I’m trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense. Throughout my life, I’ve experienced loss. I’ve seen loved ones leave this world after long struggles with serious illnesses. I’ve watched tragedies unfold of friends gone too soon. Yet, for many of these losses, there’s been a natural course of things. However, I recently said goodbye to someone who should still be here—my nephew, Josh Moody, who died suddenly at the age of 29.
So I can only find the words to acknowledge what I know rather than what I don’t understand. Josh had his life in front of him. He had evolved from an adolescent young man named Joshua who had an affinity for odd and curious pets like snakes that his patient mother would let him keep. He grew into an articulate young businessman called Josh who fulfilled his dream by returning to the place that meant so much to him—Jacksonville Beach.
I know his return to the ocean was as much metaphorical as practical. He had established his own medical supply company there. He had just recently purchased his first home, a hip two bedroom condo just a block and a half away from the ocean. That’s when he became the Moodz—his surfing name given to him by his cadre of surfing buddies and college fraternity friends.
In time, our family began calling him Joshie because this seemed to help us transition him from the world we knew of Joshua to the professional world in which Josh began living. And it was a good life.
He formed his own business. He created an extensive and diverse network of professional and personal friends that many of us only dream about. He found his passion in medical sales and ocean surfing—somewhere in this I’m certain there’s an apt parallel.
He found love, too. After a long-term relationship with a beautiful young woman named Liz, he recently shared with her that a permanent commitment was not only an “if” but a “when,” those lovely words every young woman wants to hear.
There’s one title he never shied away, bestowed upon him at birth—Joshua Yeary Moody—his middle name given to him in honor of his mother’s—my sister’s—maiden name. You see, there were four Yeary girls, which made it rather evident the line of succession would not endure unless one of us peaked with a burst of liberation. His parents gave him his middle name as a symbol of connecting generations, past and present. Josh knew this and wore it well, always bridging relationships between both families. In many ways, he was our generational glue.
At an early age, Josh had to assume a new and different title—that of father to his younger sister Molly and caregiver to his mother Julie. His father died—also too soon—when Josh and Molly were very young.
And when Joshua Yeary Moody died, he was buried next to his father. He assumed a position he’d wanted all of his life—that of father and son together.
Joshua. Josh. Moodz. Joshie. Friend, businessman, son, nephew, brother, grandson, boyfriend, surrogate father, and family protector. Joshua Yeary Moody, it was never about who you were—it was always about who you had become. Thank you for showing me that names really do mean something.
I will always love you, sweet Joshie.