I’m honored to be here with Page Brightman’s family. I feel like I know you, because Page talked so lovingly about each one of you. I wish I had met his wife, Nancy, whom Page often referred to as the smartest person he had ever known. I know how proud he was of their daughter, Becky, especially how she persevered through rampant sexism to become a successful neurosurgeon. And her husband, Bill, a surgeon whom he called the perfect partner for his Becky. Page admired his son, Greg, not only for his golf skills but also for his willingness to take risks in business. And Page told me what a positive difference Kendra has made in Greg’s life.
And then there are Page’s three grandchildren. He told me about Amelia, and how delighted he was that he could connect by video on her wedding day in North Carolina. He spoke with admiration of Hart, and his successful business in Colorado. And last Friday, on what would be his final day in this life, Page told me about Grayson’s trip to California to take photos of a grueling women’s race from Los Angeles to Las Vegas. He cherished each of you.
My connection with Page came late in his life. About five years ago, my wife and I began sitting with Page during worship services here at Worthington Presbyterian. We had noticed that Nancy Brightman was listed weekly in the church’s prayer requests. We didn’t want Page to sit alone at church. Besides, Margaret and I each traveled a lot separately for work, so neither of us wanted to sit alone at church, either. So it seemed like a win-win-win for the three of us.
What began as a simple gesture of kindness blossomed during these past five years into an unlikely friendship. Page was 34 years older than me. In college, he was a jock and fraternity brother. I was a nerd and college newspaper editor. In the work world, he was steeped in numbers and ledgers. I was a journalist, immersed in words and writing. His news came from the Wall Street Journal and Fox, while mine came from The New York Times and Washington Post.
Still, we bonded. We actually could talk about politics and current events in a thoughtful way. We connected. We made each other laugh.
As we got to know each other better, Page discovered that I had not played any sport in high school. He found that unimaginable. “Well,” he said to me, “I’m sure you play golf now.” I shook my head. Again, he was astounded that I had never hit a golf ball – except for putt putt, and that doesn’t count. Thus began his evil plan to turn me into a golfer! At first, I thought he was joking. Some of you have been there, right?
Page was relentless. So, eventually, I found myself at his house, hitting foam golf balls in his living room and backyard. Right away, he could see that he had his work cut out for him. But Page savored the challenge. I actually got better – fewer and fewer whiffed shots! One day, he greeted me on his front porch and announced: “We’re going to the driving range today.” Immediately, I imagined public humiliation. His backyard was a safe space, but there would be actual golfers at York Golf Club. Then, as I was processing that potential nightmare, he hit me with another one: “I’ll drive.” I wondered: “Is this really a good idea? He’s over 90!” But, deep down, I trusted Page. My fears turned out to be unfounded: I wasn’t publicly humiliated – and he was a careful, capable driver.
Thus began a regular pattern: During nice weather, we would occasionally meet at York, hit balls and have lunch at the clubhouse. During the winter, we hit balls indoors at the PGA Superstore in their electronic golf simulator, and then had lunch nearby.
Hanging out with Page sometimes felt like a sitcom. Here are a few memorable scenes ….
- On the driving range one day, Page was distressed that I kept swaying too much when I swung. So he stood across from me, reached out his golf club and placed the grip horizontally across my head. “Really?” I asked him. “Sure,” he said, “just don’t hit me.” This went on for many, many swings…. Maybe there was some public humiliation after all. But it worked: I stopped swaying.
- At the PGA store, Page often stopped along the way to the simulator to admire the shirts, clubs and other merchandise. He loved bright colors. One day, a neon orange shirt caught his eye. “This is pretty,” he said. He really liked it, and I thought he was going to buy it. “Page,” I told him, “this rack is for women.” Without skipping a beat, he replied: “Oh! I guess it’s too pretty for me.”
- One Sunday morning after worship, as Page walked out of this sanctuary behind me, he loudly asked me: “Doug, do you know you’re really getting bald in the back?” I asked him to check his hair privilege – and then had to explain what I meant. He did have a fine head of hair!
Like a sitcom…
Other times, hanging out with Page felt like being with my reporter friends. Page would have been a phenomenal investigative reporter. He had a deep curiosity and interest in other people, their lives, their stories. Time and time again, I saw Page ask one more question – one that most people wouldn’t think to ask – and it made a world of difference.
At York one day, he was talking with the young woman taking our lunch order.
“Are you in school?”
“Yes, Otterbein.”
“What are you studying?”
“Special education.”
Most people would end it there, but Page asked one more question.
“That’s a less common major. Why are you studying that?”
“My sister has a learning disability. I saw how much difference one of her teachers made and how much she helped my sister. I want to help like that.”
Page had a gift for making everyone feel special, feel seen, feel heard. That’s why people would open up to him – just like a talented reporter.
As I reflect on my five years with Page, I feel overwhelming gratitude for our friendship. Maybe it wasn’t so unlikely after all. Maybe God put Page in my life to remind me of what true friendship looks like. And to motivate me to be a better friend to others. Page called regularly to check on me, especially if he knew that I was dealing with something difficult. He was concerned after my dad was diagnosed with colon cancer, and Page often asked how he was doing. Page empathized with Margaret when her mother moved into memory care – and shared with us his experiences with Nancy during her final years.
Like a true friend, Page also pushed me out of my comfort zone. Late last fall, during our last outing at the driving range, he beamed as I hit ball after ball with decent form – no swaying! no whiffs! Page, the teacher, was basking in the reflection of his coaching, his prodding, his troubleshooting. With his broad smile, he told me with great delight: “You finally look like a golfer!” I think he had sensed my deep insecurities about sports, about feeling non-athletic. He gave me confidence. For me, this had never been about golf. It had been an excuse to spend time with Page. But, I have to admit, it does feel really good to hit the ball well – to hear that distinctive crack when the clubface and ball meet in the sweet spot. On the way to lunch, he insisted: “You have more athletic ability than you think.” Another Page pep talk – something a true friend does for you.
Fast forward to last Friday. After we had lunch at his house and talked for a couple of hours, Page stepped out onto his porch to say goodbye. He shook his head at the chilly, rainy day. Still, he was an eternal optimist. His final words to me were these: “We need some good weather so we can go hit some golf balls again.”
Someday, my friend, someday…
