Just Guyton

Five miles done. Cinnamon rolls are in the oven, the house smells amazing, and I have my homemade vanilla chai latte sitting beside me.

So now I’m sitting here with my cup of ambition.

And this morning, that little phrase feels different.

Yesterday, I was on the phone with my daughter when I found out that Dolly Parton had died.

I was shocked.

And then I started to cry.

My daughter heard me and asked, “Are you seriously crying over someone who didn’t even know you existed?”

And I told her, “There have been several people who didn’t know I existed that I’ve cried over.”

After we got off the phone, I kept thinking about that.

Because I knew I wasn’t the only one crying.

All over the world, people who had never met Dolly Parton were feeling something. Some were probably crying just like I was. Some immediately played one of her songs. Some thought about their childhoods, their parents or grandparents, or a memory they hadn’t thought about in years.

And I started wondering why we sometimes feel like we have to justify that kind of grief.

Why should someone have to know our name for their life—or their death—to affect us?

There have been several celebrity deaths that have made me cry over the years. Luke Perry. Betty White. Ozzy Osbourne. And honestly, there have been so many that I couldn’t possibly name them all.

Dustin Diamond was a little different for me. I actually met him in 2014 after seeing his comedy show in Daytona Beach. I still have the picture from that night. So when he died, there was an actual moment from my own life attached to him.

But most of the people I have mourned never met me.

And I don’t think that makes the sadness any less real.

These people become part of our lives without ever actually being in our lives.

We watch them on television. We listen to their music while we’re driving. Their movies make us laugh. Their words get us through things. Their songs become attached to people, places and memories.

Sometimes they’ve simply been there for so long that we can’t remember a world without them.

That’s how Dolly felt to me.

Dolly was just… Dolly.

Big hair. Big clothes. Big voice. Big humor. Big personality.

She never seemed interested in dialing herself down.

And one of the things I admired about her was that she didn’t seem to dial down her feelings about God, either. Her faith was part of who she was, and she wasn’t afraid to talk about it.

I respected that.

Then, of course, there was the music.

So many incredible songs.

There are songs that only need a few notes before you know exactly what you’re hearing. Songs that have somehow managed to follow generations of people through their lives.

My favorite Dolly song has always been “Islands in the Stream” with Kenny Rogers.

I love that song.

And I imagine there were a whole lot of Dolly songs playing yesterday.

Maybe that’s one of the strange things about losing musicians. When they’re gone, their voices aren’t.

You can press play and suddenly there they are again.

But you know something has changed.

Maybe that’s also why the death of someone famous can hit us harder than we expect.

We aren’t pretending they were our friends.

We aren’t pretending we knew them personally.

We’re grieving what their presence meant in our own lives.

Sometimes we’re grieving memories.

Sometimes we’re grieving an era.

Sometimes we’re grieving the realization that another person who seemed like they had always been here… isn’t here anymore.

And sometimes we’re probably grieving the passage of our own time.

Another piece of our childhood is gone.

Another voice our parents listened to is gone.

Another person we remember seeing when we were young is gone.

And suddenly we’re reminded that time is moving whether we’re ready for it or not.

So yes.

Yesterday, I cried over a woman who didn’t know I existed.

And I know I wasn’t alone.

Because grief doesn’t require an introduction.

Someone doesn’t have to know your name to make you laugh.

They don’t have to shake your hand to inspire you.

They don’t have to sit at your kitchen table to become attached to your memories.

And they certainly don’t have to know you existed for you to be sad when they leave this world.

Maybe that’s what I would tell my daughter if she asked me that question again today.

No, Dolly Parton didn’t know I existed.

But I knew she existed.

And I’m glad she did.

So this morning, I’ll drink my cup of ambition, eat a cinnamon roll, and probably listen to “Islands in the Stream.”

And if I cry again?

That’s okay too.

Grief doesn’t ask for proof that you knew someone. It only asks whether they meant something to you.

And Dolly did.

— GUYTON