Some posts are hard to write. This one is harder than most.
Steven Stoll was one of my best friends. Recently, he was taken from our world far too soon, and I'm still wrestling to make sense of it. Steven deserves more than silence, and more than grief alone. He deserves a story, and this one is mine to tell. It’s the part of his story I was lucky enough to share.
It all started with Cherry Delite on a hot summer day in 2003.
The first time Steven and I spent time together, he wanted to see my mom's commercial kitchen. To me, it was just… normal. A place I'd been a thousand times. But to Steven, it was pure wonder. He was amazed by everything I took for granted, and that's one of the first things you need to know about him: he noticed. He paid attention. He found magic in everything around.
I grabbed a pan of Cherry Delite from the walk-in cooler, where Steven stood taking it all in like it was a museum. He grabbed a fork, and in no time, that young man was eating Cherry Delite straight from the pan, telling me over and over how delicious it was. Steven ate anything I fixed, and he always made my mom and me feel like the best cooks in the world while doing it. Of all the people I've fed, he was one of my favorites.
Birthdays, buffets, and chicken nachos
Over the years, we had our places we shared. For one of his birthdays, we took him to Best Buffet, where he scored half off his meal for being the special birthday boy, and he was over the moon about it. Steven delighted easily, and he lived out loud.
And then there were the Mexican restaurants. So. Many. Chicken. Nachos. Steven taught Bob and me how to order chicken nachos from Tower. He was the authority. The original. Every plate of chicken nachos I eat from here on out will be in his memory as I wrestle with the fact that he should be there eating them with us.
Everything grew under his hands
Steven's talents were immeasurable. From our early FFA days, he had a green thumb that can only be described as incredibly bright. Since his early teenage years, he could identify almost any plant, shrub, weed, or tree you put in front of him. He had a knack for anything with a root system, and honestly, I think he had a way with root systems of the human kind, too — he knew how to make things grow, including people.
Later in life, that gift bloomed in his beautiful garden and his beloved daylilies. Steven hybridized, organized, and sold his own creations to the world. He created flowers that never existed before he imagined them. How fitting for a man who was entirely his own creation, too: authentic, unmistakable, one of a kind.
He was there for all of it.
Steven was present for the big moments — including our wedding. He always made sure I knew how much he loved me, and he said it often enough that I never had to wonder.
Were there times we didn't see eye to eye? Sure. But we never let words go unspoken for too long. We were good about picking up where we left off, like no time had passed at all. That's rarer than people realize, and I don't take it for granted.
He was the definition of a true friend. He made me feel seen at a time in my life when being seen was the scariest thing I could imagine. He listened when I felt like I was screaming into the void. He lightened my heart and my mood, every single time.
More than a friend.
Steven wasn't just my friend. He was family.
As I try to navigate life without being able to talk to him, I'm learning to make peace with a new way the world will be. It's going to be hard for so many of us who knew and loved him. Sitting alongside the grief is gratitude for everything I learned and everything I endured with Steven, and for every meal, every laugh, every daylily, and every plate of chicken nachos.
If you knew and loved Steven, I would love to hear your favorite memory of him in the comments below.
Rest easy, Steven. The garden's in good hands. And the next round of chicken nachos, and Coors Light is on me. We will love you for all time.