Paul...

On Friday, September 24th, my youngest brother, Paul killed himself.

I'm going to miss him for the rest of my life.

Paul was 12 years old when I joined the Army.  After that, we didn't see much of each other until about 4 years ago, when he met his wife, Justine.  Since then, Paul and I had become close friends.

Justine asked me to speak at his funeral.  Here's what I said.

Years ago I called my mom. One of my brothers and I had gotten into a discussion about which of us four boys was her “favorite” and I was going to settle the issue.


I asked, “Mom, who was your favorite child?”

Without hesitating, her response was quick and frank, “Oh! Paul.”

I think that we all here knew Paul in some pretty diverse ways and circumstances. Some of us played hard with him. Some of us worked hard with him. Some of us grew up with him. Some of us raised him.

All of us loved him.

And all of us knew some common things about Paul.

Paul was a person who did everything with enthusiasm. He put everything he had into whatever was at hand. Enthusiasm was his trademark.

Paul looked like the kind of guy you never wanted to meet in a dark alley, and he was the kind of guy you wanted to have with you in a fight. He was big, powerful, alert and loyal.

Paul had a sense of justice that guided him in almost everything he did.

When Paul was a teenager he was driving across the Bay Bridge in my dad’s Jeep. He accidentally cut a man off at the toll plaza and the man got upset. Paul gestured an apology, but the other driver would not let it go. Finally, after extended verbal abuse, Paul agreed to get through the toll booth and settle the matter on the side of the road. When the other driver got out of his sports car Paul saw that he was no less than six feet, five inches tall and easily fifty pounds heavier than Paul was. Not one to run, but also not foolish, Paul picked an old axe handle out of the back of the Jeep. The fight was short and settled decisively.

Paul never wanted trouble in anything he did, but when it came he faced it head-on and used every resource available to own and resolve the problem.

Paul had his leg amputated and returned to work within two weeks of the operation. He walked on a temporary prosthesis while the swelling went down. Those who know Paul’s work will know that he never had a comfortable office job. At the time he was working on a concrete crew. One afternoon shortly after the operation, dusty, scratched, scraped and bloody, he was driving home and saw a cardboard sign that read “Hungry. God Bless!” His sense of justice was severely offended and he pulled his truck to the side of the road. He got out, walked around the front of the truck, and removed his right leg. Shaking it at the comfortable-looking young man who held the sign he shouted, “Get a job, you bum!” Then, feeling a little better, he got back into his truck and continued home.

Paul was intolerant of laziness, but eternally willing to help the weak and truly needy. I’ve seen that side of him as he has played and interacted with my children. I’ve seen that side of him as he has guided amateurs and tourists through piles of whitewater.

On one trip Paul was leading, a boat guided by another person and belonging to another company than the one Paul was with turned over. The boat, loaded with a group of middle-aged women friends from the Midwest, was ahead of Paul’s boat as it attempted to negotiate an eight-foot waterfall. Despite the guide’s best efforts, the boat capsized and its occupants were thrown into the cold, roiling water. The women panicked. Several of them started having anxiety attacks. Paul steered his boat over the falls, then rowed back up the river to where the women were all floating on their backs in an eddy. He spoke calmly, firmly and reassuringly to them and, despite the fact that every one of them outweighed him he pulled them into his already full boat one at a time and took them to the shore.

I’ve seen that side of him as he has cared continually for my dad in his last and hardest years of cancer. He’s done simple things like making sure my dad gets to watch enough Military Chanel to remember he’s a man, and taking him with him to the hardware store, and sneaking him away to have a steak instead of one more chicken breast for dinner.

Paul had an intensely pure heart. He only wanted good. Good fun. Good work. Good friends. A good life.

And he found that with Justine. In the four or so years that Justine has been in his life, I got to know Paul better than in the twelve years we lived together growing up. Thanks to Justine, Paul became my brother and not just a sibling.

When I heard that Paul was dead, one of my first thoughts was that there was no one there to meet his spirit. No parent, no close grandparent, no one. And then in my mind’s eye I saw Paul. He was walking in a big open space toward another person.

I thought it was weird and wondered who he was walking to. Then I saw that Paul was walking toward Jesus. And Jesus had his arms stretched out to welcome him. They hugged and Jesus started showing Paul around, making sure he was comfortable, and explaining the next steps; what he could expect and what to look out for – a lot like Paul used to give people his river safety briefings before a trip.

And my heart was comforted.

I am certain that all the pain that Paul lived with will be healed through Jesus Christ’s atonement. And I am certain that the pain we feel at the loss of Paul can also be healed through Jesus if we will let it be.

Paul, we say “thank you” for being part of our lives and for letting us be part of yours. We miss you and we love you.