s presence in my life. I was going 100 miles per hour, and this has been like a big yield sign.”

He said, “I now have absolute clarity about what is most important in my life: my family and my faith.”

At one point in or conversation, in light of what he was experiencing, I asked him, “How is it with your soul?” I wouldn’t have been shocked if he said that he was somewhat bitter or angry toward God. But instead he quoted one of today’s hymns.

First, he said, “It is well with my soul.” Then, after a few seconds he amended his first answer in typical Steve fashion. “It is weller with my soul.” Steve was on a journey with God, always being renewed in God’s image and transformed by God’s grace.

What is good and what does the Lord require of us? Walk (or in Steve’s case, run) humbly with your God.

I have no doubt that it was weller with Steve’s soul. He fought the good fight. He finished the race. He kept the faith. He was ready, and as Cooper so aptly put it: “It’s OK, because Daddy believed in God and Jesus, so he is in heaven.”

There will be many days ahead, on which it will not feel like it is OK. We miss him. We always will.

But Steve has given something to us that will be with us always. In Steve’s amazing life, we were given glimpses of the glory of the life to come, an everlasting life that Steve is enjoying now… free of oxygen masks and IVs, able once again to laugh and sing and run … a life where there are no more tears, no more pain.

We have seen these beautiful glimpses in his tireless commitment to justice, his boundless kindness, and his humble companionship with God. We have seen glimpses of the glory of the life to come in the community of love and generosity that has formed around this precious family.

Steve’s inspiring life and this journey of care-giving that so many have shared can fill us with hope that there is indeed a life to come in which God’s goodness ultimately reigns - where the love and joy and peace and harmony that we have celebrated today is not the exception but the rule.

Steve truly has raised the bar for the rest of us. God was at work in a glorious way in his life, and we will honor his memory as we take our cues from him, allowing God’s grace to work in and through us, to renew our souls and to bring hope to a hurting world.

Cooper, Tyra and Katie, the morning of Steve's beautiful service

Will remembers

Will, who has known Steve since high school and who introduced us, spoke at Saturday's service.

***

My Friend Steve

I am so honored that Steve suggested I speak at this celebration of his life. I know he is watching us right now, and I know he wants me to get on with it so he can watch the Michigan-Notre Dame game at 2:30.

When someone you love passes away, it’s easy to remember him as having been a perfect person, to speak about him only in superlatives and to inflate his accomplishments. Steve was a humble man, and I promise to honor that trait by not exaggerating his qualities in this remembrance.

My friend Steve was The Single Funniest Human in the History of Earth or Any Other Planet. Scientists studied his laugh in hopes that its radiant quality could be harnessed to help us reduce our dependence on foreign oil.

So wicked, so sharp was his sense of humor that he made the sound of laughter seem a like a natural occurrence in cancer treatment rooms across North Texas.

That last one was not an exaggeration.

In her blog, Tyra has written again and again about her “sweet Steve” or her “super Steve.” I’m here to tell you about my “silly Steve.”

Let’s start with that laugh. Anyone who spoke to Steve is familiar with the basic version: the rapid, machine-gun exhales, the squinty eyes, the slightly toothy grin and bobbing head.

Those of us who saw the real Steve laugh, though, we saw something even more magical. The dinner party for his 40th birthday comes to mind. First, a blank stare for five seconds, followed by a long, throaty wheeze and pet-store bird noises with every inhale. Then the head-bobbing, on a much grander scale. In the spiky-hair days of high school and college, it looked like an angry porcupine was wrestling his face for control of his scalp.

It was so goofy, so unique. So beautiful.

It also was the reason he and I watched most of our senior calculus class from the hallway. I swear, there were times in the last 21 months when I thought Ms. England would appear in his hospital room and lead me out by the ear.

Tyra tells me his favorite meal was steak with garlic mashed potatoes and asparagus. I’m here to tell you that if I had asked him what he wanted for dinner, he’d answer, “a bloody mary, a steak sandwich and a steak sandwich. Put it on the Underhills’ tab.”

