Saturday, I hosted a BBQ backyard campout with my neighborhood crew for the third anniversary of Tony’s death.

We gathered in the afternoon and six family’s setup tents to spend the night. Eighteen kids between the ages of 15 and 6 played together outside for hours. An equal number of adults converged on the patio. Yep, I hosted 36 people on what was the worst day of my life 3 years prior.

There was a moment before everyone arrived, I thought to myself: what in the world are you doing hosting a party on this date? But I have no regrets. In true community fashion, everyone chipped in. Two of the guys smoked the BBQ and everyone brought a side dish. After everyone had gotten their fill, I caught a few of them cleaning my kitchen for me. (And I let them.) My kids even setup the tent without my assistance.

As the kids played, the adults were left to gather and converse. I heard a few stories about Tony I hadn’t heard before. We laughed and we cried as we all remembered the guy we still love so much. My grief felt different surrounded by these friends. They have seen me through it all almost every day. They knew him and us; but now they also know the new version of me. Even when I don’t really feel that different, I know that I am, that I must be.

More than once, I found myself looking around at the gathering and felt the beginning of tears. It was exactly his type of party. The guys passed around this ridiculous sherpa lined jean jacket, once donned they pretend to wield great power. He would have gone all in, hamming it up. Each guy getting louder trying to tell the next joke.

At the very end of the evening, I finally played some Eric Church for Tony. Every firepit night he hosted, ended with a glass of wine and some Church. I knew I couldn’t turn it on too early or we all would have been a mess. Just a few songs at the end of the night to remember him, he would have loved every second of the party. It’s a shame he had to miss it.