A year ago today...

This was the day, a year ago, when my brother Greg was taken off life support. His accident was on September 11, a date that will never slip by unnoticed. Technically, he died on September 13, the day he went brain dead. It's been a year. Seems longer. Much longer.

It still bothers me how my brother's affairs all ended. No will. No administrator. No estate. House being foreclosed. Everything for naught. Meaningless.

The house is still unsold, unoccupied, with gutters that need cleaning and a yard that sorely needs care. The lawn that Greg so painstakingly planted and tended is full of weeds. The flower gardens he created are overgrown or emptied, the hostas dug up and replanted in other gardens, including a memorial garden I created in my own yard. It's painful to go to his house, painful to think about his death, painful to think even of him. Still. A year later.

Foreclosure

Dear Gregory:

According to documents filed at the County Clerk’s Office, foreclosure proceedings have recently been commenced against your home or other real estate. As you may know, these proceedings may eventually result in the sale of your property at public auction. However, we may be able to help you save your property and stop a foreclosure sale from taking place.

This letter from a lawyer came on Friday last week and suggested that my brother Greg hire him. It was my first hint that foreclosure proceedings have been filed against his house. But then again, with Greg dying five months ago and no house payments being made since, it’s not a surprise. My hands have been tied this entire time. I’m still sitting on several checks made out to him, unable to cash or deposit them, even though I need the money to pay his bills. Then again, with the courts denying my petition to be administrator, it’s not my problem.

The other odd thing that happened was that last Friday, ten minutes before the French tutor was due to come to the house, the doorbell rang. I just happened to be changing in the bedroom, so the kids got the door, thinking it was the tutor. It wasn’t. Some strange man said that he represented something (the only word Alexandra could repeat to me was “marshal”) and asked whether Gregory live at this house.

Stunned, Alexandra answered, “He’s dead.”

Now it was the guy’s turn to be taken aback. He said he was sorry and didn’t seem to know what to say, and he left before I got to the door to ask who he was or what he wanted. Only later did I begin to wonder: did he have something to do with the foreclosure?

Re: Estate of Your Brother Greg

I received the following letter today:

Dear Faith:

We have been advised by Surrogate’s Court that they are rejecting your Petition to serve as Administratrix of your brother’s Estate.

Due to the fact that the sole distributee of the Estate is Greg’s son Luke, the only person who can administer Greg’s Estate is the property guardian being appointed for Luke. We are contacting the attorney who is in the process of having a property guardian appointed for Lucas for a further discussion relative to this matter and will advise once we hear from him.

In the meantime, please total all of your out of pocket expenses relative to the Estate so that we can request reimbursement.

Should you have any questions, please call me.

Very truly yours,

LAWYER & LAWYER, P.C.

Stunned, I called the paralegal at Lawyer & Lawyer.

“We’ve never had this happen before,” she informed me.

I’m shocked, even a little insulted. But in the long run, this might just be for the best. No more calls from the mortgage company, from collection agencies, no more more calling medical facilities that are owed over $34,000, no more drives to check up on the house, no more haggling over extending payment deadlines for gas and electric. No more hassles. If the water pipes burst or the basement floods, it's not my problem. I didn’t stand to inherit anything, nothing at all. Greg’s debts will be far from paid off even after all his estate is dispersed. I just wanted to do what was honorable, what seemed right, but if the courts disagree, so be it.

So that this sort of thing doesn’t happen to our estate or our family, George and I made an appointment for next week to draw up our will.

Atta boy

Two days ago, I got an email in my corporate email account from a manager:

Good morning all,

Check this post out - nice job in 2008!
Top 10 Posts for 2008

I’ve been contributing to my company’s corporate blog since its inception in September 2006. It’s been a creative release for me, something I truly enjoy doing because I write mostly about my mission trips or things dear to my heart. I’ve written about a visit to an orphanage in Ethiopia, my role as photographer on a medical mission trip to Senegal, West Africa, and many posts about trips to Ukraine to visit family. The company blog seems to have gotten more and more commercial in the last year, promoting company events and products more, personal posts less and less. At first I posted every three weeks. Then every four. Then every six weeks. But in the last year, I was asked to contribute only five times. Since the blog posts a new article every weekday, that’s a lot of posts. I did the math: 260 posts!

Imagine my surprise when I read the “Top 10 Posts for 2008” and found that one of my articles about my daughter was in 7th place for the year. I kept scrolling to see who else had placed. Third place, second place, first… First!? My article that I wrote about my brother’s death got first place?!?

