08/28/2026
In Memory of Sherwood T. “Woody” Goldman.
Yesterday, we laid our friend and colleague, Sherwood T. “Woody” Goldman, to rest.
There are moments like this when words seem inadequate. We know what has happened, but we struggle to understand how someone who was so much a part of our lives can suddenly be absent from them.
There is something about losing someone we have worked alongside that makes the absence especially noticeable. We remember the conversations, the phone calls, the meetings, the laughter, the ideas shared, the problems solved, and the ordinary moments that we never imagined would one day become memories.
And now, there is an empty place where Woody used to be.
It reminds me of the words in the image that inspired this reflection:
“Perhaps we lose the sound of their footsteps, and the way they used to sit beside us.”
That is what loss feels like.
We miss the footsteps.
We miss the voice.
We miss the familiar presence.
We miss knowing that someone is just a phone call, a conversation, or a chair away.
But then comes the more important question:
What about all the days we had with them?
Those stay.
The conversations stay.
The laughter stays.
The lessons stay.
The stories stay.
The influence they had on us stays.
And so does the part of Woody that he left in each of us.
Perhaps that is one of the gifts of a life well lived. A person doesn’t simply disappear when we can no longer see them. They become part of the people they touched.
Woody became part of our professional lives, certainly. But more importantly, he became part of our lives. And those two things are very different.
Work relationships can begin because circumstances put people in the same room. Friendship happens because, somewhere along the way, you begin to value the person for more than what they contribute.
We will remember the man in the photograph...the smile, the joy, the sense that life was meant to be lived and shared with other people. That is the Woody we want to carry forward.
Not the empty chair.
Not the absence.
The presence.
The memories.
The friendship.
The good that he brought into the lives of those around him.
There will undoubtedly be moments ahead when we instinctively think, “I should call Woody,” or when something happens and we wish we could tell him about it.
And perhaps those moments will hurt.
But eventually, I hope they will also make us smile.
Because grief is, in many ways, the price we pay for having loved and valued someone. The empty space exists because someone meaningful once occupied it.
So today, rather than saying goodbye to everything Woody meant to us, perhaps we should say:
Thank you.
Thank you, Woody, for the time we had.
Thank you for the friendship.
Thank you for the conversations, the laughter, the work, the memories and the moments that seemed ordinary at the time but are precious now.
You may no longer be sitting beside us.
We may no longer hear your footsteps.
But a part of you will continue to walk beside us in the memories we carry, the stories we tell, and the lives you touched.
And perhaps that is where the people we love are never truly absent.
Not where everyone can see them.
But where it matters.
In our hearts.
Rest peacefully, Woody.
You will be missed. You will be remembered. And you will remain a part of us.
