BRB: April 28, 1975-August 2022

Brian died this week, alone in his apartment. No one knows for sure which day he passed from this life into the next one, but regardless, the reality is that Brian is gone, and we are left with the many memories made during his lifetime. Like memories of anyone, some are good and others are hard, and I know that mine are somewhat warped by time and my penchant for drama as a child, which (of course, read as not really . . . ) I have TOTALLY outgrown, but they are mine, and I am glad to have them.

My first memory of Brian was a few days after his birth, and my five-and-a half-year-old-self wasn’t the least bit impressed with the squirmy little bundle I could only see by standing on tiptoe through the window of the kitchen door because I had a horrible case of the mumps. Pretty sure that my parents driving away with my brother and leaving me with the grandparents I normally loved to be with was the lowest moment of my life up to that point. That was the unavoidable and unfortunate beginning of our relationship. In my selfishness need at that moment, I never once thought that my grandparents were denied the joy of holding my newborn brother who bore their name or that my parents nest was not as fluffy as they had been expecting. I just knew I wanted my mama and daddy and that thing had deprived me of them. (For some reason they bought me dolls to hold instead of him . . . )

My next vivid memory of Brian occurs when he is somewhere around six months of age, and it too is exaggerated by time and seen through little-girl glasses. We are lying outside on a soft quilt under the cool shade of one of the huge trees in front of grandmother’s house his first summer, and in my memories I am wearing my favorite green shorts and shirt with little flowers on it (although I am pretty sure I had those a few years afterwards). Mom had to run in the house for a moment (probably to make Squirmy a bottle), and she told me not to move, but to watch him till she got back. He, being the normal teething infant that he was, decided to use me as his chew toy, and being the literal-minded person I am, I did not move and yet resented him using me as a teether. 

Fast forward a bit to his toddler years. Probably the most prominent memory of Brian I have is his propensity to run around naked, often ripping off his diaper when outside. I am pretty sure he did that just to hear his silly sister protest and hide her eyes, but it is okay, I often threatened to post one of the pictures of his cute little naked butt Mom had taken on one of those days. His toddler years also produced seven bouts of pneumonia and many nights that Mom lay on a pallet beside him downstairs to make sure he got through the night and we could rest. His personality changed a bit after those bouts fighting to breathe. Mom became a bit more protective of him. 

Then Brian got old enough to go to kindergarten, but kindergarten was not terribly kind to him, and he often wanted to stay home. Any excuse would do, but often as the bus could be heard coming down the road to get us, he would run back in to grandmother and tell her his stomach hurt, and he “needed” to stay home that day. He did, and I got on the bus and drove away. The days he went, he usually had Grover clutched in his little hands, sitting on the swing waiting for the bus, wishing he had a reason not to go. I didn’t understand then, but I do now. I too wished to have a reason not to go.

Those years his favorite shirt bore a Superman logo, and Mom took a picture from behind of his little self sitting beside my Daddy staring out into the pasture. It is a beautiful picture of a little boy wanting to be like his Daddy, sitting as close to him as he could. That picture is vividly etched in my mind. My brother didn't sit still or quietly very often.

I remember Brian’s little giggle, the hiccup in his laugh that he never outgrew. I am pretty sure it made anyone who heard that gurgle smile, made them simply happy to be with him. My brother happy was a wonder I will never forget, and anyone who knows him would probably say the same. When he played, he played hard and played well whether it was baseball, softball, golf, football, basketball; he was an athlete like my daddy and his dadd before him as well as my mother, and playing made him happy. When times were good, they were very good.

Did I mention he was a southpaw? Mom has little notes she kept that one or the other of us wrote in our childhood sitting on a desk in the room I sleep in when I visit them. They have childish pictures and words, the pictures Daddy’s gift to us because he always drew silly ones for us, and the words and colors we used to make the notes were Mama’s giftings. The scribbled, messy notes make me smile just to see them and remember a childhood with Pesky spent tagging along behind me and any friends I had over.