I emailed the manager:

Hi Tom,

I'm stunned and humbled to be put in the #1 spot. Truth be told, I think it's due to my brother's popularity and to the sudden way in which he died. Just curious: did you come up with these top 10 by number of hits? When I looked at the blog metrics, they show that the Olympics blogs got the most hits.

Thanks again for suggesting that I participate in this blog. I've really enjoyed contributing.

Faith

He replied that it wasn’t all in the number of hits. I just couldn’t believe that it would be.

Faith,

I am always touched by your posts, always!

Interest (visits), use of photography, comments, diversity all came into play.

-tom

Well, I was so excited that my article got first place that I emailed my family the link to the Top 10 Posts article and waited for a reaction. Wouldn’t they be happy for me? Excited that so many people were touched by the tragedy that befell our family?

I waited.

And waited.

Why is it that we want praise from our own? Wasn’t it enough that the company recognized my writing and photography?

My brother John opened the email – I got the return receipt – and said nothing.

My sister, who’s not a computer whiz, couldn’t get to the article. When I re-mailed the link, her reply was concise:

Nice.

That led me to wonder whether she meant spot #7, or did she see that I also got spot #1? Or perhaps there was some jealousy? “Nice” was so understated that I thought John’s non-reply might be better. Left me to wondering at least.

Mom didn’t reply at all. She admitted she couldn’t figure out the link and didn’t even scroll down to Tom’s message. Mom definitely needs a bit of coaching on the computer.

Bless her heart, at least my sister-in-law Tammy cheered me:

wow - not one but 2 on the top 10 list, and #1 as well. (just wish it was about a happier occasion.)
you must be proud....
congratulations,
-t

And finally, my busy youngest brother, the lawyer, reacted as I wished my other siblings had:

Wow! #1!

Atta boy Faith! Greg would be tickled.

Card

A card came for my brother today, forwarded to my address, as is all his mail.

"Hope all is well..." I read, shaking my head.

Obviously, someone had not heard the news, had not read the blog post or searched the Internet, had not been e-mailed or called.

Who is this mysterious card-signer from Canada and what is his/her name? I can't make out the signature at all. The well-wisher did not write a return address, and the postmark is smeared, as if on purpose, so I don't even know the city from which the card was sent. The sender will remain blissfully, regretably uninformed.

All is not well...

Death certificate at last!

Fourteen and a half weeks after his death, my brother's death certificate finally arrived from Kansas City.

It's been a trial waiting and waiting for this piece of paper without which I could do nothing with my brother's estate. Already the electricity was turned off at his house once, and after a series of phone calls and a letter from the lawyer, I managed to get the power on before this massive freeze that hit half the country, so the pipes at his house didn't freeze and his basement didn't flood. But the company had only so much patience. Death certificate of not, they were going to turn off power for good on Dec. 24 - unless I paid them $173.53 before that date. So I paid them out of my own funds.

The courts are closed until after the New Year, and even though I finally got the death certificate and immediately rushed it over to the lawyer's office, I won't be appointed administrator of his estate until January. And until I get that official appointment, I still can't sell his car or take care of his estate.

But at least we passed the initial hurdle. I still can't believe that it took over three months to issue this piece of paper!

Photos

Last night after everyone was in bed, I pulled out a box with dozens of envelopes of photos that I had brought from my late brother’s house. In the quietness of nighttime, I observed Greg’s life from a perspective I didn’t have while he was alive.

These photos were mainly from the time he was married. Wedding photos. Exuberant smiles. Cake and glasses of champagne. Only Greg’s two closest friends and their wives attended Greg’s private wedding ceremony in snow-covered Vermont. Yesterday I glimpsed their joyous party. The sleigh ride. The giddy delight of close friends celebrating.

It pained me that all three couples eventually divorced.

I looked on at other photos. Photos of ski trips. Hotel rooms. A jacuzzi. Ski slopes. Mountains. Driving somewhere with a dog in the car. A ride on a ferry. Orcas. A dinner party. His pet dogs and cats. The view from his lake house – the one he left to his ex-wife. Spectacular sunsets.



I felt like a voyeur going through all those pictures. A smile. A look. A gesture. Moments between two people caught on film. There was nothing indecent, just a depth of feeling that it pained me to see. It pained me because the marriage dissolved. It hurt because Greg will never again smile at anyone. Ever. And he was always smiling, always upbeat.

