At Hillsboro’s Fir Lawn Cemetery, just beyond the first bend in the road, you will find the graves of my mother and my baby brother. Inscribed on each stone are the years of birth and death.
Bruce died in 1996 at the age of thirty-one. My mother, Marlene, died seven years later at the age of sixty-four. Both died far too young. Both had their lives abruptly taken from them, Mom by cancer and Bruce by a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
As with any mother and son, their lives were intimately intertwined. So were their deaths. The unbearable grief of losing Bruce eventually led Mom to place her trust in Jesus. Seven years later, when she faced her own death, she did so with remarkable courage because of her faith in Him.
My Baby Brother
Bruce was born in 1965, nine years after me, the youngest of five children. He was an adorable little boy, and his aunts especially loved to dote on him. His smile had a way of drawing people to him. He played with the rest of us and enjoyed a normal childhood, attending the same local grade school we had all attended.
One of my favorite memories from those years is a fishing trip to the Nehalem River, where Bruce caught his first steelhead. We have a picture of him with his arms wrapped around that fish, looking as proud and happy as any boy could be. That wonderful photograph was later published in Fishing and Hunting News.
Another memory has remained with me through the years. I was preparing to return to my submarine after a period of leave, and Bruce stood there crying because he did not want to see me go. I can still see the tears on his face. Looking back, I sometimes wonder whether he somehow sensed how far apart life would eventually carry us.
A distant family member introduced Bruce to drugs. For reasons none of us fully understood, they took a powerful hold on him. From one drug to another, he staggered through much of his teenage years.
While I was away in the Navy, Dad needed a fishing partner, and that role fell to Bruce. Bruce loved drugs, but he also loved fishing. One threatened to destroy him; the other brought him moments of freedom and joy.
Dad and Bruce fished rivers and lakes throughout Oregon and Washington. I had a few opportunities to fish with them, and after watching Bruce in action, I became convinced that he could catch fish even when there were no fish in the river!
Unfortunately, Bruce’s drug use went from bad to worse. I remember a family trip to Olallie Lake with Mom, Dad, and Bruce. The setting was beautiful, there was much to explore, and the fishing was excellent. Yet Bruce spent most of the time sleeping. The drugs were robbing him of the experiences and relationships that should have brought him happiness.
After Laura and I moved to Astoria, I did not see Bruce for quite some time. Then, one day, he unexpectedly appeared at our door. We talked about his life and some of the things he was going through. He showed a particular interest in spiritual matters, so we also talked about God.
I later learned that he had stopped at my brother Randy’s home, where they had a similar conversation. Looking back, I have often wondered whether Bruce sensed what was coming and was reaching out in the only ways he knew how.
Then came the telephone call from Dad.
There are ordinary telephone calls, and there are those whose dreadful nature can be heard in a person’s voice before the words are even spoken. This was one of those calls.
Bruce had shot himself.
We were heartbroken—and shocked. He had seemed to be doing better. He had been living with Mom and Dad, along with his girlfriend and their three-year-old son. One day Bruce asked Dad whether he would take his little boy fishing. Dad thought, Of course I will, but wondered why Bruce would not take the boy himself.
Soon, Dad understood.
Bruce had moved back into town and reconnected with some old friends. He began using drugs again. He was also suffering from persistent painful and debilitating headaches that returned day after day. We later learned that his death had not been an impulsive act. He had planned it.
We mourned the loss of the little boy with the irresistible smile, the young brother who had cried when I returned to the Navy, the fisherman who could seemingly pull fish from an empty river, and the father whose little boy would now have to grow up without him.
I was given the painful privilege of leading Bruce’s funeral. I also wrote the epitaph inscribed upon his gravestone:
“Like a raging river,
rushing to a whelming sea,
He has found his destination
with the God of love and peace.”
Bruce’s life had often resembled that raging river—restless, turbulent, and driven by currents stronger than he knew how to resist. Yet I entrusted my baby brother to the God whose mercy reaches into depths we cannot see and whose love is greater than all our pain.
My Mother
Mom grew up in Mountaindale, Oregon. As a teenager, she was often given the responsibility of watching her younger siblings while her mother and stepfather spent their time drinking at a local tavern. Even then, she was the responsible older sister—the one who watched over everyone else. That instinct to protect and care for others remained with her throughout her life.
She caught Dad’s eye when she was only seventeen. Marriage and children soon followed—eventually five of us in all.
