King David, the very flawed and very human leader of the Israelites a few thousand years back, wrote this in one of his many contributions to the Biblical book of Psalms: “I say of the godly people who are in the land, ‘They are the noble ones in whom is all my delight.’” In another version, the “noble ones” are rendered “my true heroes.”

The funeral for Chris was in the late morning on a recent Friday and, for many of us who were there, it hasn’t quite ended yet. He was a few years younger than me, gone well before we were ready, friend and encourager to many, and a genuine “noble one.”

Chris was a delightful—if unlikely—mixture of English and math degrees, Navy ship captaincy, writer, hiker, friend, and finally, therapist and counselor, among many other things. Truth is, he was always a counselor; he only got paid for it later in his career.

We sat in the church and listened as family members and friends spoke of their love for Chris in accounts of bread-making, running, travels, putting googlely-eyes on Christmas decorations, and the kind of conversations that went so broad and deep that suddenly a couple hours had slipped by. The common thread running through all those stories was heartfelt appreciation for the warm, good-humored, faithful, and encouraging vibe that Chris brought to them.

A ton of folks knew Chris better than I did, but I will always cherish his grin across a booth at Boychik’s, our favorite breakfast spot, and the way he took some things very seriously and other things not very seriously at all, often at odds with what would have been the tendency of most. And I’ll always cherish the flying starts those breakfasts got my days off to. Whether or not we acknowledge it, somewhere inside we know when we’ve been with a noble one. 

I knew about some of the hardships Chris encountered, including the loss of a 27-year-old daughter to cancer and his own stunning cancer diagnosis, which came after a seizure he had without warning one Monday afternoon on a day in which we’d boothed it at Boychik’s. I was unaware of other mountains he’d had to climb, though, like the open-heart surgery he’d undergone in his 30s.

None of us was surprised by the accolades we heard about Chris that Friday morning, among them a moving long-distance video appearance by the young man who had been the husband of his late daughter, who described the strong and loving support he received from his father-in-law even as Chris faced crushing loss himself. Many nodded knowingly, recalling moments of having gotten their own, affirming support from Chris.

Chris blogged regularly during the final year or so of his life, leaving us with his characteristically eloquent thoughts on the difficult road he knew was ahead, honest and rigorous self-examination, recognition of his own struggles and flaws, ruminations on the process of dying, how he might follow Jesus in his current circumstances—and, of course, lots of encouragement for those he knew would be left behind. Those writings will endure, and Chris will continue to provoke thought and discussion (substack.com, search With and Wonder).

King David closed the Psalm referenced above with “You make known to me the path of life.” Chris found that path and made his way along it faithfully, with all its incumbent questions, pains and joys, even when it was incredibly difficult. We left the church, now in the early afternoon, both to grieve and to be grateful, and some of those questions, pains and joys went with us. Blessedly, so did Chris’s grin.