It was the joy of his relationship, the love and delight that shone through the pictures that pierced my heart.

Sometimes it’s really hard to look at photos.

Empty

My brother’s house stands empty now. The tools that I had to step over upon entering it the first time after his death are put away. His piles of motorcycle parts and papers – gone. Cleaned up. Boxed up or thrown away. All the things he considered dear or essential – unnecessary now. Left behind. He took nothing with him. No one does.

I’ve been to his house more times in the last two weeks than in the six years that he lived there. I’ve been there with my kids, with my husband, with my sister and brothers, with Cindi and her sister. And recently, I’ve been there alone. I walked through the chilly house, trying not to think as I saw the framed photos of Greg smiling with his son still up where he left them.

Of course he thought he’d be back.

Today I removed all the photos from the refrigerator. I couldn’t stand to see his memories on the metal door.

I’m still not sure what to do about the things that are left in the house. The lawyer said I’d be appointed administrator of the estate by the end of this week. But being appointed doesn’t give me sudden knowledge of what to do. Isn’t there a manual I should read, a brochure with easy 1 – 2 – 3 instructions?

But it’s not like that. What does one do with another’s estate? I’ve made a few calls, canceled some magazines and a credit card, but what do I do with the house and its contents? Sell them, I know, but where do I begin?

I can think about Greg now without crying. But when I go over and see his beloved gardens, his more than 80 hostas, most of which he could name – that is still very painful. Greg was the only other member of my family who liked to garden; none of my other siblings do. Sometimes he'd come to my cubicle and describe what's blooming that day. He loved to walk through his yard and marvel at the beauty of the plants.

Fortunately for me, Larissa has caught the bug. So we have dug up a few of Greg’s hostas and I’ve started planting a memorial garden in my front yard, a garden created from plants taken from his gardens and transplanted from mine. It’ll be a lovely garden, Greg, right under the redbud tree.

I wish you could see it.

Another note

A grey-haired man approached me after the first Community Bible Study session I attended last year.

"I know you!" he said, waggling his finger at me. "You're Faith! I grew up around the corner from you!" He went on to describe his escapades with my brothers. Since I was older than the boys around the corner, I hadn't paid much attention to them.

But now, as adults, we reconnected. I often chatted with Ken after our weekly class, but by the end of the school year when my lupus flared up, I stopped attending.

After Greg died, I sent Ken a note describing what had happened. A few days later, he replied:

*****

Hi Faith,

After I had a chance to process your email and all the comments I read about Greg on the V-Nation forum, I came home from work today, lay down, and had a good cry. I was surprised how much Greg’s death affected me, but on reflection realized we did an amazing amount of stuff together. Your brothers Greg and John are part of the reason I'm so close to my brother Chuck now – even though Chuck is six years older than me, we all spent a lot of time together. The four (or five if you include your youngest brother Andrew) of us tried to do ourselves in in a remarkable variety of ways, including fireworks, rockets, airplane propellers, flash paper, firecracker powered BB rifles, and insane bicycle stunts.

It seems so unfair that some as well loved as Greg was taken so suddenly and so strangely, especially unfair to Luke and Cindi. This is one of those times you know God is in control, but you have to wonder what he was thinking.

Your family was such a big part of my growing up that I'm feeling a lot of pain for you as well. Please remember that I am praying for all of you, even the ones I've never met. We've published this on our family mailing list, so I'm sure many prayers are going up on your behalf.

The peace of Christ be with you,

kt

Gone

"Now you listen to me," I must have been saying to Greg back when we were so very young in Toronto.

I can't even imagine the pain my mother must feel when she looks at these faded photos of our happy childhoods, childhoods long gone.

And now, not only are our childhoods gone, one of the children is gone, too... Gone. Never to come back again.

And that's what's so hard about the death of a loved one. You have so many things you still want to tell them, so many things to share that you catch yourself sometimes thinking, "Oh, wouldn't he like this," or "I can't wait to tell him that." But that's no longer possible.

Oh, how that hurts...

More letters about my brother

In happier times; Greg is in

the middle, I'm on the right

Faith,

I am so sad that Greg has passed away. I am sad for his fiancée Cindi, and son Luke, and all your family. I am sad for myself because after years of detachment, Greg and I had resumed our friendship but now we are separated again. My 14-year-old daughter only met Greg twice, but she cried this morning when I told her about him.

