I think of Brad often and think of you living there at the lake where he lost his life. I wonder how it must be. I remember when that word came to us and how heartbroken we were for you and your family. May God just flood your life with his grace and love and with all the good memories of Brad.
Uncle Brad continues to loom large in my memory. As I have grown up and rubbed shoulders with all sorts of men I can now state definitively what I merely suspected as a little boy. He was a rare one. My only consolation in remembering his death is that he made his exit before I could credit a single bad memory to him. He will always be the bearded wild man in my memory. Santa Claus couldn't have stirred the kind of excitement in my little-boy's heart as those summer mornings at the lake when we would discover that Uncle Brad had arrived during the night. Many places and faces have faded from my memory as the years have passed, but not Brad's. I can see him now in my mind's eye. Of course, his memory is idealized and adorned with the hero-worship of a little boy who wanted nothing more than to possess his attention. It is small and selfish of me to consider his death as tragic, but Uncle Brad is one of those figures that only exists as part of my childhood, and my heart regresses when provoked by his memory.
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I think of Brad often and think of you living there at the lake where he lost his life. I wonder how it must be. I remember when that word came to us and how heartbroken we were for you and your family. May God just flood your life with his grace and love and with all the good memories of Brad.
Thank you, Roxanna.
Uncle Brad continues to loom large in my memory. As I have grown up and rubbed shoulders with all sorts of men I can now state definitively what I merely suspected as a little boy. He was a rare one. My only consolation in remembering his death is that he made his exit before I could credit a single bad memory to him. He will always be the bearded wild man in my memory. Santa Claus couldn't have stirred the kind of excitement in my little-boy's heart as those summer mornings at the lake when we would discover that Uncle Brad had arrived during the night. Many places and faces have faded from my memory as the years have passed, but not Brad's. I can see him now in my mind's eye. Of course, his memory is idealized and adorned with the hero-worship of a little boy who wanted nothing more than to possess his attention. It is small and selfish of me to consider his death as tragic, but Uncle Brad is one of those figures that only exists as part of my childhood, and my heart regresses when provoked by his memory.
I loved reading your comment, Josh.
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