Never Seven, Always Eight
Over the last three weeks, my whole family joined together to support my brother Tom in his fight against cancer. All seven of his siblings, their spouses and Mom and Dad stood by his bedside, willing the cancer to go away. We couldn’t save him, but we could let him know how much we loved him and how much greater our lives had been with him in it. Our long-awaited family reunion was bittersweet.
On April 11, five days after my brother Tom died, we had a Mass of celebration instead of a funeral. We celebrated the way he lived and the lives he touched. My brother David told those who gathered that “we will never be seven, we will always be eight.”
When David began the eulogy, he humbly thanked everyone for their support and then told them to introduce themselves to their neighbor in the next seat. Across the church, four of Tom’s fifth-grade students who had traveled from Los Angeles with their parents, looked to us, Tom’s family, and waved. There stood a part of his legacy.
It reminded me of recently when I was driving Tom to the doctor. He talked about how he was disappointed that his sickness was disrupting his students’ learning flow. In the classroom, Tom could move mountains. It was part of him, where he could encourage, guide, entertain, support and inspire. He had cancer and was facing the fight of his life, and yet he was worried about his students.
I looked around and was amazed how there, in the church, were all of his family, friends, teachers and students standing in the same room. He would have loved it. People he knew from all over the world came to celebrate his life. And we did – we celebrated it. Just the way Tom would have wanted us to.
The Mass celebrated his humor, wit, quiet thoughtfulness, friendship, passion, devotion, simplicity, kindness, and grace. The stories were funny and spirited, and I kept thinking how lucky I was to have had him as my brother for so long. What a guy! What a friend to so many! What a life he lived!
I laughed as I thought about how protective he was, remembering the time I told him I was a “woman” and was old enough to go to a Police concert by myself, when I was only 13. He promptly locked me in the closet and wouldn’t let me out until I said, “I am a little girl.” I shook my head, thinking about the time he took me and my husband camping in Yosemite and scared us all night, pretending to be a bear by rubbing up against our tent and growling. And I cried, remembering him walking me down the aisle at my wedding.
Tom had so many gifts. Not only was his life full of humor, he was curious. He took interest in others and opened their hearts. He was creative, creative in tackling a rock-climb, or tackling the classroom. He was honest and straightforward, not leaving any awkwardness and always treated others with respect.
Tom died peacefully. He came into this world in my Mom’s embrace and left this world in my Mom’s embrace. That is comforting to me. Being held in my mom’s arms is a favorite place of mine. I would pay thousands for a hug on a rough day. There, in her embrace, I have always found comfort and I believe he did too.
In all honesty, I’m not really prepared to live without him. I miss him. It has only been a week and I keep thinking he’s going to call or walk through my door. But he isn’t. “He’s moved on to his next adventure.” That’s what I keep telling myself. Sometimes it helps but sometimes I can’t help but wonder why on earth God would take him home so soon.
The only reason I can think of is that through his memory, we all live a little bigger, reach a little higher, laugh a little harder, guide a little longer, hug a little tighter, climb a little safer, look a little wider, teach a little wiser, smile a little easier, and love a little fuller. Just the way Tom did.
We named our son after my brother Tom. I can only hope that my Tommy will live a life as full as my brother’s. I know that Tom is watching; I will honor him by living my life to it’s fullest, too.