I have known Greg about as long as anyone not directly related to him, and I can tell you he became a very good man. Life threw Greg a curve when Luke was born, but he took on the challenges of a special child with same grace and vigor as he took on a challenging ski slope.

One of the aspects of Greg's personality that I loved was his thirst for knowledge. Much of my intellectual curiosity I can directly attribute to the many hours I spent with Greg growing up. He was always into something fascinating, and I could only be amazed by his grasp of subjects that were years beyond me. I just wanted to play with the slot cars; he wanted to show me how the AC current was transformed into DC and how the motors worked. I wanted to play with the plasticine clay; he said, "Let's make an animated movie!" As you know, we did.

Greg was a superb writer. I have some email from him regarding his experiences in the Coast Guard. If you want I will send them to you.

Greg had a tremendous sense of humor that endeared him to me a great deal. He turned me on to Monty Python and other British comedy when we were kids. I have always been a bit of a clown, but with Greg the repartee was always a step above.

I will miss him for the rest of my life, but he is a pretty good part of what makes me who I am. I will take some small comfort from that.

Andy

Tributes to my brother

Family photo: Greg, on the left, is the middle child with two older sisters and two younger brothers. The youngest had not yet been born when this picture was taken. I, the oldest, am in back.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

My brother touched many lives in his 49 years. His outgoing nature, his ready smile, his ability to talk with people and share part of himself with those he came across - these made an impact on people. His sudden death affected a great number of people. Childhood friends, coworkers, bikers, cyberfriends - many have felt compelled to write tributes to my brother, then share them. Since we were in the same department at work, I received this email that a work associate sent to her coworkers:

* * *

I finished writing this over the weekend and wanted to share it with you.

September 24, 2008

To Friends of Greg,

Some people touch your life in unexpected ways and leave you with a lasting gift. I knew Greg only as a work colleague and only for a few years, but to know him at all was to count yourself his friend.

What struck everyone immediately about Greg, of course, was his love for his son. When he spoke about Luke, Greg's face beamed. This little boy with all his special needs was perfect in Greg's eyes. And, just as his love for Luke was inspiring, Greg’s love for life was contagious. He made his teammates laugh in a way that put work problems in the proper perspective.

The large number of non-Ukrainian-speaking friends attentively making their way through the beautifully chanted service at the Ukrainian Catholic Church of the Epiphany last Monday was a testament to the kind of person that Greg was. He was adventurous and told of stories of the kind that, to my mind, "guys" like to tell: his Pacific experiences in the Coast Guard, his nights on the Bristol ski patrol, his motorcycle trips.... But, he could talk with equal enthusiasm about personal relationships in a way that many men in our culture cannot: his parents, brothers, and sisters – the "whole bunch of us crazy Ukrainians," as he affectionately called his family; his son Luke, who cannot walk or talk but would joyously crawl over to his father and babble happily when Greg came into the room; his upcoming wedding plans with Cindi, the beautiful woman who seemed his soul mate in so many ways and with whom he looked forward to spending the rest of his life.

As his love for Cindi grew, it seemed to flow over into his other relationships, even in some surprising ways. Not too long ago, he told me that he loved his ex-wife. At the time, it seemed such an unusual thing to say that I remember it almost word for word. He said something like, "I love her sort of like a little sister. We get along great now. Her husband is so good with Luke, and she's a wonderful mother. She and I...we just weren't good together."

The only shadow that I ever saw fall on Greg was the worry that he would not have the financial wherewithal to leave for Luke' care after Greg’s death. Probably all parents of special needs children worry about that. But, certainly, Greg's death must have seemed to be very far in the future on September 11th, when he was hit by a golf cart, struck his head, and lost consciousness. A golf cart? How could a golf cart fell a man like Greg, an expert skier, a man who "swam with the sharks" in his Coast Guard days?

"Impossible," his friends thought. "How unfair!" "Why," everyone asked themselves and each other.

Why? Why would a compassionate God take such a vibrant man, one whom so many people needed: his son, his aging parents, his fiancée, his siblings, friends, and coworkers. As human beings, we will never know the answer to that. We probably shouldn't even try. Yet, I'm the type who always wants to know that there is a pattern there, even if I can't fathom the weave.

