Daniel Jason Reiter

My friend Daniel Reiter passed away last Thursday. He was twenty-two years old. It is difficult to imagine the number of lives that He touched in those twenty-two years. The void left by his passing is staggering...but I know there is a reason that his life was bottled up into twenty-two intense and full years.

Losing a close friend is something that I have never dealt with this before. I'm not even sure how to deal with it really. Losing a close friend...the first such loss...makes me at once thankful that I have not lost many people in my life...but also regret not caring more to spend more time in eternally important fellowship with others.

Dan is the reason I started writing again on here in the first place. Earlier this month he left me a note that was vividly encouraging, a note which asked that I start writing again. Ten days later he passed away in a car accident on Spring-Cypress road in the northern suburbs of Houston.

Unsure of what to say here...I guess I will just start to express what has been on my mind in the days since Dan's passing. The one thing I know for sure is that I will be posting here much more frequently. I want this journal to be a monument to Dan because without his tacit encouragement I may have stopped writing altogether several times...by doing so I would have robbed myself of a very important outlet for all of the thoughts that jam together in my head and mess with my emotions.

The loss of Dan has been made easier, if that is possible, by the knowledge that his faith in God was so incredible and almost seemingly inhuman (although really, Dan was just as human and fallible as you and I, he simply let a lot more divine love refract though him than I or most others do). Dan also loved to use parenthetical references (as do I). Thus...it will probably take me even longer to get though writing this...and even then...it will not begin to be a shadow of the story of how Dan was an incredible impact on me (an impact that I'm not sure he even realized...and if he did, he would likely draw attention away from it, his humility, in spite of his strong intellectualism, was always something that I always admired).

The road that took Dan's life is the same road I once drove down in 2004 while concerned about the life of another friend named Dan. It's another story entirely but my friend and this girl had hopped on a train in Bryan, Texas...without thinking about any of the potential consequences of their actions...fortunetly they turned out to be safe and I caught up to them in Spring...Dan Reiter's hometown. The first thing I did when I returned to San Marcos was go up to Dan's 12th floor dorm room in Jackson Hall, where he and I spent our first year at Texas State, and excitedly explained how I had visited his hometown under very strange circumstances (Dan was typically excited about most things people had to say to him and this was no exception). I had not been down that road, or to that part of the Houston area, until a few days ago when I rode with three of the dozens of mutual friends that I cried, laughed, and reminisced with last week, as we followed about a mile behind a loosely ordered funeral procession that plodded along to a beautiful grave site. I have never found a site so beautiful so anguishing to look upon.

But I have hope...hope in the community that Dan left behind. Hope that I will join Dan someday and hear that incredible trademark laugh...the one that you could hear from across a crowded room and know that Dan was still there even if you couldn't see him. The laugh that made a person feel relevant, loved, and worth something more than perhaps they thought before they heard it. I also hope that everyone that knew Dan, including myself, will be inspired by the short but remarkable life he led. His impact was anything but short...I'm too clouded by emotion to write anything more right now. I will continue to write about Dan for a long time to come. He is the reason I am writing anyway. He reflected so much love and encouragement and I am just having a hard time dealing with the fact that his bright light has moved on to where my limited human vision cannot see.