Burly guy in the red t-shirt
You know this, but I'll say it anyway: If you love, you'll grieve, and your grief can hit you when you least expect it. (Ever been sauntering through the grocery store when they start blasting "Wind Beneath My Wings"?)
Last Saturday at Mass, Communion had just started when someone several pews ahead caught my eye: a big, tan guy with salt-and-pepper hair, faded jeans and a bright red t-shirt. He was kneeling as you would expect, his head bowed in prayer.
The farmer's tan. That t-shirt. The dark brown, tousled hair with strands of gray. This is exactly how I remember my oldest brother during our final visit. They even have the same semi-bald spot.
A year ago today, on Labor Day afternoon, my brother and sister-in-law had just come home from Chicago, thrilled to be out of the hospital – like kids who had been let out early from school.
Soon there were three generations of us in their house – a small, impromptu party. By a divine fluke, I happened to be there.
My sister-in-law came downstairs and told me, "Tony would love to see you." Though I'd been up to his office a thousand times, I let my four-year-old great niece lead the way. Josie, our hilarious, human sparkler.
Tony was sitting in his upholstered chair, next to the hospital bed that had long helped make his life more comfortable. We greeted each other, and I leaned in for a hug. He couldn't move much, but his spirits somehow made up for it.
Decades of working on golf courses and ball fields had graced him with a permanent tan. I told him truthfully, "You look good in that red t-shirt." Considering all the chemo, he still had plenty of hair.
We reminisced a little, and as others came in and out of the room, we would all pivot, then reminisce some more – about those first twenty-four hours after diagnosis and the latest stay at University of Chicago. Time disappeared.
But soon it was time for him to rest. The two of us said goodbye and hugged again. This time I gave him an impromptu kiss on the top of his head. No tears, no drama, no meltdown as I got into my rental car. Just pure happy.
The whole thing was such a gift – even more so in hindsight.
Fast forward eight weeks and a day. On a Tuesday October afternoon, my brother died in that same office, surrounded by his people, his favorite people: his wife of forty-one years and all their family.
Two days later as I trudged through the airport, my head still spinning, I kept returning to the memory of our last visit.
Back to the guy ahead of me at church. I couldn't stop staring. Even his posture was like Tony's. Ever feel as though your loved one is near enough to talk to? Please don't turn around, t-shirt dude. I need you not to break this spell.
As I continued staring, I could almost hear my brother's dry one-liners ("Jesus saves, but Moses backs up"). And just for a moment I could pretend that it was him. You're probably not supposed to fool yourself in church, but I couldn't help it.
Nor could I help it when tears poured, while the choir sang whatever they were singing. I hung my head and simply let the tears fall. And soon enough, they stopped.
Lesson learned: When your eyes overflow with tears, it's okay just to let them. For bonus points, don't apologize.