Greg loved his life, and he loved the people who were part of it. He had fun, but not at the expense of other people. He made sacrifices without even considering them as such. He had his priorities right. He didn't just "make the best of a bad situation," he instinctively saw the good in every situation and he celebrated it. So, why would God take someone like that so abruptly and prematurely?

I don’t know. But I can't help thinking that maybe, just maybe, it has something to do with the idea that we are all sent into this world to learn to love one another. Maybe Greg just learned the lesson faster than most of us do. "Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends." (John 15:13)

Our memories of the way that Greg embraced life and danced with it are his legacy to us. This is the gift that we can carry into our own lives if we have the courage to do so. Let's not let Greg down.

- Catherine

Where’s the will?

This is the question in the forefront of our minds. My two brothers, Andrew and John, and I converged on Greg’s house today and sorted through his things searching for that key paper. Andrew’s wife Tammy was with us. She was a filing genius. Andrew went through the three organized filing drawers that contained papers only up to 2004; Tammy sorted a box full of papers from 2004 to the present, organizing all those papers into folders. I realized a bit later that since Greg lived in that house four years, the papers in that large cardboard box were ALL the bills, etc., that came in since he moved into that house!

My job was to open and sort new mail. We found out more about Greg’s financial affairs than Greg would have ever been comfortable sharing. How much he made. How much he owed. How many credit cards he had and what he spent his (or rather not his) money on. It didn’t feel right finding out all those details.

The elusive will was not in the filing cabinet. Nor the box of papers. His divorce lawyer did not write one up. Greg’s ex-wife knows nothing of a will. Nor does his fiancée. Yet Greg had come into my office one day and demanded, “Do you have a will?” You don’t do that unless you have one. It would be like me asking, “Did you eat all your vegetables?” I can only challenge that if I ate mine. So there must be a will!

We don’t know of a safe deposit box (his credit union doesn’t have one). His will isn’t on file with the county clerk’s office. It wasn’t among the papers at work. (On a long shot, I drove to the company to pick up my brother’s effects.) We found no record of it on his computer when we did key word searches. Greg wasn’t the neatest guy, but there are only so many places you would logically put a will – aren’t there? Where or where can it be?? If we don’t find it, I will get appointed executor, and that’s a crash course I didn’t want to go through – while homeschooling children and working?!

Homeschooling? Oh, that. For the last week as I frantically took care of funeral details, I shoved a book at each of the kids (The Jungle, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and a book of short stories by Tolstoy) and told the kids to read. Fortunately, I’d started school with them in mid-August, in case we had guests that would distract them from working. Instead, my brother’s death distracted them.

But now I’m being distracted. What is a logical place to keep a will? Wouldn’t you put it in a place where others would find it???

Burial

It’s very difficult to bury your brother – especially when he’s not a believer. In fact, he rejected God.

We grew up in a Catholic church. While I left the Catholic Church and joined an evangelical church, after Greg left home, he never went to church again – except for weddings, funerals, and the occasional Christmas.

I was assigned the task to speak in church about my brother, mainly because the Ukrainian Catholic church my mother attends – and where the funeral was – has a new priest directly from Ukraine, one who doesn’t know Greg and who cannot speak much English.

The turnout was huge. Greg was gregarious and well-loved – a ski patrolman, a biker (Harley Davidson, not bicycle), a veteran of the Coast Guard, an adventurer, a multimedia graphic designer in a large company where he and I worked in the same department – and a loving dad. So this is what I said to the congregation today:

* * *
…and the dust returns to the ground it came from, and the spirit returns to God who gave it. - Ecclesiastes 12: 7

We are gathered here to remember my brother, Gregory. Greg was a devoted father. From the moment that his son Luke came into this earth, Greg doted on him. Luke wasn’t like other children; he had special needs, and special needs required extra sacrifice on the part of the parents. Greg never complained about this turn of fate. Not once. He adored Luke, doted on him, and simply glowed whenever he talked about his son. Since Greg and I worked together for the same department, Greg would come to my office quite often and share stories about Luke – how Luke had a cough and how worried he was that the cough might go to his lungs. How Luke had finally learned to crawl. Then taken his first steps – but not at a year like most children; he was much older. Or Greg would describe how Luke laughed with delight when Greg would play the guitar for him. He described Luke’s teachers in Kindergarten or told me how good the other classmates were to him. Greg could mimic Luke’s giggles and squeals. He talked about getting him hearing aids. Braces for his legs. A special walker. There was nothing that Greg wouldn’t have done for his son.

