It was a very transitional time in my life.  I was in my late 40’s, two-years divorced, had moved into a newly-constructed house in Bozeman, Montana, and was looking for a job. I found it at a small but enormously popular weekly shopper where, for the first time in my life, I was hired as an outside salesperson. 

I formed such a bond with the people at that weekly shopper. I have since moved to another city. However, when I am in town, I stop in and say hello to catch up with the latest news of everyone in that little “family.”

One of these special people was a young man named Chris. He, too, was an outside salesperson. The lessons I learned from him will last the rest of my life.

Chris was a handsome young man, twenty years my junior.  He was married and had a daughter.  While we were working there together, his son was born.

Previously, I had a couple interactions with Chris when I was employed at an ad agency because he then was working in the graphics department of that weekly shopper. He was pleasant, professional and eager to accommodate the needs of the client.  When I started my new job, I was surprised to see him in the sales department because he seemed to love his graphic work so much. But the manager really liked Chris and wanted to groom him for a manager’s position in the future. The best way to do this, said the manager, was to go into sales. Another advantage of a sales position would show up in his paycheck every week, a carrot a man with a growing family couldn’t resist.

I was the newbie in a three-person sales team. We had the usual go-getter and Chris was the steady.  In fact, Chris was so steady, as often happens in “family” arrangements, he was criticized by others because he didn’t bring in new accounts. Week after week, Chris would travel over the mountain pass to the outlying communities and bring in his ads.  His clients were car dealers, auctioneers, and other dependable businesses that advertised with us for years. Rarely did his sales figures change.  They were good, but in a sales job, the challenge is to make the good even better.

Since I was carving out new territory, very quickly, my specialty became bringing in new accounts that never dreamed of advertising in a weekly shopper.  We offered new publications and new specialty pages, and I lassoed the smaller, yet totally new businesses.  Every week, the challenge would go out to bring in the new businesses, along with maintaining and expanding the current accounts. Every week Chris, reliable, dependable, and steady, brought in the same accounts with essentially the same totals. His figures would change periodically, but he was as steady as the Rock of Gibraltar. He did so well that the manager left him alone.  But there was this undercurrent of criticism around him, which I’m sure he felt, but left him unmoved.  In the meantime, the ‘go-getter” and I carried the ball for bringing in the new accounts.

Chris’s steadiness played to his advantage in that he was reliable and predictable, an asset in any business whose corporate bosses demanded budget predictions. However, that reliability also played to his disadvantage in a corporate structure that rewarded aggressiveness.  It didn’t take long to become painfully clear that Chris wasn’t going anywhere in this corporate entity.  He was in a dead-end job.

Since Chris didn’t let his feelings out too much, when he did express them, I listened well. I knew any outward expression meant there was a lot brewing. We shared an office, but early in the week, he was traveling “over the hill” as all the locals referred to the mountain pass, to service his existing accounts, and later in the week, we were out of the office, ostensibly looking for new accounts.  That meant we didn’t have a lot of time together. But the time we had, we spoke honestly to each other. 

Chris was frustrated that he wasn’t going to be made a manager.  He had a growing family and wanted to provide all the things they needed and wanted.  Because he made much more money in sales than he did in the graphics department, he stayed in a job that I realized after a while, he hated.  However, he used this position as a stepping-stone to further his true love, which was art.  The first time I saw one of Chris’s drawings, I was impressed. The precision and detail in his work reflected the peace and calm of his heart. I suddenly understood why this amazing young man could survive in his frustration.  He lived for his artwork. That and the love for his wife and family sustained him.

Chris specialized in black and white ink drawings of old buildings he found located around his beloved state of Montana. He would travel to various places and photograph the buildings, then come home to his art gallery and reproduce them with remarkable accuracy.  But there was something even more astounding that became apparent in the final result: Chris captured the character and spirit of what he drew.  His drawings were not of old barns, churches or buildings; they were depictions of the hearts and souls that went into these buildings.  He captured it all with architectural precision!  I was sharing an office with a talented young genius, just waiting to be discovered. I understood, now, why Chris didn’t bring in new accounts. He had no motivation to sell.  He thrived on doing his passion.

