Michael Thomas Bushman

Michael Thomas Bushman

Born on the evening of August 26, 1980 in Mercy Hospital, Cedar Rapids, Iowa, Michael left a huge hole in our world on July 29, 2020, at the tender age of 39.

Much too young to leave us.  Too soon when so much lay ahead.

Michael was known for his kindness.  His friends echo the same sentiments: “Loyal”, “A true friend”, “Compassionate”, “A brother”, “A good listener”, “A teacher of sense, reason and patience”, “A loving father”;  someone who brought “art and laughter into our lives”, “Always willing to help a friend in need and made sure everyone knew they could count on him”, “A truth-seeker”.

Michael, being an artistic soul, viewed things differently than most.  Never destined to hold a 9-5 job requiring a suit, tie and briefcase, he walked to the beat of another drum.  Where you and I may look at a tree and see the color of the leaves, Michael saw more.  The different hues that made up the overall color we saw—he noticed.  The veins in the leaves, their suppleness or their dryness.  The little insect bites.  The different sizes and stages of the leaves.  The roughness and cracks in the tree trunk.  The ability or strength of the tree to weather a storm or fall victim to it.

He respected nature.  Loved to be in the woods and loved a rainy day.  He was born on a rainy day and left us on one, too.

Michael was compassionate.  He suffered loss deeply.  He was soft-hearted.  As a little boy he would be sad if a moth crashed onto the windshield.  He wouldn’t intentionally step on an ant—knowing we too, are just a tiny speck in a massive universe.

He didn’t like to speak ill of others.  Instead, he would try to find a reason to explain their lapse and to forgive.  He wanted to see the good in people.  To forgive.  To forget.

Michael was born with what people coin “an old soul”.  Not to be confused with a tired one, however.  He just seemed to know so much already—almost as if he’d lived through things before.

He had insight, wisdom, his own type of spirituality.  He believed in a Higher Power.

From an early age people would comment he was unique, special, someone who touched them deeply and left his mark even if it was a casual, momentary meeting.

His friends were friends for life.

His way of showing his love was one of words, as a teacher or guide, and by touch.  His love language was that of touch…a hug was sometimes all he needed to fuel his day.

Michael’s one and only true fear was that of loss.  He wanted what he knew and loved, asking little more from life than that.

He wasn’t conceited or a braggart.  Not one to toot his own horn, many of his personal accomplishments he held close to his chest like a winning poker hand waiting to be played.

The love that Michael felt for his two children, Dante Bryce Thomas Bushman, 16, and daughter Wednesday Carol Bushman, 14, was so deep, so profound that he would struggle to put it into words.  He could tear up trying to do so, knowing no word or words had yet been created to say how much they meant to him, would always mean to him.  They were his heart, his heartbeat, his soul, his breath, his entire reason for having been born himself.

He was enthralled by his son’s wit, intelligence and dry sense of humor.  Touched deeply by his empathy, compassion and concern for others.  He loved their talks.  He loved their hugs.  He loved, as well, their differences and encouraged Dante, as like him, to listen to the beat of his own drum.

Michael thrilled at his daughter, Wednesday's artistic talents.  So very happy his abilities were passed on to her and encouraged her to find her own, unique expression.  He loved when she would brush his hair, fiddle with or braid his beard.  She would play with it, and he found peace and contentment within these moments.

Michael did not just love his children, he was in love with them, too.

Michael loved so deeply, so profoundly he sometimes struggled how to show it.  Again, the artistic nature refusing to let what he saw or felt be put into one-dimensional description.  He must have known, more than us, how limiting that would have been.

And, he loved Bobbie Jean Bushman, the mother of his children—the woman who gifted him his most precious treasures.  His life and heart were permanently entwined with hers.  He knew no other way.

As a child, Michael was gregarious, curious, funny and already so inciteful, so caring.

He had beautiful, blonde, curly hair, incredible, deep, clear blue eyes, smiled all the time, asked for little and gave so much joy to his mother, family members and friends.

For his kindergarten Halloween party, he insisted to go dressed up as a clown.  Wild rainbow-colored wig, face makeup and clown outfit, he participated in games, a parade, eating treats and drinking punch.  But he didn’t make one sound the entire time.  His mother was attending the party as well and noticed his silence.  It was only after returning home and removing his costume that he spoke.  He said he didn’t ever want to dress up as a clown again.  When asked, “Why?” he replied, “They aren’t allowed to talk or make sounds.”  This, in a nutshell, shows how seriously Michael took his role(s) in life.

Michael was a Boy Scout, loved to camp, loved his view of nature.  Extremely insightful and intelligent, he could bend to another’s opinions, yet stood strong in his own personal convictions.

He despised war and violence—thus his respect of the innocent ant in his pathway.

He filled up a room with his presence simply by being there.  He felt little need to be the center of attention, but deep need to be loved and nurtured.

An old soul with little boy ways, he’d been known to be a prankster.  He loved to read, draw and discuss comic books.  He was fabulously talented.  Where others could pass things by or pass things unnoticed, Michael’s artistic nature pulled him towards inner workings with a special force or gravity.

What was important to some—status, money, title, held little interest to him.  The title he most cherished, was most blessed with, most important was that of “Dad”.

He accepted his children as they are—still, he had a driving need to protect them and guide them to what would mold them into their best selves and to steer them away from what he felt was wrong, “too soon”, or destructive.

It was almost as if he knew his time with us wouldn’t be long—that there was a sense or urgency to get his life’s lesson taught quickly.

And, as it were, this sadly came to pass. Our dear, beautiful Michael came to fall from a battle too weary to fight.

He will be incredibly and profoundly missed.  His artwork will be his legacy.  His friendship and love unreplaceable.  His children his lingering gift and witness to his having existed.

To you, dear, precious Michael, may you find the peace you needed.

May you become part of the sunshine that warms us.  The clouds that shade us.  The earth beneath our feet. The whisper that encourages us on our paths.  The rain that cleanses us.

Until we meet again, you will be remembered, missed incredibly and loved.

You changed our world.

You mattered.  You still and always will.

Michael is survived by his mother, Karen Marie Bushman, Nixa, MO., wife Bobbie Jean Bushman, son Dante Bryce Thomas Bushman and daughter, Wednesday Carol Bushman, Emporia, KS, extended family and dear friends.

A memorial service for family and friends will be held on a later date to be announced.