Today marks ten years since my brother Andy passed away. I hadn’t planned to write on the subject, but I was helpfully provoked by a beautiful e-mail from my mother and a thoughtful phone call from a friend. And I was reminded that this event, my only brother’s death, was really the starting point of my journey into lowliness. I apologize in advance for the fact that this will probably be an exceptionally long entry. But I feel compelled to tell the story, and I imagine that someone may be interested to read it.
Andy was twenty-two months younger than me, which meant that I had some work to do in order to maintain my status as the superior older brother. Given that I was naturally more outspoken and interactive, I tended to enjoy more attention and recognition than he did during our childhood and adolescence. Though we experienced seasons of limited friendship, much of our growing up was characterized by separation: I went my way and he went his.
It wasn’t until high school that I started to realize that my younger brother might pose a threat to my self-esteem. In all honesty, I hadn’t noticed until that point much of what went on in his life and what kind of person he was becoming. Looking back I know that this was mainly because I was so consumed with myself: with my own pursuits, my own friends, even my own spirituality. In 10th grade, a missions trip altered my relationship to the Lord in a dramatic way, launching for me a genuine pursuit of God that continues to this day. But none of that was shared with my brother.
I began to notice that Andy had a special quality about him during a trip to Spain and Israel that we took together as part of a ministry team, the summer before my junior year of high school. It was on this trip that I was first exposed to his sense of humor, to his compassion for others, and to his ability to listen and ask the kinds of questions that enabled people to open up to him. I could see various members of our team being drawn to him, and this bothered me to some extent, because I was used to people being drawn to me.
Unfortunately, not much changed in terms of our relationship until after I had left home for college. And even then, the change that took place was not pleasing to my ego. In his last two years of high school, Andy really started to find a life rhythm. He excelled in the sport of volleyball, combining his tall body with an athletic prowess that made him lethal on the court. Trying his hand at theatre, Andy discovered an avenue for artistic expression that he was exceptionally talented in. And diving (scuba and free) provided an outlet for his adventurous spirit as well as an excuse to spend time in the mysterious underworld of the Caribbean Sea.
When I came home from college for the first time during the Christmas vacation of 1994, it almost seemed as if there was a stranger living in my home. I didn’t recognize this person who inhabited my brother’s body. He was confident, he was cool, he was clever, he was accomplished . . . and all of this without being cocky. What a few may have mistaken for arrogance was really simply self-assurance and an obvious comfort in his own shoes. This comfort with himself made him really easy and fun to be around. And this comfort was something that I knew I did not possess.
In fact, my first semester at Wheaton College had served to undo much of the self-confidence that I had built up during my years in high school. Having excelled in my own arenas as a member of a very small student body on a small island, I quickly found at Wheaton College that I was just an average Joe . . . at best. I was surrounded by valedictorians, some of whom were also superior musicians AND athletes AND spoke multiple languages. They were highly driven, type-A personalities, many of whom happened to be eldest siblings like me. My ego took a pretty good drubbing during those initial months, and I had not yet come to appreciate the benefits of such abuse.
So, in the wake of what turned out to be somewhat of an identity crisis, I returned home to find a younger brother whose sense of self was both healthy and attractive. And this seemed to poke more holes in my already sinking boat.
Two years passed, during which Andy finished high school and started his college education at Eckerd College in St. Petersburg, Florida. During his first semester at Eckerd, Andy and I started to communicate through e-mail, a phenomena which we had both only recently discovered. That Christmas, when we both came home from college, there was the scent of something different in the air between us.
I remember Andy meeting me at the airport when I arrived. He gave me a big hug, which was unusual for the two of us. Riding home in our dad’s black CJ-7 (really cool Jeep, for those who don’t know cars), salty breeze blowing through our hair, swapping dorm stories and laughing at eachother’s jokes, I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. I remember wondering: Is this me and my brother? Is this a dream? It was a scene that I had often imagined in my mind and hoped for deep down, but that I had never really believed I would live out in this life. And here I was, thoroughly loving spending time with my brother.
And that’s how it went for us that Christmas break. We spent loads of time together, and I honestly loved every minute of it. Altough I had the sense that our roles had somehow reversed, with him leading the way and setting the terms, I found myself settling into that rather than fighting against it. It seemed somehow appropriate and right at this time in our lives.
In recent years, as I have had more time to reflect on our relationship, I realize that, to some degree Andy took leadership over our relationship in a way that I had never been capable of doing. My pride and insecurity had rendered me incapable of bridging the gap between us as we were growing up. And now, as we were entering into adulthood, it was Andy’s sense of peace with himself and security in who he had become that enabled him to do what I could not do before. This is humiliating for me to admit, and I shudder with shame at times as I think of the years lost and the opportunities wasted due to my foolish pride.
Christmas 1996 was for me a taste of what I had been missing all those years. And though the taste was bitter-sweet because of what it revealed about me (only in a limited way at the time), I drunk deeply from the stream of new friendship with my brother during those weeks.