Brian had several concussions in his young life, one of which occurred when a big, heavy basketball goal tumped over onto his head. One time later, a friend was helping me watch the thing, and he, harassing the dog, got bit in the face, and we had to rush him to the emergency room because Mom and Dad were both at work functions and there was no cell phone in those days to reach them. I am not sure why my 16-year-old self was entrusted with this transport, but I was. He was so active that often his energy level somewhat traumatized my much quieter self. 

Brian eventually outgrew tagging after me or me having to watch him too often and usually had a gang of rowdy boys with him. That was about the point our lives began intersecting less. I was busy with school and band and then boys and work and college, and he was busy with friends and ball, whichever was in season. I remember going to see him play baseball a few times and football games where he got his head practically knocked off resulting in concussions and questions like, “Who hit me, Coach? Did we win?” repeated over and over again until the swelling in his brain went down enough to let him begin processing somewhat normally again.

When Brian was almost sixteen, I got married and rarely saw him until he came to Auburn to finish up his poultry degree. I had three kids by then whom he loved to play with (they thought he was their toy),  and during that time we bought our first house. This is my favorite time with Brian when I look back. He was usually around at least once every week or two so I could feed him. Did I mention that boy liked to eat and he loved my cooking? Well, he liked what he liked to eat at least, and by then he wasn’t too picky. However, I do remember the normal childhood battles with Mama over breakfast or some other meal until he was a good bit older and ate pretty much everything. His favorite was my chicken and dressing with giblet gravy and mashed potatoes—tons of mashed potatoes—and rolls or biscuits. I wasn’t sure where he put it all, but he definitely got his fair share when I cooked, and I was glad he was there for me to feed. 

After Brian graduated, he moved to Georgia to work. And things changed for him. Life wasn’t as kind and in retrospect, his decisions weren’t always the best ones for him. I rarely saw him, occasionally talked to him by phone, and saw him mostly at holidays when we could both make it back to North Alabama. 

By the time Daddy had to go get him and bring him home, life was incredibly tough for my brother and my parents. I didn’t see any of my family much that year while they tried to help him. We talked some and visited occasionally after he moved out of the house again. Brian usually made an effort to visit when he knew I would be there, and I loved to see him, to squeeze him in a tight hug and hold on until he was ready for me to let go. (Brothers can only take so much hugging, you know.) 

I loved to hear Brian’s voice that never seemed to be a grown-up-man voice—that crack in it that adolescents have never really went away for him, never really modulated. To me, it was the same voice I heard when he was a silly eight-year-old chasing me around or jumping out to scare me, or the teenager who laughed at me and gave me a hard time when I slipped and bumped down the stairs on my clumsy butt, the one who liked to harass whichever boyfriend I had at the time. He never let me take myself too seriously, but he let me know he loved me in his own way. Heck, he even claimed me as family on Facebook, which I saw as an extreme honor!

Brian always wanted a child of his own, and near the end of his time here, God gave him a boy of his heart who chose to take his name. Chance brought the boy back out in Brian, and he loved him so much, made him giggle and even smile softly in a rather grown-up, proud way when he looked at him. I know Brian wanted to be more than he was for Chance if not for himself. I know he loved him dearly.

Like all of us who are broken sinners walking this path between birth and death, Brian wasn’t perfect—like all of us, he desperately needed Jesus. We had some of those long conversations, too. My hope is in Christ alone, for myself and for my brother. It is the only hope any of us have, and I pray that Brian truly put his trust in Him. My prayer for you if you don’t walk with Him is that you will seek Him while He may be found. If you need to talk, I will gladly listen, nudge, and/or pray with you, too. Christ is worth every effort you could possibly make to be in His presence.

Brian’s initials are BRB, which in today’s lingo, means “Be right back!” How I wish in some ways that were true and I could hear his silly laugh and squeeze him tight, but at the same time I wouldn’t. Many have reached out in support of our family with prayers and love and offers to help in any way they can because they loved Brian and us. We appreciate it and share our sorrow with you all. Maybe you will do as we are doing in our grief, holding tightly to the good memories while trying to let the others go.