Every once in a while, I scan the obituaries in the Knoxville paper. I lived there from the time I was three or four until I was nearly thirty, so the people listed in those pages are often teachers, family friends, and neighbors. Every so often, I am stopped in my tracks at one of the names I read, recalling with great fondness the memories of spending time with that person, living nearby that person, or worshiping alongside that person.
Sadly, once in a while I stumble across the name of a young person who sat before me in a classroom or took part in the ministry I led. That’s exactly what happened last week.
When I saw Brian’s name and picture, I just sat there. Stunned. Was he sick? Was there an accident? How did I not know this?
To be fair, I hadn’t seen Brian in years. I hadn’t talked to his mom in nearly a decade, despite her constant support and her family’s generosity. It’s been a few years since I was back in Knoxville, pandemic notwithstanding, and every time I visit the numbers of those I see gets smaller. There are plenty of excuses, but our lives change as we grow up and start having children of our own.
But his photo brought back a rush of memories to part of my life long before Maureen and the kids.
In my thirty years of teaching and ministry, I have probably encountered hundreds, maybe thousands of young people. Most of them, to be honest, fade from my mind. Unless they say or do something that I remember – for good or for ill – most are nondescript mental notations tucked away in the far recesses of my mind.
Then there are kids like Brian.
Even in junior high, he was wise beyond his years – and not just because he had this infectious laugh and this great smile that lit up when he got a joke I told that no one else had understood. He had a great sense of humor and I could tell that he was thinking about things that were funny or witty or sarcastic or maybe even a little mean. His whole face would light up and he would just sit there and smile.
He was a great student, did all his work, and got frustrated when others didn’t pull their own weight. As I read the notice in the paper, I remembered how he would challenge those who would not or could not behave, prodding them to be better, encouraging them to buckle down and get to work. Ironic, I thought, that some of them would be carrying him at his funeral. He made them better just by being himself.
At recess, Brian would play with the new kid, making sure everyone was welcomed. He adored his little brother, and I can still remember the look on Corey’s face when he would have to stay in the car while Brian was off on another adventure with the older kids.
After I left Knoxville, Brian and his mom were among the very first I welcomed into my new home six hundred miles away. While the kids swam in the pool out back, his mom and I sat in the kitchen and talked about old times. The picture of Brian and I in front of my office still hangs on the wall. When I asked my own children to pray for his family, one of them immediately remarked that they knew him – or at least his name. It turns out Brian’s name is on several of our Christmas ornaments – gifts he gave his teacher long, long ago.
He was one of those kids that could have done anything he wanted. Like most kids in his mid-thirties, he struggled with anxiety and joblessness and an overwhelming desire to change the world. Brian always looked at the way things could be, the way people ought to be, and the way he wanted to be. Though his death was an accident, I am saddened that he died alone after meaning so much to so many.
As a parent, I can only imagine the grief enveloping the family. They are, of course, devastated. His little brother is lost and his friends in shock.
I pray that they find hope in those words of the preface to the Eucharist Prayer that will be prayed at Brian’s funeral this week: Life is changed, not ended.
This week, check in on one another, pray for those who have made our lives better, and, if you would, pray for Brian’s family. For a mother and father who loved and supported him no matter what, and for a little brother who struggles with the loss of his best friend.
Pray, too, for my friend Brian. May the angels come to greet him. May they speed him to paradise. May their arms enfold him. And may he find eternal life.
For me, you will always be that smiling kid in religion class, longing for the chance to put the Gospel into practice, asking the tough questions, and working hard to understand what God has planned for those who love Him.