The following summer, I came home for several weeks to work before heading off to camp up in northern Wisconsinm where I would finish off the summer as a high school counselor. I worked for a roofing company called Rooftops, and Andy joined me there for the last two weeks before I left island again. We had lunch together almost every day, and we also worked on several projects together. As far as our friendship was concerned, we built on the ground that had been laid over Christmas and seemed to be finding a way of relating that worked well for us. I left St. Croix with a sense of enthusiasm for what was emerging between us, and an expectation for more of the same in the years ahead.
And then came August 4th. I remember that I was sitting with one of my high school kids at a picnic bench down by the lake at Honey Rock camp. His parents had recently been divorced and he was struggling to find his way through the mess of it all. We had been reading from James 1 together, where it says, “Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” Little did I know at the time that this passage was meant just as much for me as it was for my camper.
During this discussion, I received a message from the office saying that my dad had called and that I needed to call home. I sensed immediately that something was really wrong. And because it was my dad who called, I worried that something had happened to my mom.
I had a really hard time finding a phone that was available. It was a Sunday afternoon, and there were only four pay phones for the entire camp. I circulated among the phones until one finally opened up. When I called home, one of our neighbors answered the phone. This really worried me because it meant for sure that something was up. She quickly passed the phone to my mom, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard her voice. My dad got on the phone as well, and they asked me if anyone was with me. I told them that I was alone, and there was a sigh and then silence on the other end of the line (apparently they had included in the message a request that someone accompany me for the phone call . . . in some ways I’m glad that part didn’t get through because it would have really freaked me out).
The next words I heard were: “Andy drowned today.”
Even typing those words brings tears to my eyes once again as I think of the dramatic force with which that statement hit my soul. I needed no time to process. The response was immediate. I remember a loud cry escaping my mouth, as if it had been vomitted out of my heart, and this was followed by what seemed like an eternity of uncontrollable sobbing.
I was overwhelmed with a sadness that goes far beyond the mere loss of a loved one. I know now that my soul was grieving more than Andy’s death. It was grieving the loss of what had only just been born between us. It was grieving what would have been in the years ahead. It was grieving all that there was about him that I didn’t yet know, that I hadn’t yet experienced. It was grieving my own absurd self-absortion that had robbed me of precious years with my one and only sibling.
And it was this that made the week that followed so bitter for me. I returned home to join my family and to attend Andy’s memorial service. For days, our house was filled with people who came to tell their stories, to share their experiences, to express how much Andy had meant to them. I could feel my heart grow harder and harder inside with each new story that I heard, with each new word of affirmation spoken. These people were speaking of a person that I barely knew, and now would never know in the way that they had.
For the first time in my life, I dreaded being with others. I felt alone in a sea of people who had loved and appreciated my brother during the years of his life. I felt condemned and ashamed inside, and though I didn’t fully understand these emotions at the time, I could sense this dark cloud descending over me as the week wore on. The day of his memorial was sheer agony for me as I sat through several hours of testimonies, poems, and stories about Andy’s life and impact. I did not share anything on that day, and the reality is that I had very little experience about which to share. Our friendship had ended in its infancy, and this was a source of great bitterness for me as I listened to the rich experiences that others had enjoyed with my brother.
In the wake of this twighlight zone week, I was faced with the reality of some really dark corners in my heart. I honestly had never really considered myself all that sinful before. Though I knew I was a sinner in the way that everyone is a sinner, I really thought of myself as somewhat morally exceptional up until this point in my life. In the weeks and months following Andy’s death, I finally became convinced that my spiritual condition was far worse than I had ever imagined. My response to Andy’s death and especially to his memorial service served as a kind of awakening for me to the wickedness that was within me. It was a shocking realization that finally opened the door for me to start to understand the gospel for the first time in my life.
The work that has taken place in me since then, as I have grown in the awareness of my own sinfulness and helplessness, as well as in my comprehension of the gospel, the cross, the grace of Christ and His redemptive work in our lives, is really nothing short of a miracle. And that is an entirely different story that must be left for another entry.
My purpose in telling this particular story about this particular event has been to remind myself (and perhaps inform some of you) of the dark and filthy pit in which the grace of Christ found me. I had been a Christian for many years before Andy’s death; but without really knowing it, I had been blind to the harsh reality of my own sin and to the wondrous reality of God’s grace. Andy's death was for me the starting point of my journey into lowliness.
I still do not rejoice in the loss of my brother, for I would far rather have had the Lord find me through some other form of suffering. When my inner man is tempted to shake his fist at God (which is a temptation that I still face to this day), I hear the words of Job in my head as he responded to his foolish wife, “Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble.” Andy’s death has troubled me profoundly. The older my kids get, the more I long for them to know their one and only uncle on my side of the family. I know that he would be their hero. And perhaps it is an evidence of God’s grace in my life that, now, 10 years after his death, I genuinely hope that he will be.