Our Father in heaven loves us even more than Greg loved Luke. But how many of us return that love? Do we just think about Him once a week on Sunday mornings? Or perhaps not even that often? I think that if Greg could speak to us today, he would tell us that this is the most important relationship – our relationship with Jesus Chris, our redeemer – to work on while here on earth.

The Spirit gives life; the flesh counts for nothing. The words I have spoken to you are spirit and they are life. – John 6:63

What can I do to help?

I hear this question often since my brother died. So many of us tend to say that we can’t think of anything. We think that turning down offers of help is the right thing to do. That way we won’t burden the other person. In reality, you are rejecting their love when you reject their offer of help. If you accept help, you allow them to serve you and you become obligated – or at least that’s the perception.

When folks have asked how they can help, I’ve accepted their love offering and suggested that they bring meals to my parents’ house. Many of us converge on their house now; it’s our central station for planning our brother’s funeral.

“You have such nice friends,” my mother told me after the parents of Larissa’s best friend dropped off some chicken and rice and a cake.

“I’ve taken them up on their offers to help,” I replied. And indeed, this visit and the visit of coworkers have cheered us and helped us in a tangible way.

But help on a completely different level came about from a conversation with Greg’s boss. I mentioned that in the past, especially after Greg’s divorce, my family would come over in the fall to rake the leaves in my brother’s wooded lot. He always had a LOT of leaves because of his 40 or so trees. “With Greg gone, we will have to do a lot of raking this fall,” I sighed.

“Now there’s a way we can help,” said Barb. “We’ll do the raking.” She had mentioned that the folks at work wanted to know how they could help the family, and this was a concrete way.

“Well, you can help even sooner. The windstorm a few days ago knocked off a lot of branches in his yard,” I informed Barb.

The next day when I visited his house, the branches were cleaned up, the deck and walkways swept, the lawn raked.

Today even more bags of leaves were by the curb. Like little secrets Santas, people had come and bagged leaves, mowed the lawn, and left.

While Greg was an avid gardener and had just painted his house and changed the roof, the inside of his house is a different story. It’s a true bachelor pad. When you open the front door, you step over his toolkit. Even though Ruby the cat is very timid and hides, you know that there’s a cat in the house by the white cat fur. (We took the cat to my parents for the time being.) Clothes are strewn on the floor in one room; in the office, you can hardly get to the desk. The linoleum floor is in need of replacement because it’s broken in places. The wall studs are visible because part of the wall is missing in the dining room.

The house needs an overwhelming amount of work. My brother simply hadn’t gotten to it. He was living life – biking, ski patrolling, and spending time with his sweetheart.

“We’ll need to do a lot of work on the house before we can sell it,” I mentioned to Barb tonight when I called to thank her for the yard work.

“Just tell us what you need done and when you want to do it. You’ll have to limit the volunteers to they’re not tripping over each other,” Barb said.

I’m humbled, truly humbled by this outpouring of help – of love. In large part, it’s a testimony to the type of person my brother was. My brother touched many, many lives in his short life. He was a dedicated father of a disabled child, and although his life was tough at times, he didn’t complain. He could always see the bright side of things, even about being the parent of a disabled child. “He’s always happy,” Greg said of his son. And Greg seemed like he was always happy, too.

Gravesite

My mother and I got out of the van and looked at a plot of ground.

No, not good. Not enough shade.

We got into the van and were taken a little ways down a peaceful drive. I got out, still holding my morning coffee and the folder of papers that I began carrying with me yesterday. Mom and I looked at another plot of land.

No, too out in the open. Too stark.

We went around the corner in that van. I left my folder in the vehicle and gazed at a majestic oak nearby. A few browned leaves littered the ground, signaling that fall was imminent.

I looked at another plot, then turned away. Walking toward the oak, I gave in to my grief. Tears streamed down my face. I sobbed.

This was the spot, the place where my brother would be buried.

My brother, who a week ago was taking off on vacation on his motorcycle with his lovely fiancée-to-be. My brother, the optimist, the outgoing man who could bring out even the shiest, most reticent person. My brother, full of joy and life, who had a ready smile and a way with people. My dear, dear brother…

The sun shone and the day was warm. He would have enjoyed this day.

Oh, Greg, I never thought that I’d have to bury you! I never expected I’d stand by your grave someday. Oh, my dear brother, I thought that you would outlive me, your older sister! You were in such good health, had so much vigor, so much to give, so much of your life still ahead! My dear brother, how I’ll miss you!