Chris’s steadiness served him well in his passion. He was able to work in his job to provide for his family and still do his drawings.  I am not sure when he received his first commission.  Others closer to him can discuss that chronology. I do know that he began to draw for hire. He was beginning to realize his dream of making his living by drawing. Chris became a new man.  He had a dream, a purpose.  Although I only had a polite acquaintance with his wife Linda, I knew from Chris that she was his driving force and his biggest fan.

There was a local, prominent businessman who was a long-time friend of Chris.  He offered his facility to conduct Chris’ first art show. On that terribly snowy night in Bozeman, his friends and neighbors attended Chris’s debut. He was radiant and looked more handsome than ever!  It was delightful to see the light in his eyes and the joy on his face.

My circumstances were such that I was not able to buy any of his offerings.  Chris knew this but didn’t seem to care. He received my support and congratulations graciously.  I was overjoyed to be present for this apparent springboard into a new life.  As I left the building and drove away in that calm, winter storm, I knew Chris was on his way.

I had my own dreams to be realized.  It was a few months after Chris’s art show that I decided to launch my speaking businesses, so I gave my notice at work.

I know those around me were surprised. We were close, yet I shared my dreams with only a few. I’m sure they thought I would starve doing motivational speaking, but I had Chris’s undivided attention.   In fact, he secretively pulled me aside and asked if he could take me to lunch.

“How are you going to do this?” he asked after we ordered. He wanted to know as if I had some kind of magic formula. Of course, the only magic I possessed was the insanity one needs to give up a secure job to pursue a dream – that, and some saved up money.

Money was always a stumbling block for Chris.  I don’t think he had enough savings or enough income from his commissions, yet.  Our lunch was in late January.  His plan was to quit his job in May. He thought he would have everything in place by then. 

Springtime is the cruelest time of all in Montana, mainly because the months of March, April and May are more like extended winter.  We are teased with temperatures warm enough to play outside in short sleeves today, only to be dumped on by a foot of heavy, wet snow tomorrow.   This is when driving is most difficult.

Such was the case over the mountain pass that separates Bozeman from other communities to the east, which Chris so reliably served. It was April 14, and Chris went “over the hill” the way he had done thousands of times before.  On his way back, almost at the apex of the pass, Chris’s tire caught some slushy, wet snow that caused him to leave the road. His car, traveling at a safe, but still rapid highway speed, went up a hill and then rolled. Although his seat belt was fastened, Chris still was thrown from the car and suffered a serious head injury.  The salesman who replaced me, had landed a few new accounts in the outlying communities, and was driving behind Chris. It was he who witnessed the accident, found Chris lying on the ground and called the ambulance.

Chris miraculously was alive, but in serious condition, and the extent of his injuries were yet to be determined. It took me about a month or two to muster the courage to visit Chris, who at that time, was in an extended care facility.  Although his wife was his constant companion during the entire crisis, she had to manage the lives of her two young children, so she wasn’t present in the room when I went for my visit.  I immediately broke down into tears at what I saw.  There was this vital, talented, handsome young man lying broken and incapacitated. He was in a coma but I spoke to him, anyway.  Amidst the cards, flowers, and children’s drawings saying, “Get well, Daddy,” I cried and begged Chris to come back.  I told him his wife and children loved and needed him; that we all loved him and believed in him. I touched his hand the entire time I spoke.  I stayed as long as I could endure my own grief.

In July of that same year, I got married and moved away from Bozeman, the community I still consider home. I have returned on a few occasions for business or a quick pleasure trip.  I always would ask about Chris’s condition, and always the news was bad.

Two-and-a-half years after Chris’ accident, I attended a business meeting in Bozeman. As was typical, I extended my stay for pleasure. While visiting the little weekly shopper that has grown into quite a thriving corporate entity, a former coworker and still good friend asked me if I wanted to visit Chris, as she had done on my previous trips.  This time I said yes

Chris was not a functional human being any longer. He lived in a hospital bed or wheel chair. He could not speak or perform voluntary movements. He required 24-hour care and little was known about what he perceived. Food entered and left his body through various tubes and bags. Through a series of settlements and disability payments, his wife was able to remodel their house. The basement was equipped as well or better than any hospital.  There was an elevator installed to allow Chris access to the outside. He was on 32 daily medications.

