Some people cross your path for a moment, others for a season—but all of them leave something behind. Lincoln Lyons is one of those people who’s been both a friend and an anchor, someone whose consistency has quietly shaped my life in more ways than I can count.
I first met Lincoln in 10th grade men’s choir. At that point, we mostly just knew of each other—passing nods, the kind of casual recognition that comes when you share a class. But the second semester changed that. We ended up in the same Seminary class, and somewhere between teasing each other and laughing through lessons, we clicked. What started as lighthearted banter became a friendship built on trust and fun.
By 11th grade, we had more overlaps—Chamber Choir and AP BC Calculus—and that’s where I began to see a different side of Lincoln. He wasn’t just smart; he had a gift for making sense of things in a way that helped everyone else around him. In choir, in math, it didn’t matter—people gravitated to him because he listened, explained, and made them feel capable. When COVID hit and turned everything upside down, that quality stood out even more.
Senior year was a blur of masks, stress, and a whole lot of adaptation. But Lincoln? He showed up. Whether it was sitting next to me in Vocal Jazz, Chamber Choir, AP Stats, or AP Psych, or whether it was stepping in to play piano for our choir when Mr. Wilcox didn’t have enough hands, Lincoln carried responsibility with a kind of calm steadiness. Bela might rally the choir, I might fill in on piano or turn pages, but Lincoln was the one who anchored the whole effort. He wasn’t just part of the music; he made sure the music could keep going.
And then there was AP Stats—our unofficial “tag-team class.” Lincoln was the go-to guy for explanations, the one who could unpack a tough concept until it finally clicked. But every so often he’d glance at me and say, “What’s that formula again?” I’d call it out, and together we’d help the rest of the class through the homework. It was small, but it was one of those moments that defined how we worked: complementary strengths, lifting others in the process.
When graduation came, life carried us outward, but not apart. Lincoln headed to Sweden, I to England, and our friend Remington to Italy. We jokingly called ourselves the “triangle squad.” Every week, I’d read Lincoln’s mission emails. The same qualities I saw in high school—his responsibility, his clarity, his ability to teach—were there in full force, shaping missionaries just as he had shaped classmates and choirs.
Now, years later, we both find ourselves at BYU, working in the same department. And honestly? Nothing has changed. Lincoln is still consistent. Still quick to learn. Still the one who steps up when responsibility needs to be taken. But more than that, he’s still the person who lifts the people around him, who turns any team into something stronger than it was before he got there.
Life has a way of moving people in and out of our stories, but that doesn’t erase the chapters they helped write. Lincoln will always be someone I respect for his steadiness, his intelligence, and his ability to bring out the best in others.
No matter where our lives go, I’ll always be grateful for what Lincoln brought into mine.
