Saying Goodbye

"See you on the other side, Sis." These were some of my brother Randy's final words as we held each other, crying, knowing we probably wouldn't see each other again this side of heaven. It was heartbreaking to let go of each other. I wanted to keep him a little longer. It was strange to start the New Year with such profound loss, but what a way for my brother to enter eternity: new body, no pain, no sorrow, in the presence of his Lord. 

Randy and I were five years apart and had opposite approaches to life. He was "the scrapper" who wouldn't be pushed around. I was the older sister, "the pleaser," who wanted to avoid confrontation. "Live under the radar so no one will notice" was my unspoken motto. 

We grew up in a neighborhood filled with children whose fathers had returned from World War II, many with physical and emotional injuries. They were hardworking men trying to get back to normal. Our dad had grown up during the Great Depression. He moved west at 17 after graduating from a small high school in a tiny coal-mining town. To assure that he would never be poor or hungry again, he educated himself and worked constantly. Our mother, an only child, had been one of the lucky few whose father always had a good job; fear of poverty was unknown to her. With dad working a lot and mom having medical issues, we often had to fend for ourselves. My brother and I fought over everything: TV, food, control. I am embarrassed remembering all those fights. 

Randy turned to drugs and alcohol at a young age, and for many years we rarely saw each other. He struggled with addiction until he was forty-eight, when he got clean and sober. I was so proud of him. He went back to school, made the Dean's List, and started a successful business. It was a gift to have him twenty years more than I ever expected. 

My brother used to say, "We’re all so broken, Sis," and he was right. We are a broken people saved by Jesus, who holds us in His mighty hand. He redeems and loves us in our broken mess. However large or small, when we offer our messy, broken lives to God, He heals and transforms us. My brother is an example that no matter how broken one is or appears to be, it is never too late to be renewed and restored.

My last day with Randy began traumatically due to a drug incident at the hotel where I was staying. Past fears of receiving a call that my brother had died of an overdose surfaced. It completely unnerved me, and I found myself in an uncontrollable puddle of tears. I could not stop crying. Wanting to regain my composure, I decided to take a brisk walk in the old section of Placerville. I didn't want my brother to see me in this condition. I looked around for coffee, and a local sent me to Cuppa of Coffee, the town favorite. Waiting for me was the sweet reminder that God is near the brokenhearted. As I walked in, beautiful praise music was filling the room. Peace enveloped me, joy filled my heart, and my tears ceased. I had come full circle—from the fear of losing Randy too soon to the reassurance of knowing that he was about to be welcomed into eternity by God, our Father.

Letting go of loved ones is agonizing. Even knowing we will spend eternity with them, the human loss is enormous. I could not hold my brother here. He had two types of rare cancer. He was in pain and now just bones with a thin layer of skin. However, there was a sweetness to the privilege of being with him as he neared the end of his earthly life. I read his favorite Scriptures. I was thrilled when he asked me to pray for him. We hugged and kissed each other more than ever. It was a blessing to massage his feet and rock him in his wheelchair. He did funny things the last few weeks, like only wanting to eat sushi, something he had always referred to as "yesterday's leftover bait." The night before he died, he wanted food from In-N-Out Burger. It was a precious time. I was able to witness the loving care of his sons, his congregation, and in particular his friend, David, who transferred him frequently from bed to wheelchair to the bathroom and back. These are rare gifts during Covid19, when so many families cannot be with loved ones at the end of their life. 

Kintsugi is a Japanese word meaning to join with gold or golden repair. It is a technique of repairing ceramics using gold powder mixed with lacquer to attach broken pieces or fill in cracks. This process highlights the brokenness instead of hiding it. Our God does the same. He works with and through our brokenness. God takes the cracks, scars, and pieces of our life and binds them together into something more beautiful and with greater purpose. In the hand of God, our redeemed imperfection becomes a tool to comfort and encourage others. I love this about the Lord. Christ died for our brokenness, not our perfection. 

The morning Randy died, the daily devotion from his congregation was Eccl. 3:1–2: " There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die." An hour later, my brother entered the gates of heaven. My heart is sorrowful, but grateful.