He would Have Been 38

My heart goes out to Charlie Sykes today.  He lost his mother one year ago today.  I share Charlie’s grief on this day.  If my only brother were still among the living, he would have been 38, but he died on this day in 2002.  Here is the eulogy that I spoke - in a pathetically broken fashion - at his funeral. 

May 5, 2002

Thank you all for coming. Don would probably have been a little surprised to see how many of us carried him in our hearts. I think he would also appreciate the suitability in his dying on May Day; a day typically marked by Anarchist riots throughout much of the world.

As I’ve reflected about Don over the past few days, I have found myself overwhelmed with the task of trying to sum up his life in a few paragraphs. As I sifted through the material possessions that surrounded him in life, I tried to derive his core from the totality of his things. It didn’t take long, however, to realize that he was much more than a collection of objects. But his things do offer a small window into his soul. I could see the things that he held dear, and the things that dearly held him. But things are just that: things. They do not make a man. So I was still confronted with my initial dilemma. The difficulty is not in trying to find material about which to speak. The difficulty is in trying to boil all of the stories and all of the memories down to the essence of my brother. To put it another way, what made Don, Don?

To me, Don’s fundamental nature was one of no boundaries and limitless possibilities. He taught me how to think about things, how to confront orthodoxy, and how to challenge myself to think beyond my self-imposed limitations. As his good friend said to me the other night, he “empowered me.”

I remember a time when just the two of us were going up to the farm. He was about 22. I was about 18. We drove the old, brown, 1977 CJ-7 Jeep. It was a hot Texas summer day. We had the top off, a couple of panting dogs drooling on our backs, 2 pounds of Clark’s barbecue ribs that we had just picked up, a bag of old cans, and a couple of rifles. We were set for a good ol’ time at the farm. As we drove over the top of Lake Ray Roberts, he pulled to the side, got out of the jeep, and hurled himself over the edge of the bridge. It’s probably a good 40-foot drop, but at the bottom waited some deep, cool water. Naturally, I followed him in and we had a grand time watching the dogs try to figure out how to follow us in.

Don’s life was one of constant motion. I never really knew if he was running or chasing, but he was always moving. He liked fast cars, fast motorcycles, kayaking, sky diving, scuba diving, you name it… if it got the blood pumping, Don was all for it. The faster; the better.

Don knew how to live life. Don knew how to love life. Yet, he had a more solemn side, as well. He cherished the memory of our Father. He cherished the love of our Mother. He carried with him a poem that our friend from England, Jane, wrote to him when our Father died. Although it is addressed to Kent, it, like so many other things, fits Don just as well. It reads:

I know that you would say, “Don’t weep for me.”

I know you would say, “Dry away your tears.”

But I must say to you-“That you have earned every drop”

For precious friendship given freely, for so many years.

Don was indeed my brother, but he was also a dear friend. I am so proud to have had him for a brother. He died too young, but we should not dwell on that. Instead, let us reflect on what an extraordinary life he led.

Don read more books than most people will ever read. He schooled in Riyadh and England. He skied the Alps. He loved music. He kayaked some of the harshest rapids in the country. He rode a motorcycle faster than most people would dare. He rode a camel around the pyramids of Giza. He drove a ’67 Mustang. He jumped out of an airplane with only a layer of nylon between him and death. He scuba dived in the Red Sea. He graduated from college. He loved. He lost. He lived.

Don was my Father’s son. Don was a son. Don was a grandson. Don was a nephew. Don was your friend. Don was my brother. Don is a part of all of us. He is a part of who we are. As my wife said, let us never let the “could have beens” outnumber the “remember whens.”

I miss you, Don. 

(NOTE: I turned off comments for this post.  I don’t want anyone to feel obligated to comment.  This is my issue - not yours.  Enjoy life.)