If you’re laughing at that, you know it was a quote from the movie Fletch. You also know Fletch was Steve’s second language. He and I – and probably more than a few others in the room – could have an entire conversation about something non-Fletch-related using only lines from Fletch. It was one of his gifts.

Silly came easy to him. In recent weeks, he decided to start updating his Facebook status based on whether or not he was wearing pants in his bed at home. And for those who have been wondering, I can finally solve the mystery: The entry “p=y” meant “pants equals yes,” and the entry “n”?

“No pants.”

Yes, Steve was silly and fun-loving. But Tyra is obviously right, too. He was the Single Sweetest Man in the History of Earth or Any Other Planet.

I wrote this story for Tyra’s blog, but I hope you won’t mind if I repeat it now.

A few months before Steve’s symptoms began, he and I joined my cousin and his friends for a 12-person relay race in the mountains of Colorado. We ran 195 miles from Fort Collins to Steamboat Springs, each of us taking on three different legs.

He and I were clearly the least athletic members of the team, and we were not accustomed to the thin air up there. Of course, the van we used for the event was full of laughter the whole way, and by the time we were running our final legs, we were all pretty gassed.

On my final leg, I was on a long downhill stretch in the hot sun, and I asked the guys in the van to go a couple of miles up the road to meet me with some water. The van sped off, and I expected it to disappear from sight.

About a half-mile away, it stopped. I saw someone get out and start walking uphill towards me. As I got closer and closer, I could tell it was Steve. He hadn’t run his last leg yet, and I knew he needed his rest.

When he finally got to me, he handed me a cold bottle of water. Just thought I needed it sooner rather than later. He was right.

We walked a ways together, and he spoke quiet, encouraging words to me – words I repeated over and over to myself as I finished my run.

That December, when we learned how serious Steve’s condition was, I was on my way to stay the night with him in the hospital. My pastor prayed with me, encouraging me to be the “cup of cold water” for a friend in need.

I immediately pictured Steve walking up the mountain. I have not been able to shake that image of him since, nor do I ever want to.

That’s the kind of friend Steve was. The kind you pray you can be in return.

Here’s something I didn’t write for the blog about that trip to Colorado. As soon as Tyra dropped us off at the airport, Steve pulled an e-a-r-r-i-n-g out of his pocket and put it in his left ear. It was the first time I’d seen him wearing one in many years, maybe since the kids were born.

As long as he had that thing in, I called him “Steve Denver.” “Check out Steve Denver.”

“Dude? How old are we?”

“Steve Dallas” forgot to take it out when we got home, and I wish I had taken a picture of the look on Tyra’s face when she saw “Steve Denver.” Such confusion -- “Where did you go again?”

My friend Steve and his true love had such a beautiful connection.

Tyra, I told you this in private Monday, and I want to say it again for everyone to hear. You were so good to him.

Not just for the last 21 months. I know how deeply you love him, and I know he loved you the same way.

And through this journey, you have displayed more grace in the worst of times than most of us do in the best of times.

Throughout his illness, Steve fought not just for his own life, but for more time with you. I know you will always remember that even when he was in great pain, he worried first about you and the kids. I know you will also remember that you were first in his heart well before he got sick.

Over the last 26 years, I always saw the same fun-loving, all-or-nothing glow in him that I remember from high school. But your love made that glow even brighter.

Before you met, he was a great guy. You inspired him to become a great man.

Jim, Betty and Jim: I loved Steve like a brother. And if you look around this room, you know I’m not the only one. Nothing we can do will fill the hole in your hearts right now, but I hope you can find at least some comfort in the love of this extended family.

Here is a man – so funny, so kind and caring, so sweet and super. Here is a man I am so proud to have called my friend.

Here is a man I miss so very much.

But as our precious goddaughter Katie said Sunday, “he is still in our hearts.”

