I was driving home from work today when Luke Bryan’s Drink a Beer came on the radio.

I turned it up, and I prepped myself to cry.  That song had always tugged at my heart, but today I was sure that the notes riding the air waves would rip it out of my chest.  A few days ago I received a call that told me that my oldest, best friend lost her brother suddenly.  Since that time, I’ve not only been wandering through some melancholy days, but I’ve also been grieving some nights.
I’ve not lost a sibling, but I know others who have.  And as my years begin to gain altitude, it’s a more frequent occurrence.  Having three brothers and a sister myself, I can’t imagine facing the rest of my days without any one of them.  Even when we are hundreds of miles apart, the bond that ties us is strong.  It’s an emotional shared history that can’t be matched by chosen friendships or other relatives, other generations.  I cherish their personalities, our similarities and our differences.  They are a part of me, and I am a part of them.  There is no choice.  It’s there.
So when I think about how my dear friend is feeling, I want to turn numb.  I don’t want to truly know.  Is that selfish?  I don’t think so.  It’s self-preservation.  It’s a fact of life that none of us wants to face soon.  But it’s not so easy to utter a few respectful platitudes and then push this to the back of my mind so I can move on with my days.  I can’t simply because, when I think about our shared past, I know that Peter, while not mine, was another brother.
Pete was three years our senior, and so he naturally extended his big brotherhood to the both of us as we worked our way through teenage trials that seem trivial in retrospect.  He coached us on everything from which classes to choose to discussions of the best rock music to our hair and clothes.  And that coaching also included the merciless teasing that seems the hallmark of brothers everywhere. I recall one such discussion with he and his buddy about girls’ bodies. The two guys critiqued us both from their preferences, and we hung on every word. There’s nothing like getting your nose bent out of shape over being told your butt is nice but a little large.  (And that was when mine was much, much smaller!)
He was able to poke us with a stick yet protect us with it too. While some may think it not wise allowing two slightly shy of legal ladies to follow him into the bar where he worked, I disagree.  In that way, he was able to keep an eye on us.  He knew we were destined for trouble if left on our own.  And who would mess with us when accompanied by a 6-foot-eight football player?   He couldn’t watch over us all the time, as we were wont to stretch the limit.
His stature was overshadowed by the size of his heart, although he’d not want to flaunt that.  His own siblings adore him, and it’s easy to see why.  He gave them direction all their lives as well as two large arms to hold them when their parents were gone.  He was a great listener too.  He and I spent one evening out when we were young, and I remember how he counseled me after I had shared some pretty hairy details of my own misadventures.  He didn’t judge, although he could have.  He just listened.
In later years, we’d occasionally see one another when I visited his family, but more often we’d bump into one another on the internet—usually from opposite sides of the political spectrum.  I learned to steer clear of some subjects online, as I never needed to spar with him. His intellect was far superior to mine.  We both knew that we’d better just agree to disagree.
I can’t physically attend his farewell, but his siblings know that I’ll be there in spirit.  I hope these words can bridge the distance to wrap them in love.  I pray that they find peace in knowing that he no longer knows sickness or pain.  I wish for Kathi, his wife and partner of more than 30 years, to hear in my words the respect I hold for her as well.  I’ve met her only few times, but she is a special person to have made this unique man’s world complete.
To Nancy, my dearest friend of longest duration, you know me.  You know I cry over a good cup of coffee.  Me not being there with you is somewhat a blessing right now.  We’ll see each other again soon enough, and you know I’ll shed tears then.  Be strong, as you’ve proven to be so many times before.
And to Pete, as I listened to the radio today, I imagined myself sitting at the end of a pier, watching the sunset and lifting a toast to you with a cold beer.  Somehow, after I’d expected to cry when singing along as I drove, I instead wore a smile.  Yes it was off-key and a little choked at times, but it brought me joy in knowing that you probably heard it, while having a cold one with your mom and dad watching the same sunset from the other side.