Papa Bear: The Ones Who Become Family

Writing Welcome Home: Where the People Who Shape Us Still Live has done something I didn't expect.

It has unlocked memories.

Not just of the people whose stories made it into the book, but of so many others who crossed my path, loved me, encouraged me, taught me something, or simply made life a little richer.

There are far too many people who have shaped me to fit between the pages of one book.

So I want to start sharing some of them with you.

And one of those people was Steve Burt.

I called him Papa Bear.

I first knew Papa Bear when I was in high school. He was always around campus, helping with the football program, coaching and talking with the students.

And when I say talking, I mean talking.

Papa Bear was a storyteller. A teaser. A little goofy. He could talk to anyone—and usually did. But the thing about him was that, for as much as he talked, he also listened.

He poured into young people. I don't even know if he realized how much he was doing it.

Years later, in my early twenties, I ended up dating his son.

I still remember the first time I officially walked into their home as “the girlfriend.”

Almost immediately, I felt like family.

There were hugs and kisses hello and goodbye. Some people might think kissing on the lips is strange, but I came from a big, affectionate family where that was completely normal.

Their family felt familiar to me.

Big love.

Big laughter.

Big personalities.

There was Mama Kat.

And there was Papa Bear.

And then there was the piano.

Papa Bear could play—and he could SING.

He'd sit down at that piano and start playing, and I'd wander over.

“What about this song?”

“What about that one?”

I'd start singing, naturally finding the harmony like I always did.

There wasn't some big moment where Papa Bear “discovered” that I could sing. He already knew. I had sung in choir and had even traveled to Disneyland to sing in a competition.

Music was simply something we shared.

He would compliment my voice. I loved hearing him sing. And neither of us needed much encouragement to get started.

Nat King Cole was a favorite.

To this day, I can't hear Nat King Cole without thinking of Papa Bear.

Especially “Route 66.”

One Christmas, we traveled to Tucson to visit one of his sons. That trip produced plenty of stories—including an unfortunate encounter between me and a little too much Chianti at Christmas dinner.

There's photographic evidence of me passed out in a recliner while everyone around me is smiling and laughing.

The next morning, I had earned a new nickname:

Chianti Kristi.

On the long drive back to Southern California, there was music.

There was always music.

Papa Bear sang loudly and confidently. He had a beautiful voice. I sang right along with him.

Those are the memories that stay with me.

The music.

The laughter.

Papa Bear could be serious. He could give fatherly advice about relationships, friendships, school, music and, as I began my career as a hairdresser, business.

But he also knew how to find laughter when things didn't go according to plan.

That's simply who he was.

He loved big. He laughed loud. And he loved his family and friends fiercely.

Eventually, his son and I went our separate ways, and life moved forward.

But every once in a while, I would randomly run into Papa Bear around Laguna.

We never planned it.

There he'd be.

Making friends. Talking to everybody.

And the minute he saw me, I would get that big hug and kiss.

He'd want to know what I was doing. What was happening in my life. How things were going.

Seeing him always felt like a little blessing.

When Papa Bear passed away, I was married and had two children of my own.

I was devastated.

There was suddenly this realization that I wasn't going to randomly run into him again.

And even though I wasn't picking up the phone and calling him every day, suddenly I knew that I couldn't.

I couldn't call him for advice.

I couldn't tell him what was happening in my life.

There was a part of my world that was simply missing.

His son and his wife invited me to Papa Bear's funeral.

My husband stayed home with our children, and I went by myself.

I will forever be grateful that I did.

There were friends from high school there, so in some ways it became a reunion. I heard stories about Papa Bear from people who knew parts of his life that I had never known.

And almost immediately, I felt calm.

I felt comfortable.

I felt like I was supposed to be there.

His son's wife greeted me with a hug and welcomed me like an old friend of the family.

Before I left, I pulled her aside and thanked her for allowing me to be there.

She said something I'll never forget:

I'm too old for that jealousy stuff.

She was simply glad I had come.

I don't think she knows how much her response impressed me.

There was so much love and compassion in making room for someone who had once dated her husband to grieve a man we both loved.

There was even a brand-new baby in the family that day, and at one point I remember holding that baby and feeling completely included.

For that day, nobody needed me to explain why I belonged there.

I just did.

And I left Papa Bear's funeral happy.

Sad that he was gone, of course.

But happy.

It had been a beautiful day celebrating a beautiful life.

Today, when I think of Papa Bear, I don't picture his funeral.

I picture him talking, laughing and making friends, with our favorite music playing somewhere in the background.

And now, all these years later, I recognize something in him that I also recognize in myself.

We love people.

I don't think Papa Bear intentionally sat down and taught me that. I came from a big family myself—big laughter, big love—and I've been fortunate to have several wonderful fatherly figures in my life, including my own father.

Each brought something different to the table.

But they shared something important:

They loved family, and they understood that sometimes friends become family too.

Maybe that's why I felt so comfortable with Papa Bear and Mama Kat's family.

It felt familiar.

And there's something else I wish I could tell Papa Bear today.

I'd tell him about my kids.

I'd tell him how much they love music.

I'd tell him my daughter has a beautiful voice, although she's much more reserved about sharing it than her mama. I'd tell him about my son's love of instruments.

I think he'd understand why those things make me smile.

And if I could sit beside Papa Bear at that piano one more time, I wouldn't need to tell him about every accomplishment or every failure I've had since he left.

I think he would find beauty in all of it.

The celebrations.

The mistakes.

The lessons.

The things that worked and the things that didn't.

And then he'd probably encourage me to keep going.

But there is one thing I would make sure I told him:

Papa Bear, your spirit touched so many lives—including mine. Thank you for including me in yours.

And maybe that's what I hope you'll take from his story.

Look back over your own life.

Who are the people who became family?

Who made room for you?

Who listened?

Who laughed with you?

Who invited you to the piano?

And if you weren't born into a family filled with big laughter and big love, I hope somewhere along the way you've found people you've chosen—and who have chosen you—to become family.

And if one of those people is still here…

Tell them.

Even if they already know.

It never hurts to say it one more time.

With light and love,

Kristi J

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