You know where else he is? In Cooper’s long legs. In Katie’s mischievous laugh. In his children’s loving spirit and in their brilliant minds.

Cooper, please know this: You do not have to be the daddy now. You just have to be yourself. Your father is in you. He’s in your heart and in everything you do. You can talk to him whenever you want to, and as you grow, all of the great things about him will become great things about you.

That goes for the rest of us, too. We carry him in our hearts, and if we truly want to honor Steve, the Single Greatest Friend in the History of Earth or Any Other Planet, here’s how I believe we can:

Laugh hard many times a day, every day. Grab a friend and run up a mountain together. Be kind to everyone. Live out loud. Love your family and friends with all of your heart.

When we returned from Colorado, Steve wrote me a check to settle up some of our expenses from the trip. In the memo line, he wrote, “Celebrate life!”

I know he wants us to do that today. I know he wants us to do that every day. And I know he wants us to put that celebration on the Underhills’ tab.

Will and Steve, 2004, Dallas White Rock Half Marathon

Steve's dad remembers

Steve's dad, Jim, spoke during the service Saturday.

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Stephen Edmund Damm

On the behalf of our family, Thank You for being here to celebrate with us this precious life, of our son, Jim’s brother, Tyra’s husband, Cooper and Katie’s father. I trust that you have seen the focus of this memorial in the order of service and that the music selections have a recurrent theme. They are Steve’s wishes as to what he wanted to help us understand and learn from this day. The scripture that David just read:

He has told you, O mortal, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?

This passage embodies Steve.

Let me share some things that may be repeated throughout this memorial service, or perhaps we should say “memorial of service.”

Steve’s life was one which sometimes seemed incongruous. He often lived on the edge, but he excelled in his talents and love of art and writing. He could draw Bill the Cat better than the creator of that comic strip. His love of art is evident when you see the selection of art work in his home. Upon graduating from college, his first request of us was to buy him a piece of art, which he selected.

His poetry writing was very insightful. His prose was interesting, to say the least.

Steve learned the concept of service in a variety of ways. Many of his experiences we have learned of only this past week. He did not wear them on his sleeve. Instances were reported from time to time in the blog comments of helping people and doing things for others.

His commitment to his work, the creation of Physicians for Children which he considered his first baby, was an expression of service.

And, his service to his church made us proud.

Steve was always a friend. We can’t count the many comments that have been received from friends stating that point. Helping in time of need, listening when that was important. Steve was always there with no preconceived judgements, just a friend.

Steve’s life that we celebrate today could also be called a memorial of love. Love of family, love of fellow man, love of life. Steve and Tyra were made for each other. Tyra has been the stabilizing factor, the focus, for Steve. Most of you have seen that through your reading of the checkonsteve blog. You have seen Tyra’s view of her love for Steve and his for her, his commitment to Cooper and Katie, and his concern for others. Through his final days, Steve was so humble and concerned for those around him.

Friends, we know that you understood these things because of the many comments received from the blog.

No one could come away from "experiencing Steve" without having his or her life changed for the better.

with dignity, strength, determination, compassion, hope, faith, joy, anger, sorrow, and love.. always with love.. you have shared your life's trials..thank you for allowing me into your life.my prayers as you continue your journey.

I'll remember how much he loved helping people.

Love never dies.

What a blessing Steve was to all of us.

Tyra, we all thank you for being able to put these things into beautiful words that have been shared with the world. Again comments from the blog show us that your readers understood these things. And I quote:

Your family's faith shines on in your words.

I've never met any of you, but I feel as though I know you all so well.

We could go on for hours with stories, shared experiences, but we won’t.

Steve, as you look down on us today, you know that you are loved, respected and thanked for a too short, but wonderful life. Your mother, your brother and I, your family, Tyra, Cooper and Katie, your extended family, those of us here and those who couldn’t be here, have known and have benefited from your life.

You are at peace, son.

The Damm family in the 1980s, North Muskegon, Mich.