Mom and Dad both worked, so she became a very busy, multitasking mother. In the mornings, we found our own cereal for breakfast and watched Leave It to Beaver until it was time to walk to school. Mom drove to Tektronix, where she would work for a remarkable thirty-nine years. Despite having no college degree, she rose through the company and eventually became a manager in its color-printer division.
Mom was a wonderful mother. We could always count on her to care, to listen, and to find a way through whatever problem confronted us. During my six years in the Navy, she was the one I called. No matter where I traveled in the world, it was comforting to know that Mom was only a telephone call away.
This book contains many stories about fishing, so it is fitting that I mention Mom’s fishing prowess. One day, Dad took her to the Salmon River to fish for steelhead. Mom was plunking—her rod resting in place—while quietly reading a book. When a fish finally took her bait, it turned out to be a big one. Mom wanted Dad to land it for her, but he insisted that she do it herself. Afterward, he also made her carry it back to the car. Other fishermen stared in amazement as my little mother walked past them carrying that big steelhead.
Mom had grown up Catholic and took us to the local Catholic church for several years. I remember sitting in catechism class on Saturdays, wondering why I could not be fishing with Dad.
But when Bruce died, the faith Mom had known proved insufficient to carry the weight of her grief. I remember receiving a telephone call from her soon afterward. She had been reading the book of Job and had questions.
Some questions about suffering are beyond the ability of any theologian or pastor to answer completely. I certainly could not explain why Bruce had died or why God had allowed our family to experience such terrible pain. But Mom and I talked about suffering. We talked about Jesus, the cross, and the hope of the gospel.
Within months, Mom placed her faith in Jesus.
She began attending a local community church. She grew in her faith, found opportunities to serve, and discovered her place within the body of Christ. The woman who had spent her life caring for others now knew the One who had been caring for her all along.
Years of retirement followed. Mom and Dad traveled, visited their grandchildren, and enjoyed life together. Then Mom began experiencing unusual pain in her back. Medical testing brought a dreadful diagnosis: cancer.
The tumor could not be removed. There was no treatment that could cure her. All that remained was to manage her pain and make her as comfortable as possible. Dad worked hard to take care for mom during her cancer journey, taking her to all her doctor appointments, watching over her and her pain medications. Mom would tell Dad he should go fishing, but Dad refused to stay home and take care of her.
Mom died only four months after her diagnosis—but she died knowing Jesus.
During my years as a hospice chaplain, I witnessed time and again the difference faith can make as a person approaches death. That does not mean Christians feel no fear, sadness, or pain. It means they do not face those things alone or without hope. Mom knew Jesus, and that knowledge enabled her to confront death with extraordinary courage.
At one point she called her children and grandchildren into her room, one at a time. She urged each of them to love one another and to walk with Jesus. Facing the end of her earthly life, her deepest concern was still for those she loved.
A few days before her death, many members of the family gathered around her in the backyard. Sunlight fell upon her face as she sat among us. My uncle Frank looked at his sister, shining there in the sunlight, and said simply, “Glorious!”
Not long before her death, Mom, her pastor, and I gathered in the living room to plan her funeral service. She chose as its theme the words of 3 John 4:
“I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in the truth.”
Four pastors, including me, participated in her funeral, but that single verse expressed the desire of her heart. Her greatest concern was not what people would say about her after she was gone. Her greatest joy was knowing that her children and grandchildren were walking with Jesus.
The Dash
Today, Mom and her baby boy lie side by side in Fir Lawn Cemetery. On each gravestone, the years of birth and death are separated by a simple dash.
Such a small mark—and yet consider everything contained within it.
Within Bruce’s dash was a little boy’s captivating smile, his first steelhead, his tears when his older brother returned to the Navy, his years fishing with Dad, his painful struggle with drugs, his love for his young son, and a life that ended far too soon.
Within Mom’s dash was a responsible older sister, a devoted wife, the mother of five children, thirty-nine years of work at Tektronix, countless problems patiently solved, a giant steelhead carried from the river, grandchildren loved, places visited, faith discovered, and a courageous journey through cancer into the presence of Jesus.
Bruce’s death brought Mom to such a low place that she could do nothing but look upward. There, in the depths of a mother’s grief, she found Jesus waiting for her.
Nothing can make Bruce’s death good. It was tragic, devastating, and left wounds our family will always carry. Yet even from that terrible loss, God brought something beautiful. Through the loss of her youngest son, Mom was led to the Savior who would sustain her through her own suffering and safely carry her home.
A little boy was tragically lost.
But through the grief of losing him, his mother was eternally found.
LookingtoJesus 