Neath Death

My brother Joe Brown with children Gavin (left),
Kailey (right) and grandbaby Aspyn

I'm dying to have a near death experience. 

My brother Joe had one. He was in the hospital, thankfully, when he suffered cardiac arrest. The paddles were on him in a second, but for the brief time he was gone he remembers being somewhere beautiful - a place in which he was completely loved and without pain. Then he was back.

"But what else?" I've nagged him. "What did you see?"

Wordless, he shakes his head, gets choked up, and can never find the words to describe it. 

He's absolutely no help at all. 

This is why it would be nice to have a cardiac event myself. Not that I'm ready to leave just yet. Although, to be honest, I'm beginning to feel a tiny bit weary and have entered into the "been there, done that" phase. Nobody at my age manages to escape grief and loss and heartache. When the people I love wrestle with illness, or my boys struggle, or kids starve, or the world seems hell bent on destroying itself - I sometimes feel tired to the bone. Just a small glimpse of the life ahead would be such a relief, like the very unathletic kid on the last day of gym class who can only climb halfway up the rope.

"Screw it," he sighs. "Tomorrow's summer vacation." 

Sort of like that.

I could never leave John, though. Don't get me wrong - he's perfectly capable of living without me, but our children and all his siblings reside in other states. I'd worry about him constantly. It's best that I hang around long enough to see him out, then I'll follow like a bat out of hell.

The problem, my husband likes to point out, is that I'm obsessed with certainty.

"Where's your faith?" he pointedly asks, as if there's something unnatural about having to know exactly what happens after death. Likewise, he doesn't understand my compulsion to read the end of a book first.

"Why?" he asks in bewilderment.

Because, I patiently explain, if the story doesn't end happily, I don't want to read it.

I suppose it's why my favorite disciple is Doubting Thomas. Poor guy. How unfair to be saddled with that awful name for 2000 years. His only sin was that he posed a healthy skepticism in the wake of unbelievable news. I totally get Thomas.

"Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were and put my hand into his side," he snaps at the other Disciples who report they've seen the risen Jesus, "I will not believe!"

Was he so wrong? Surely those Disciples could have been mistaken. Were they drinking?

A week or so later, however, he's pretty embarrassed when Jesus walks through locked doors and scolds him. "Put your finger here, Thomas," Jesus says. "See my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Stop doubting and believe."

Of course Thomas feels sheepish. More than that, though, he must have been completely elated and relieved and joyous. 

"My Lord and my God!" he breathes.

Thomas saw the face of Christ in the flesh. Every time I read that passage, I feel the joy of Thomas.

My sweet brother Joe is the face of Christ for me. In our huge family of siblings, Joe is the Jesus to my Doubting Thomas. More than any of us, he's endured difficult times. Still, he remains his handsome, funny, wicked, kindly self. He doesn't cave under the weight of physical pain or the sufferings of a broken world or even the sheer terror of waiting for lab results the way I do. Instead, he radiates a cheerfulness and good humor that speaks to all of us.

"All is well," his easy demeanor seems to suggest.  

Joe's seen the other side of the veil and possesses a serenity that I envy. It doesn't make the sufferings of this world any less, but it does give him confidence in a merciful and loving God and a beautiful Heavenly home.

I believe him, too. How can I not believe in my own wonderful brother?

But I'm still hoping for a cardiac event.

The Day Dad Humiliated Us

I’ve never forgotten the day my dad got every one of us kicked out of a basketball game. It was 50 years ago, but you don’t get over a thing like that. 

Dad

It was my brother Mick’s fault - it was always Mick’s fault. 

Home from college for the weekend, I accompanied Mom, Dad and six of my younger siblings to a city league basketball game at Stolley Park Elementary. My brothers Joe, Mick and Rick were playing as we cheered them on from the crowded stands. We attended as a family, and we were kicked out as a family.

To be fair the game was out of control. Mick had gone up for a layup when an opposing player slammed him to the floor. In customary fashion, Dad had relentlessly taunted the refs. But in that heartstopping moment when Mick went down, Dad became apoplectic. I’m absolutely certain Mick provoked that player - which was his customary fashion. 

“You’ve lost control of your own game, Ref!” Dad bellowed across the gym.

That poor official, probably a city clerk who was filling in for some extra cash, decided he’d had enough. Ignoring Mick who struggled to his feet, the ref furiously strode across the gym until he stood in front of my 6 foot 7 inch, 280 pound father. Then he blew his whistle long and vociferously.

“Out!” he screamed. “All of you - GET OUT!”

We stared at each other in confusion. All of us? Even our two-year-old baby brother?

You could have heard a pin drop in that small gymnasium. It was clear the game would not resume until Dad and his dangerously dysfunctional tribe had been removed from the premises. We hardly knew how to react until Dad rose calmly and deliberately. 

“Let’s go,” he said shortly.

All of us before our youngest brother
Jeff's birth - 1970

In a single file we quietly marched out. The crowd was stunned. Mom gathered up our baby brother, my little sisters trailed, and I followed behind with my small brother Tommy. No one said a word, but my face burned with shame. This day would be talked about for weeks - maybe months. It was humiliating to think any of my high school classmates were witnessing our fall from grace.

I swore to never be like Dad. I only mention this now because I’m exactly like Dad. While I’ve never taunted innocent officials, I’ve nevertheless spent years attempting to tame my temper. Even at this advanced age, it can be abruptly provoked  - by snotty teenagers, oblivious drivers, or those people at Walmart who drive their scooters smack dab in the middle of the aisle.

My husband John often says that a person’s greatest strength can also be his greatest weakness. I often think, wasn’t that true of Dad?

At my father’s funeral 25 years ago, Father Jim Schmitt helped us to understand our wonderful, complicated father. 

Mick

“Dick Brown’s kids understand God the Father,” Father Schmitt said, “because of the way their own father protected them.”

Even when it embarrassed us, Dad’s temper was unleashed only to protect us - whether we deserved it or not. After our beautiful mother died, Dad raised ten children alone. During those difficult years, his temper often gave way to gentleness and compassion until almost nothing of our father’s strict “mind over matter”, pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps persona remained. 

I suppose every child’s relationship with her parents is sometimes complicated. But the greatest gift Dad gave us was the unfailing sense that he would always protect us. Whenever I read Psalm 46:1, I always think of Dad.

“God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.”

Father Schmitt was right. We knew God the Father because of our own bigger-than-life, gentle and sometimes volatile father. He would have done anything to protect any of us.

Even my terrible brother Mick.