Brothers

I've got one; his name is Brad. That's us to the right, back when I was actually taller than him.  My wife has one too, which I guess means technically I have two brothers.

My Dad comes from a family of five brothers, born across a span of fourteen years. For that reason alone, I've always had the greatest admiration for their mother, my Granny.  The five of them have gone on to different lives over the years, but from time to time they've gotten back together, like the picture taken three years ago at the bottom of this post.  It's always a special time for them.  This past weekend, only four gathered together along with extended family and friends.  The one missing was the reason for the other four gathering.

Charles was twelve years older than Dad and had battled health concerns in recent years.  He finally succumbed to the cancer that had intruded on his body, mere hours after the decision was made to move him to Hospice.  Charles was unconventional in a number of ways, including his personal faith; so it was appropriate that we came together not in a church building or a funeral home but on the back porch of the youngest brother's house in Durham.

So there we were: my Mom and Dad and brother, Dad's remaining siblings; a various assortment of cousins and their families; Charles' grown children and their kids. There was even a strong representation from the other side of Granny's family tree, the five brothers' cousins - and ironically, they numbered five boys as well and are all Presbyterian ministers (turns out I'm not all that unique in the tribe).  We gathered on the porch of a life-long tinkerer; extra decks and workshops and roofs added on over the years by the skilled carpenter hands of my uncle.  And after a time for food and fellowship we sat together in some semblance of a circle, and that porch was transformed into our sanctuary.  We shared stories and memories about the man whose life we had come to celebrate.  Most of the stories were told by the brothers and Charles' kids, but each of us took part in our own way. There was lots of laughter and some tears to go with them, too. There were things said like "I never knew that about Charles..." and  "I've never shared this story before..."  It truly was sacred space on that rustic porch.

We remembered Charles, which is to say we did much more than just talk about him. We "re-membered" him; we put him back together in our presence.  We celebrated his life in such a way that he isn't simply confined to our past anymore but goes forward with us into our future.

And throughout all of this I was keenly aware of my Dad and his struggle with losing a brother. And I don't think it necessarily came from a close relationship between the two. The age gap meant they didn't really grow up together; and even in their adult life they continued to live in somewhat different worlds.  That is, until the last few months when Charles' health took a turn for the worse and Dad was there with him. I'd receive weekly email updates, sent to a wide circle of family, about Charles' deteriorating condition, the conversation with the doctors, the hard decisions being made. Dad was with him through it all, and I think it was more than him just playing the part of the loyal brother. I think it was Dad reconnecting with Charles in a way he never had before.

When Dad spoke, he read words from a song by Natalie Sleeth titled "Hymn of Promise:"

In the bulb there is a flower; in the seed, an apple tree;
In cocoons, a hidden promise: butterflies will soon be free!

In the cold and snow of winter there’s a spring that waits to be,

Unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.

There’s a song in every silence, seeking word and melody
There’s a dawn in every darkness, bringing hope to you and me.

From the past will come the future; what it holds, a mystery,

Unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.

In our end is our beginning; in our time, infinity;

In our doubt there is believing; in our life, eternity,

In our death, a resurrection; at the last, a victory,

Unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.

Dad also said that, while Charles had never exactly been a "role model" to him over the years, he had taught him one valuable lesson in those last few weeks - how to die with dignity and with grace. I guess there are some things in life that only brothers can teach you.

(L to R, and in birth order: Charles, Don, John, Dad, Jim)