Eulogy for my son, Bryce "Brycie" Wergin
When first considering what I’d want said here today, on my behalf—on Bryce’s behalf—what initially came to mind were poems or some sappy prose, but I quickly came to realize that wouldn’t be the correct way to go about this. Because its not necessary. And its not what Bryce would’ve wanted. What Bryce would’ve wanted, what I’m sure he still wants, is to see us smile.
Some of my favorite memories, not just of Bryce but of my life as a whole, are of Bryce infecting me with his smile. And the best of those times occurred when you’d least expect it. Walking into a room under the assumption that he was asleep, sometimes I’d peek past his shoulder just to make sure only to find his eyes wide open and waiting for me, putting on and no longer able to contain his smile as if he’d known he’d gotten me, like it was some Bryce-version of gotcha’ or peek-a-boo. Or I can’t count the times that I’d walk in or already be in the room and Bryce would decide that now is the time to make me feel like a king again, laughing and going on like you were the one making his day when it was very much the other way around.
He had a way to him. Its funny, thinking that he who was only days away from walking but never took that first step, who was maybe weeks from talking but never said that first word, had so much to teach. You know, all the education and research and life experience, and anything else I could think of, could’ve never taught me the valuable lessons that that sickly yet vehemently happy boy did. If he’d had a vocabulary, the word “quit” wouldn’t have been a part of it. Because he never did. Not once. Not in all the pain and illness and twisting and sorrow, not once did that little boy even consider the very notion of quit. Because that’s not what he did; that’s not why we’re here today on his behalf—not because Bryce finally quit, but because the Lord finally gave up on expecting him to.
I can’t think of someone else who could possibly walk through those pearly or cloudy, or whatever they are, gates of heaven, and do it with a clearer conscience, a conscience as pure and deserving as heaven itself—because March 11, 2015 wasn’t a day that God accepted another one of us into his presence, but a day that He welcomed one of his own home. And home is where he is—testing out those new legs, I’d imagine.
So smile. Smile. And if you can’t do it now, that’s okay, too. But when you find the moment between the tears or however it is you grieve: do that. Smile. Because that is exactly what it is that Bryce is doing, shown by the testament of his life here on Earth. He smiled. He laughed. All the time, despite being the one with the littlest reason to, he did it anyway.
What I, personally, morn most here today, is not losing Bryce—his little mangled and wronged body. What I mourn is losing the inherent wisdom he somehow brought without technically having the means to do so. I lost my crutch in this world, my example of how to be when being just seemed too hard. Because you don’t, and I don’t, know a thing about hard in the face of everything Bryce had to endure, and all while doing it with a smile. He made this look easy. And, I guess, come to think of it, that’s what hits me hardest about all of this. The world is a trying and difficult place as it is—but it just seems that much, and all the scarier, while having to imagine it with Bryce no longer in it.
Thank you.
