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John Finch's mantra for 39 years was to live for the moment. Focus on the future, he insisted, but approach any day as if it were your last. He was a family man first, a fiercely loyal friend and a highly successful business owner all in that order. That's why it was so devastating watching him lying prone in a casket.

Gazing at him at the funeral home, I was overcome with an odd sense of vulnerability in the human condition. Here was this broad shouldered, red-haired 6-4 behemoth with a booming voice that always signaled his arrival, relegated to lying in state. His eyes were closed tightly as if he were contemplating some business scheme. The thick, calloused hands that helped him to be Mr. Fix-It-All were firmly clutching his body, laying motionless.

Memories flooded my mind of his zest for life until his last breath. If he wasn't skydiving, skeet shooting, tooling around his farm or operating several of his Subway franchises he always had something else to cross off his to-do list.

"John Finch was killed last night," someone informed me one frigid, blustery winter morning. Robbery? Car accident? When I was told he was crushed by the bucket on his Bobcat plowing out a neighbor's driveway, it made perfect sense-he died helping someone else.

That's the impression I got when I first met him while moving into a house with my brother. He was there to help out. But what struck me the most was how his handshake was so firm, yet so sincere, as if he had every intention of making a new friend. I became accustomed to that handshake when I came on board with him at Subway later on.

As I got to know him better, I used to marvel at how people gravitated toward him. He could walk into a room and immediately be the center of attention, not because he demanded it, but because he carried himself with an air of confidence, yet contrasting with a dose of humility.

I've come to the conclusion that you know you have made an impact in this world when people think of you in the present rather than the past because you lived life to the fullest. John exuded such a passion for life.

His legacy was cemented when, at his funeral, his scout troop stood in sullen repose and silently raised their arms in a respectful final salute. When his father stood at the front saluting farewell to his son, gasps of grief abounded from the crowd.

What I found poignant was how his five-year-old daughter, Emily, handled his death. When my wife and I visited his house soon after, she was scribbling on a piece of paper with some crayons when she asked her mom innocently, "Mommy, can I still make Daddy's birthday card?"

"Yes, Emily, Daddy would love that," her mom replied forlornly.

That indelible image has permanently been ingrained in my brain. John would never admit it, but the positive impact he had on everyone he met will always surpass the devastation of his death.

Learn more about this author, Thomas Russell.
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