By Michael Kelman Portney

When my best friend died, I found myself grappling with an unbearable reality. I didn’t just lose him; I lost a piece of my own life, a piece that had been there for so many years, filled with memories, laughter, and late-night conversations that always seemed endless. I was tasked with organizing his funeral—a responsibility that was as heavy as it was humbling. I knew that honoring him meant finding a way to capture the essence of who he was, to make his send-off something special, something that felt true to him. Little did I know that what I’d say would end up becoming the proudest moment of my life.

Setting the Stage: Capturing Loss but Missing Light

The funeral was packed, and you could feel the weight of sadness in the air. I watched as two speakers went up before me, both of whom knew him well and spoke beautifully, capturing the emotion, the depth of loss, and the gravity of his absence. They honored him in all the right ways, expressing the ache and emptiness we all felt, their voices trembling, their words pulling the tears out of every person in the room.

Yet, as moving as their speeches were, I could feel there was something missing—something that my friend would have wanted. They’d captured the sadness, but they hadn’t captured his light, his laugh, his way of turning the bleakest moments into something you could somehow laugh at. That’s who he was: the guy who’d find a way to make you smile even when you thought you couldn’t. What I was witnessing was not a celebration of his life: it was a devastating, gut wrenching funeral - a collective mourning of the amazing person that we lost. I was last on the list of speakers, and I quickly understood that I was the only person in the room with a hope of shifting the tone.

Throwing Away the Script

I had written a speech. I’d gone over it, memorized the phrases, practiced the rhythm of each sentence, but standing there in the room, hearing the quiet sobs, seeing the grief on everyone’s faces, I realized that script wasn’t going to cut it. I felt this sudden urge to throw it out, to stop hiding behind words I’d written in the calm of my home. I knew that if I wanted to do right by him, I had to speak from the heart, to capture that spark he’d brought to my life.

So, as I walked up to the front, I threw my prepared speech aside. I decided to do what he’d want me to do: I was going to make people laugh. I was going to remind everyone that, yes, we’d lost someone incredible, but we’d also gained something from knowing him—stories, laughter, lessons, and memories that couldn’t be taken away.

Hooting, Hollering, and Honoring

When I started speaking, I took a deep breath, looked out at the crowd, and began to share the stories that made him who he was. I told the crowd about his ridiculous sense of humor, the jokes that never landed (but he’d laugh at anyway), the pranks he pulled, and the times he’d go out of his way to make someone’s day. I let myself lean into the humor, into the memories that made me smile even in the pain of missing him.

And as I did, something magical happened. The sadness started to shift. People began to laugh, to hoot and holler, to celebrate him in a way that felt more like him. The room transformed from a place of mourning into a space filled with love and laughter, and I could feel his spirit there with us, cheering us on. It felt like the proper send-off he would have wanted, one that didn’t just dwell on the pain but celebrated the joy he’d brought to all of our lives.

The Proudest Moment of My Life

That day, I realized something powerful. Standing there, watching the smiles break through the tears, seeing his family and friends uplifted, even if just for a moment—that was the proudest I’ve ever felt. It wasn’t about the words I’d said or the jokes I’d made; it was about bringing everyone together to honor my friend in the truest way possible. I gave him a farewell that reflected who he was, one that reminded everyone of the laughter he’d brought into the world. On the way out to the parking lot, I heard a smiling old man say “That was the wildest funeral I've ever been to! ” Jeremy Joshua Whitten was one of the wildest I've ever known and he deserved a wild funeral. He was a breed all his own. Too weird to live, to rare to die.

The Determination to Do More

As proud as I am of that moment, I know I can do more. There’s a drive in me now to create something, to live in a way that would make him proud, and to reach even greater heights. I want to build a life that honors the lessons he taught me—to bring light to others, to make people laugh even in the hard times, and to leave a mark that endures. I’m determined to do something that can be remembered, something that would have made him shake his head with that goofy grin and say, “You did it, my friend.”

This article is my way of remembering him, of letting the world know that he existed, that he mattered, and that the joy he spread didn’t end with him. And while that day remains the proudest moment of my life, I know it’s not the end of the story. There’s more to be done, more to be proud of, and more to create. And with him in my heart, I’m ready to do it.