...more than logical

I'm always a bit sad in September.  My brother, Jon, who I adored beyond belief

died at the end of September when I was 13.  He was one month shy of turning 16.

It was a fluke football accident.  He lay in a coma for a little over a week.

I've been thinking back over some of what happened around that time.  He'd spent the summer with Youth With a Mission in New Jersey. 

(Marty, Jon, Me, Dad)  Taken on the drive to New Jersey for Jon's summer with YWAM  (Hard to tell it's him, but I can't find the one I love best that was taken while he was on the trip.  He's on the streets with a huge confident grin holding a little boy asleep on his shoulder.)

It was a lonely summer for me, but it began my love of painting.  He came back kinder, more fun, a better brother and peaceful while very enthusiastic.  He'd sit on my bed and tell me what he'd been learning about God.  The words made sense, but what I SAW was louder. 

He only went out for football so that he could get a chance to share about this Christ difference with his friends on the team.

As best as I remember it, the night before the accident, Mom went in to say goodnight.  He'd fallen asleep on his knees beside the bed praying for his team with his journal (a simple composition notebook) on the bed in front of him. 

Later, we read his journal.  His last words: "Lord, I love you so much I would die for you."

Me wearing Jon's retired football jersey (This was his junior high jersey the coach gave  us.)    God seems to always get me to the beach for comfort and direction somehow.

If eternity weren't so real to me, this would seem morose.   But love is inexplicable.   Not many people get to have a brother like Jon.  How could I be more thankful?

My grandfather (then in his 80's) had not been told Jon had died.  He was awakened (on the day Jon died) having had a very vivid dream.  My grandfather was a salt of the earth hunter, fisherman, farmer who could tell the best tall tales ever.  I never once heard him talk about anything else.  Dreams and visions were not in his normal M.O.  He told my mom that he'd dreamed about Jon.  In his dream, Jon was sitting in the middle of a beautiful field.  He wasn't doing anything.  Just sitting.  Then a group of youth, young men in white, were at the edge of the field laughing.  They beckoned for Jon to cross the field and join them.  Jon looked back toward where my granddad was and then to the youth.  He got up and ran laughing to join them.

Several days after the funeral, my dad was working at his office on a Saturday trying to catch up on all those days of missed work.  Alone at his drawing board, my grieving father talked to God.  My dad, who values reason more than most - the one who never answered a question without making me go look it up first - was mourning the loss of his son.  You see, Jon was the direct answer to the first prayer my parents ever prayed together.  Childhood illnesses left Dad 50% sterile and after several barren years, they prayed.  (Dad says fondly about me, "You were a surprise and have continued to be one."  :)   My brother's birth was one of many factors that eventually led my dad to inviting Christ to be his Lord.

This was in what many refer to as the Charismatic Renewal days  of the 70's when amazing things happened around the globe among the Christian church.  But also some imbalanced things began to happen.   My dad remained ever the "healthy skeptic."  To explain what I mean:  There was a time of people being "slain in the spirit" which happened to include some overzealous forehead pushing.  My dad developed what he called the "3 point stance" much like you'd see someone use in fencing/sword play.  He said, "If God wants to knock me over, he can.  But no guy is going to push me off my balance and claim in was God."  LOL  

My dad became a Christian when I was seven.  He said nothing to me, but boy was he different.  Forever.  He maintained his sense of justice, but he became kind, humble, real... and he quit making my mother cry with cutting remarks.  He didn't have to say a word.  He was just incredibly different.  (Later, when I was a teen, I confirmed the year just to be sure.)

But on this day of mourning in his office, Dad sat at his drawing table prayed, "Lord, I just wish I could tell him I love him one more time."  Dad came home and told us he then had a dream or vision, if you like.  He said he saw Jon.  He was Jon, but he wasn't flesh.  He had no clothes on, but he wasn't naked. Said said Jon's features were made up of different shades of light, but be was solid.  He simply said, "Don't cry, Daddy.  I'm happy here."

Honestly, I don't tell many people these stories, but today I miss my brother.  Today is the day I need to say that I believe in an afterlife.

There are no more Davis boys.  Jon was the only male grandchild.  I'm the youngest.  It's an odd feeling to be the last of a bloodline.  I guess that makes me a bit of a Mohican.  But I couldn't be more thankful to have had my family be exactly who they are.  They are more than I deserve.

And now I watch my son, Davis Crouch, grow his hair out for the next college look.

My guys kissing my Mama on her 90th Birthday a couple of weeks ago.

It's super curly like Jon's.  They are not alike, but they would have had a blast together!  Davis is a delight.  I couldn't imagine losing him or Laina the way my parents lost their son.  He and Laina are super close, even more than Jon and I were.

And I have hope.  And joy unspeakable and full of glory in the midst of my missing my big brother.

I know it doesn't seem logical, but sometimes love is more than logical.  It's just real.