People with high IQs die. Sometimes they have big funerals. Usually they’re just like everyone else. They can fill a small room full of long pews.
Carissa died. In a few weeks, six years will have passed since that day.
She had a big funeral.
She filled the chapel.
She filled the great hall behind the chapel.
Together, there were more than 700 filled seats in those two rooms.
People also lined the walls.
People poured into the hallways.
People waited at the wings.
Hundreds of emails and letters came to our family from those heartbroken that they couldn’t come send her off.
Every single person there had at least one story to tell of how Carissa changed their lives. How she touched them. How she broke through their walls. How she changed their perspectives. How she brightened particular days. How she danced away their sorrows.
“Smart” people and “credentialed” people would tell you she was not that “smart at all.”
So you be the judge. You tell me.
Who was the more intelligent one?
Who knew the most?
Who understood it all best?
Who just got it?
She may not have been able to send someone to the moon, or create a complex website algorithm, or memorize books of law.
But she got something much bigger. She got that she had the intelligence to inspire others, and that such inspiration is what always pushes the intelligence of others even further. She got that her intelligence was intermingled with other kinds of intelligence. She got that her intelligence was rare.
And because she got that, she always shared it.
That to me, my friends, is the mark of a true genius.
I just hope that I can one day be as intelligent as Carissa.
Dan Pearce, Single Dad Laughing