Todd Kay
was a gem of a giant. But his smile was bigger.
There are
moments in our lives when we see a man, and based on an initial visual
perception of him we expect his voice to be one thing, but as soon as he speaks
the sounds from his mouth turn out to be another thing – something completely
unanticipated and wholly mismatched with his body.
Todd’s
voice was appropriate. His smile and gentleness however did not coincide
with his size.
Anyone who
knew Todd would undoubtedly interpret my statement to mean that because he was
so large in physical stature, his tenderness and the permanency of his grin
were more suitable for a smaller man. But I’m saying the opposite,
in-fact. I would expect a man with a smile and gentleness like Todd’s to
have been a much larger man, because the size of his body was tiny in
comparison to both.
As a
camper, I shared a dorm with Todd Kay in Starlight, Pennsylvania during the
summer of 1995. We were seventeen years old. Twenty years later, at
the age of thirty-seven, he has passed on, leaving a beautiful wife, who was
already the love of his life two decades ago and remained so until the day he
died. Todd also leaves two beautiful young boys, far too small and tender
in years to lose their father or to understand why he’s gone. But I’m not
quite sure they’d understand regardless of their years, because if anyone
deserved to live forever, it was Todd Kay.
Todd’s
grin was and remains the kind that creates clichés.
He devoted
his life to young people. Todd had many titles over the course of his
young career, but the foundation upon which each was given came from his
unwavering commitment to creating environments wherein every kid could find
comfort and purpose in himself.
Todd was
the kind of man who was incapable of lying. He appeared to me at all
times when I best knew him to be someone that simply never learned how.
He didn’t make friends – he made brothers. He didn’t serve someone else’s
children – they became his own.
If there
was a man born to be a father, it was Todd Kay.
I spent
the year that followed our summer together traveling around the world for the
very organization that employed Todd for the majority of his career. My
final stop was Starlight, Pennsylvania. Todd was there too, as were
hundreds if not thousands of people I’d known and friends I’d made that year
and in the earlier years at camp. I was physically and emotionally
finished. I was eighteen. And my mother was there to take me
home. On the morning we were to leave, I convinced my mom to wake up
before the sun rose and allow us to depart without any more goodbyes.
I just
wanted to go home.
At 5:00 am
with the car running and our bags packed, I remember a fog on the ground so
thick I could barely see the headlights. And I will never forget running
off and finding Todd – only Todd. I needed one more smile from him.
I wanted to say one more goodbye to my friend. I woke him up. I had
a quick cry. And I told him I loved him.
And I
drove off with my mom.
Todd’s
smile was the finest in the land. And I feel lucky to have had it aimed
at me even one time in my life. I will recall it more now that he is gone
than I have in the twenty years that have passed since sharing a dorm with
him. And most importantly, I pledge in this space to do whatever I can,
though I am presently a stranger to his children, to remind his young boys as
often as I can as they grow older that they come from royalty.
The world
is a smaller place today. Not because we lost a giant of a man, but
because we lost a man with the smile of a giant.
-Corey
Stern
