The casually attired passengers hastily retrieved luggage from beneath seats and overhead bins, impatiently waiting to deplane. They chatted amongst themselves, wishing “safe travels” to newly acquainted seat mates whom they would likely never see again, and expectantly finalized plans for their festive vacations.

I was going to a funeral.

For a final time, I trekked the 1300 hundred or so miles from Detroit down to Miami to say goodbye to my friend, who had lost his long battle with cancer.

In life, there are some people for whom you have an immediate affinity; and, the mystery of that initial affinity dissipates as your friendship endures and deepens, until you cannot conceive of a time you were never friends. When you were not brothers.

We were born thousands of miles apart—in many ways, worlds apart—but we saw the world in the same way. We met in the mid-stream of our lives in a setting known for its superficiality, intemperance, and impermanence. But, perhaps, that is a large part of what forged our friendship.

As I told him once, “In a place where ‘smart’ people abound, a wise man is to be prized.” For once practicing what I preached, I did, indeed, treasure his friendship.

Later in life, we stayed in touch. Yet, even if there hadn’t been a communications revolution with Facebook, X, and texts, he was the kind of person that no matter how much time had elapsed, you picked up right where you left off. It didn’t take long until he made me laugh.

Since Miami was a wee bit more temperate in winter than Detroit, sometimes accompanied by my wife, Rita, I would visit him and his wife of forty-eight years, Cristina. We’d have wonderful meals in his house or nearby restaurants. When his son, Daniel, and neighbor, Lou, popped by their apartment, where paintings of his famous Uncle Waldo were prominently displayed, we’d hold impromptu jam sessions. My friend played the bongos. (He used to be a drummer, but that might have been a wee bit too loud to play in his apartment.)

We would take “The Walk!” along the sands of Key Biscayne and discuss Jose Marti, Maimonides, world events, politics, literature, cinema and music. During one of our strolls, he mentioned he had seen a shark offshore. Naturally, he then suggested we wade out to a sand bar to cool off. Though trepidatious of being a shark’s entrée, I didn’t want to look cowardly and off we went into the tranquil waters with not a dorsal fin in sight.

On the sand bar looking at the high rises of Key Biscayne, my curiosity got the better of me. I glanced over my shoulder and pointed toward the deep water. “Where did you see the shark?”

“There,” he said, casually pointing to a spot between ourselves and the shore.

It was the one time I cursed him.

Interestingly, it was over music we had another of our rare disagreements. We were both Beatles fans, but this wasn’t a “who’s your favorite argument (we both preferred Lennon). Unlike me, he also loved jazz. He handed me a CD and asked me to listen to it: Miles Davis’s A Tribute to Jack Johnson. I halfheartedly accepted it, half-listened to it, and promptly asked if he wanted it back or should I use it to shoot skeet. He wasn’t pleased. I still have the CD.

On a brighter note, we were far more successful in exchanging books. For we believed in the permanent things: faith, family, community, and country; and, regardless of time and place and circumstance, we fought for a human being’s inviolable dignity and God-given right to liberty.

He unceasingly spoke for the silenced, denouncing tyrants and demanding freedom for the oppressed. A Cuban exile from communist tyranny, his words were from the heart—empathy for the oppressed, because he was one. Like his father, Rafael, before him, he spent his entire life fighting for the liberty of the land of his birth; but, like his father, neither would reach the promised land of a free Cuba. But his grandchildren, Lincoln and Edwin, will—Patria y vida.

That’s why in this noble cause, despite his loss, he would never want anyone to despair. He understood more than most: when a servant in the cause of liberty is called home, we are less diminished by their absence than blessed by their life’s work. For our souls exist to honor God, follow His will, and fuel the lamp of liberty; and, when we are extinguished, liberty’s flame is not diminished but burns ever brighter in the hearts of those whose lives we have inspired.

For as it is said in the Book of Daniel: “But the wise will shine brightly like the splendor of the firmament; and those who lead the many to justice shall be as the stars forever.”

As my friend would remind us: it is for us, the living, to cradle and carry liberty’s lamp on behalf of all those still yearning to breathe free, all the while realizing that through the grace of God there is eternally hope in this world.

It is why he so loved the United States—a nation blessed by God and the beacon of hope to all the oppressed—who took his parents and siblings to its sheltering bosom. Melded by the eternal principle of liberty, my friend’s devotion to both the land of his birth and his adopted home was reminiscent of a quip by Churchill: he was 100% Cuban; and 150% American. One only had to look at his name to know it. Like both lands, he contained multitudes. He was earnest and humorous; egalitarian and studious; humorous; passionate and magnanimous. There was not an ounce of pettiness about him. He embodied the immigrant’s American dream; and fought for it for all his fellow citizens.

Truly, he was a Champion of Freedom and a humble servant of God.

And I was blessed our friendship formed a thread in the resplendent tapestry of his unforgettable life.

So… With heavy heart I sojourned to my friend—my brother’s—memorial service. (Rita could not join me, as she had to work a midnight shift at the hospital.) I joined with hundreds of his friends, coworkers, colleagues, former constituents and continuing admirers to express our condolences to his family, including his eldest brother Rafael, who in 1965 took my friend to a concert and, at their Madrid hotel, he met the Beatles.

He was eulogized by Ana Carbonell (who was the sister he never had); his brothers Mario and Jose; and his son, Daniel. I managed to keep it together until after communion, when I heard the dolorous airs of Virgen Mambisa (Exiled). The funeral mass was a magnificent testament to a great and good man. His race run, this true and faithful servant now eternally rests beside his dearly departed son, Lincoln Gabriel, in the comforting embrace of our loving God.

Late that night, I had returned to the frigid mists of Michigan, winter fitfully turning to spring. I deplaned, retrieved my car from the overnight parking lot, and headed home. As I drove, I began to recount all the times he helped me; all the things I learned from him. I turned on the radio looking for some distracting classic rock, but found nothing but limp pop and lame hair metal—not the diversion I sought. On a whim, I punched the station that programmed classical music during the day and, at night, jazz.

It was playing Miles Davis.

Dig it!

Adios mi hermano, Lincoln Diaz-Balart.

Cuba libre!

God bless America!

An American Greatness contributor, the Hon. Thaddeus G. McCotter (M.C., Ret.) served Michigan’s 11th Congressional district from 2003-2012, He served as Chair of the Republican House Policy Committee; and as a member of the Financial Services, Joint Economic, Budget, Small Business, and International Relations Committees. Not a lobbyist, he is also a contributor to Chronicles; frequent public speaker and moderator for public policy seminars; and a co-host of “John Batchelor: Eye on the World” on CBS radio, among sundry media appearances.