“Dale, you won’t believe it! It’s the tallest man I’ve ever seen! Come quick!” “What does he look like?” he asked. “He is the tallest man I’ve ever seen! You’re going to miss him if you don’t come now!” “What does he look like?” he asked again. “He has a crew cut, and he is really, really tall!” “It’s probably Eric Montross. He lives in Chapel Hill.”

It was a Sunday, and we were in Target. We were new to the area, and I hadn’t become accustomed to seeing the local basketball players in area stores. I learned if the store was unusually quiet, and everyone had their phones out, there was most likely a celebrity somewhere in our midst.

Eric had played for UNC and then went on to play in the NBA. He and his family lived in Chapel Hill. Our paths eventually crossed when our kids were in school at the same time. Eric coached my son, Thad’s basketball team. What a gift that was, not only because he was an extraordinary basketball player, but also because he was so kind and patient with the kids.

I drove a route for Meals on Wheels, and once a year, local celebrities would join the volunteers on our route. Eric and his wife, Laura, came with me. Eric was 7 ft. tall. We entered the home of a man who had dementia. The man took one look at him and said, “You should play basketball!” Rather than telling him he had in fact played basketball, Eric laughed and said, “I should, shouldn’t I?”

I imagine everyone who lives in Chapel Hill or is a basketball fan has an Eric story. He was an iconic basketball player but also embodied one of the most generous spirits I had ever witnessed. One time, I saw him outside the Chick-Fil-A in University Mall. He was holding the flip phone owned by an elderly gentleman. The man wanted a picture with Eric but didn’t know how to take one with his phone. Eric was trying to figure out how to do it.

Earlier today, we learned Eric died from cancer. He was 52 years old. We had only these little glimpses of him throughout our lives as fellow Chapel Hillian’s, but both Dale and I were immediately in tears. He was really that great a person.

Our tears had two dimensions though. We cried for the loss of such a wonderful person, but mostly we cried for his family. We cried, because Dale lost his father at nearly the same age of Eric’s children. I suppose only someone who lost a parent at such a tender age in life, when you are just emerging into adulthood, can really grasp the days ahead for Eric and Laura’s children, Sarah, Andrew and Andrew’s fiancé Megan.

You’re an adult, but really a quasi-adult. When Ethan and Thad first graduated from college, I told them they were “Baby adults.” Now, at ages 27 and 25, I tell them they are “Toddler adults.” It’s an age when so much is expected of you, and it can feel as though you are faking it until you make it.

Even more than the loss of a parent at such a young age, it is far more difficult to lose a loved one that seemingly belongs to everyone. His kids, like Dale, will be told so many stories like the ones I shared above.

Dale’s father was a partner in a local business and was the local volunteer Fire Chief. After he died following a two-year battle with brain cancer, Dale was told numerous stories about what a good man his father was. People would stop us everywhere and share pieces of their history with Dave, Dale’s dad.

There was always this moment after they spoke, when the air hung heavy around us. Dale knew and always said the right thing, “Yes, he was a wonderful man” or “that’s a great story.” But then, we would walk away, and be silent for a bit. It took some time for Dale to recover from these interactions. I could never put my finger on what made them so difficult, but now I understand.

There is a concept called a “Grief Circle.” The idea is that there are concentric circles around the family who has lost a loved one. It is based on the “Ring theory” developed by psychologist Susan Silk. The family is the innermost circle. The next circle is for close relatives and friends. The next circle might be neighbors and co-workers, and so on an so on.

The rule is, comfort and support flow in towards the innermost circles. The innermost circles then get to express their grief to the outermost circles.

The most important thing to know about it is, the family should only be on the receiving end of comfort, not the giving end. The idea is “Comfort in” and “Grief out.” When people shared stories about Dale’s dad, they were grieving, as Dale was. The thing was, as they shared their story, they would become sad. It would feel as though Dale should comfort them – make them feel better about their loss. They were grieving to an innermost person, and he was supporting them.

It wasn’t intentional. It’s just what we tend to do; we think of our own loss and believe sharing a memory might provide solace. There is a great acronym, “W.A.I.T” It stands for, “Wait, why am I talking?” If I am talking about myself, my memories of the deceased loved one, I am making the loss about me.

The thing is, I was a minor, minute character in the lifeline of Eric Montross. He probably couldn’t pick me out of a lineup. This was Laura’s husband. He was Sarah and Andrew’s dad. They are the very center of the grief circle. Theirs are the stories to share, not our small, albeit meaningful run-ins. Theirs are the feelings we need to hold most gingerly, not ours.

Dale’s dad meant so many things to so many people, but he was a husband and dad first and most. How different those occasions would have been if Dale’s grief was centered, if questions were asked of him, if there were people who could bear his sadness? How different will the Montross family’s process of grieving be if it is centered upon them and their loss?

We all lost a truly great man whose life meant so much to so many, but they lost their husband and Dad. I hope they have the people in their concentric circles who can offer meaningful support in and let the grief flow outward.

Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May he rest in peace.