The Word Terry Saved

Terry had a word he was saving.

Not like a coupon tucked in a drawer or a good bottle of wine set aside for a Friday. More like a flare. Something you only fire when you really, truly need to be found.

The word was "awesome".

And Terry did not use it. Not once. Not for sunsets, not for nachos, not for a touchdown in overtime. Certainly not for a burger, no matter how good the burger was.

He wasn't a grumpy man about it. Not angry. Just disappointed. He didn't lecture. He just had this way of going quiet and considered when someone dropped the word carelessly into conversation, the way you go quiet when someone mispronounces a name you love. A small, dignified stillness.

Then, calmly, he would ask: "But what would you say if you actually saw God?"

It was a reasonable question, if you think about it.

Terry believed the word had suffered enough already. Worn smooth like a river rock from being tossed around too casually. We had inflated the word, you see. Spent it like loose change on things that were merely good, or pleasant, or satisfying. A nice burger is a fine thing. A nice burger is delicious. It might even be remarkable. But awesome? That's a different currency entirely.

Terry understood he lived in a free country. People could say what they liked, mostly. He wasn't campaigning. He wasn't writing letters to the editor. He was simply, quietly, preserving something he believed still had its full weight and meaning. He was a good steward of the language that way.

He once told me he was saving “awesome” for the cure for MS.

That stayed with me.

That day did not come for him here.

I think about that sometimes. The word, still folded up neatly. Never spent. Never wasted. Waiting.

And then I think about the moment he left this earthly life and stepped into whatever glorious next thing was waiting. His mother there. His grandmother. Arms open, probably. The kind of reunion that has no adequate word in any language we have down here.

Except maybe one.

I hope he used it. I really do. I hope it came out of him easy and full, the way a long-held breath finally releases. I hope it rose up from somewhere deep, the way it was always meant to, and that it meant exactly everything it was supposed to mean.

Because if anything in this life, or the next, earns that word, it is that.

Terry taught me to be careful with language. To notice when a word still has its shine. To save a few things for when they're truly called for.

I miss those quiet, serious moments with him.

They were pretty awesome.

Terry would probably let that one slide, perhaps with a little judgmental gleam in his eye.