His wife had to be strong. Chris’ children were growing up with an invalid daddy who could not hug them or take them to the skating rink that he so dearly loved.

Since I was shocked to see the way Chris appeared, I constrained my emotion to quiet tears. However, inside I wanted to throw myself down and weep bitterly. I barely recognized him. When I stood by his side, touched his hand, and began talking to him, I was shocked to see that he opened his eyes and looked at me! I expected him to be unconscious.  He looked me squarely with his left eye and his mouth started moving as if he were trying to speak.  Although others around me may think me a fool, I swear he recognized me. I was so overcome with emotion that I talked to him through choked-back tears.  I’m sure I didn’t make much sense, but I did the best I could. 

Afterwards, we visited with his wife, Linda, and the children. There was no hope for Chris. He suffered many infections and other problems.  He was failing and they would not take any extraordinary measures to keep him here.  The doctors gave him about three more weeks to live.

I was haunted by this and decided to return by myself for a second visit the next day. Chris was not as active and alert that day.  I didn’t feel he recognized me or had much of a presence, but I spoke to him, anyway.

I then had the opportunity to have a much longer visit with Linda, while their two small children played around us and one of his staff of nurses performed her usual duties.  The quiet courage I saw displayed in this remarkable young woman is worthy of a book, which someday I hope someone writes. Her life had been consumed by getting Chris well.  She knew medical terminology as well or better than any of the nurses, and she possessed a calm resolution that surely must have been a gift. This entire ordeal had been neither pleasant, pretty, nor inexpensive.   I said my good-byes knowing I would not see Chris alive again. Experiencing grief and relief simultaneously was unfamiliar to me.

As I left their home-turned-into-rehab center, I reflected how Chris left such an impact on so many people.  His manner was friendly and cordial; his artwork was inspiring; and his ordeal over the past two years left those around him with a new appreciation for life.

“It’s OK, Chris,” I said almost prayerfully. “You fought the good fight.  Let go. The sky will be your palette.”

The day after Labor Day, I busily was going over my “to do” list when a familiar “ding” came over my computer.  It was an Email from my good friend in Bozeman. It read as follows:  “Diana, Just wanted to let you know that Chris passed away over the weekend.  He went in his sleep. There is a funeral on Thursday.  I’ll let you know more when I hear. With tears, Joyce.”

I was stunned yet I didn’t know why. It was exactly three weeks after my visit. I found myself feeling very sad. I knew for a long time that this was coming. “He’s in a better place now,” my husband said in an attempt to comfort me.

Chris was only 33 years old. He was so talented, so friendly. Everyone who knew him liked him. His journey was cut short.

For several days afterward, I had to fight back tears. I was surprised at my grief. I was so prepared. Still, I was sad.

I looked over at my bookshelf and saw the invitation to his art show that I kept out all this time in his honor.  I’ll never forget his hearty laugh. I’ll never forget how happy, handsome and radiant he looked that night.  He was a young artist on his way. None of us knew where his journey would take us all.

Why I had the pleasure of knowing this young man, his family, and his story is a mystery to me. I never shall forget him, though.  I think of him and appreciate life. I think of his children who are growing up without a father and cherish the fact that both my parents are only a phone call away.  I think of his dream and know I must realize my own dream, despite the obstacles. I think of his short duration on earth and understand that life is too short to waste with complaints or worries. I think of his courageous, young wife and am grateful for my own husband, who loves me unconditionally.

Yes, Chris is gone, but his memory is very much alive. And so is his artwork. I keep that invitation on my bookcase and look at it often.  I value the gift Chris gave the world, and have found a new appreciation for my own, sometimes seemingly mundane life.

Thank you, Chris.  This is my tribute to you.  The day will come when I can view the beautiful pen and ink drawings you now create with the universe as your model and the sky as your palette.

Virginia City Gas Station
by Chris Warner

(picture published with permission)

Presentation on Overcoming Tragedy & Loss

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