Greg, I’ll take good care of your gravesite. We shared a passion for gardening, and yours, my brother, will be a lovely site with hostas and spring bulbs and many forget-me-nots from my garden. They will be watered with tears.

My dear brother, it will be very, very hard to stand by your gravesite when we bury you in a few days.

Meaningless

My heart took delight in all my work, and this was the reward for all my labor. Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done and what I had toiled to achieve, everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind; nothing was gained under the sun.

Ecclesiastes 2:10b–11

My brother Greg died late Saturday. It was a meaningless, unnecessary death, a tragic accident.

Since then, I haven’t been able to keep him out of my mind – all the things that he worked so hard to achieve (the perfect lawn, the lovely hosta garden) the material possessions he accumulated (two motorcycles, a boat, his massage chair) – all are now meaningless, a chasing after the wind.

All night I saw him walking, walking, walking. Greg had a unique gait, his knees bending slightly out with each stride. Unable to sleep in my grief, I saw him walking as I did daily in the halls of the company, coming to visit me in my cubicle. I will miss him so much when I return to the office. I used to have long talks with him daily. He wasn’t only my brother – my favorite brother of the three I have – he was also a coworker and friend. I will miss his tremendous wealth of knowledge, his generous spirit, his willingness to help.

The entire work group at our company is shocked and dazed. Greg was gregarious and well liked. Not only did they lose a coworker; another coworker is part of the grieving family! I’m out on leave because of death in the family; he is the family who died.

…and the dust returns to the ground it came from, and the spirit returns to God who gave it.

Ecclesiastes 12:7

Funeral preparations are keeping me busy; the kids are doing homeschool only part-time. They help cheer my parents in their grief by spending time there. Tomorrow, when the key to Greg's house arrives in overnight mail, the kids will come with me to his house capture Greg's timid cat and bring it to my parents' house. And I have to try to find Greg's will. I know he had one - but where?? Meanwhile, my sister is still working on shipping his body from the Midwest back home in the Northeast.

All those possessions, that perfect lawn that he labored over – meaningless!

“Utterly meaningless. Everything is meaningless.” What does man gain from all his labor at which he toils under the sun?

Ecclesiastes 1:2–3

Pray

The call came at 3:30 AM. Four rings, and the answering machine clicked into action. It was the clicking that awoke me. Another wrong number, my groggy mind assumed, and I listened to the clicking of the answering machine, but no message.

I may as well go to the toilet while I’m awake, I thought, but walked by the answering machine to check it. The red light blinked in the darkness, indicating that the caller had left a message after all. Still assuming I’d hear a stranger’s voice on the machine, I wound the tape back and turned up the volume, which had been off.

It was my sister’s voice.

“Faith, pray. When you, George, wake up, pray. Greg had a very bad accident. They have to do surgery on his head and he has only 50% chance of surviving. He’s in Kansas City. A golf cart ran into him. Please pray. Pray.”

Greg is our younger brother. He was in Kansas City with his girlfriend at a motorcycle rally. Neither of us had known that, however. Greg realizes that none of us really understand his sudden obsession with his Harley Davidson, which he purchased after his divorce, a mid-life crisis sort of thing. He and his girlfriend had met in part because of that motorcycle.

Greg, always an optimist, has not had a charmed life. He and his wife had a severely disabled child. Then one morning his wife turned to him and said, “I don’t love you anymore.” And that was that. His marriage was over. Try as he did to patch up the relationship, she would have none of it. Her mind had been made up before she ever mentioned being unhappy. I got to hear the blow-by-blow account of my brother’s breakup, to be his shoulder in the time of crisis; I work for the same company and the same group as my brother. Our offices were a few aisles apart. We saw each other daily. He needed someone to listen, and I was that one.

He left the dream house on the lake and almost everything in it to his ex so she’d be better able to take care of their son, and started life anew.

The divorce was now many years ago, and things were looking up. Greg bought an engagement ring for Cindi and on Thursday at the rally was going to propose to her.

It never happened.

Greg was out walking. The golf cart was going too fast. It was raining. It put on its breaks and slid; Greg went flying from the impact and landed on his head.

He had a part of his skull removed to allow the brain to swell. These two days are critical. The life signs do not look good.

I am praying. George is praying. Our children and friends are praying.

Pray.