That laugh. That glorious, boisterous, head bent back, gleam in his eye laugh. That laugh was his signature. It told you he was in the room. It told you you mattered. It told you that God was alive and you were in the presence of just a little bit of grace. Even if it was a bit risqué, obscene and maybe even a little bit wrong. That was Steve.
That was my brother-in-law. Full of life and full of joy. I could tell you right now, he was full of a lot of things. And even though you always wondered about his stories, you loved him anyway. In the words of Luke Combs, he was out where the wild things are. Steven Maestas, 57, passed away last week. Like his brother Phil, he grew up in the restaurant business and at the age of eight, learned to make sopaipillas, chile and all of the Northern New Mexico favorites you have come to love at La Cocina.
He was so many things to so many people. Husband, brother, uncle. But he was singularly one thing: love. In whatever love means to you, he was it. He was a confidante, joker, and consummate friend. He was a keeper of secrets. Yours and above all, his. Whenever you needed a pick-me-up, he was your go-to.
And maybe that was too much for him—the way it would be too much for anyone. Did we ask too much of him? Did we take more than he could give? Every now and then, you’d be on the receiving end of his sideway glance. His sarcasm and his vice. Maybe that was his poison, his kryptonite. His way of saying, “you can’t get to me.”
When our loved ones pass we naturally ask Why? Why so young. Why now? I thought everything was fine. There is an infinite world of what ifs. But we never know anyone enough to know their demons, their loves or what they’re thinking when they shut a door, open a window or light a cigarette and exhale slow and deep. Steven‘s death is as much a mystery as it is a wake up call. To be the best person we can be. To not judge. To love and to open ourselves to the love we can’t imagine we deserve.
The night he passed, we sat in the waiting room wondering what to do next. Until someone said, “why are we so sad? You know he’s giving mom a perm.” Steven was the consentido, the youngest of seven boys. The favorite. The baby. Everyone wanted to protect him; his mother above of all. If you think about Steve, you think about Emily. Right now, the whole family is sad to see him go. But to Emily, she couldn’t be happier. Finally getting the chance to talk about all of the earthly things Steve has to say. Like who is doing what and can you believe she did this or that. “No me digas!”
At a recent Luke Combs concert, I sat in the MetLife Stadium just outside of New York City, a few minutes away from the concrete jungle of Manhattan. What kind of a country concert could this possibly be, we thought to ourselves sitting in the middle of New Jersey for godsakes. The lights dimmed, the fake smoke cleared the stage and 50,000 fans erupted in excitement. All singing the same song. Everyone new the words. This is what it is like to be a part of something greater than yourself, I thought. It reminded me of Steven because wherever you go, there you are. He was true to himself wherever he went. For better or worse, you knew exactly who he was. You can take the boy out of Española, but you can’t take the Española out of the boy.
Like all the Jelly Roll songs say, we are worthy of redemption. We are broken and unsure whether we’re halfway to heaven or halfway to hell. Our angels and demons are at war with ourselves. Sometimes we are quick to judge and think that demons ought to be quashed and not coddled. Whatever monkeys we carry on our backs Steven taught us that one thing will overcome them. A smile, a laugh, a touch and a little bit of love. Everyone is something to someone. The question is: What are you going to be to the person next to you. What difference are you going to make in the people you touch. Will the people around you matter? Will you?