Devastating
news yesterday – via Facebook, which does have its uses in times like this. One of our oldest friends, a year younger than
us, has died in a tragic accident - a fatal fall - while visiting his daughter Lauren and family in
Thailand.
That is all
we know at this time. Do the details matter? Not at all. The shock of the loss
is not mitigated by knowing how it happened.
Untimely is
too mild a word for his passing.
We have
known Stan and his wife Tami for 35 years. They were our very first ‘couple’
friends after we had married; members of our first tiny Bible study group;
godparents to our twins; dear, dear friends who were long-lasting,
inspirational by word and example.
We first met
Stan when he was a businessman in Kenya,
where we all lived at the time. He was a ‘missionary kid’ who had grown up in
Pakistan, seeking to work as a ‘tentmaker’, in a self-supporting business
involving Persian rugs. At that time, Stan and Tami lived near us in Nakuru
before moving to Nairobi and then, back to the USA to prepare for missionary
work in Central Asia. Their son, Mark, was just 2 years old but a few years
later, daughter Lauren was born, completing their family.
Our
friendship spanned 35 years yet, once they left Kenya, we rarely saw them.
There was a meeting in Terminal 3 at Heathrow Airport, while they were in
transit to Istanbul prior to commencing work in a Central Asian country: we, on
a visit to the UK. Another meeting, 20
plus years later, when they visited us in our new home in Guernsey – a wonderful
24 hours of reconnecting and reminiscing.
Communication became limited to the occasional email, or Christmas
catch-ups.
Yet we still
felt deeply connected to them, receiving their regular newsletters and prayer
updates to help us follow their progress and, a little, understand their work
and the challenges they faced in both work situations and living conditions.
Stan Brown:
what a well-lived life. Others will write of all his work with farmers in
Central Asia, toiling tirelessly to improve the lives of an impoverished
minority in a country in Central Asia. We just remember the dedication he
brought to this mission: he and Tami left their beloved Kenya to return to the
U.S.A. to prepare, their family still young. Stan went to theological college
by day, while working long and odd, hours at UPS to provide for the family,
frequently rising at 3am for his shift. He must have been permanently exhausted
during those years but bore it all cheerfully, the goal clearly in mind.
Our primary
memory of him, from the very beginning, was his completely wonderful smile. It
lit up his face and appeared at all sorts of times: whether coming out with
some wonderful Bible truth during our meetings, or when I was panicking with
the responsibility of holding newborn Lauren on my lap, which he found quite
amusing. That smile just seemed to get broader over the years, especially when
it appeared in Lauren’s instagram feed, showing Stan surrounded by his
grandchildren.
Another
memory is inextricably linked with the Bible verse in Romans 8:38 – 39: “
For I am convinced that neither death nor
life, neither angels nor demons,[k] neither the present nor the
future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else
in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is
in Christ Jesus our Lord.” We were studying the book of Romans in our
little group: when we reached this verse, Stan broke out in song, singing the
words with his trademark smile. I never knew what the song was... he sang only
a few words – but how it made
us
smile and I never forgot it. I never found the song, either...
That group
was formed at Stan’s suggestion: he wanted a ‘serendipitous’ group, one that
could meet by ‘happy chance’. However, we soon became very intentional about
meeting: for us, in particular, it became a lifeline of support. We were joined
by another young missionary couple, Byron and Lisa: our group of 6 met in each
others’ homes, went out for lunch and enjoyed camping safaris as we got to know
one another deeply. Far more experienced and knowledgeable about the Bible than
we, it was a complete education. The more time I spent with them, the more I
realised how little I knew of the Bible or, indeed, how to live a Christian
life well. Younger than us, Stan, Tami, Byron and Lisa became our examples and
our mentors.
We moved
away, a couple of hours’ drive, but still kept in touch, visiting each other
often. When our twins were born a few years later, Tami – by then mother of
Lauren as well – insisted on coming up to stay with me for a week to help out,
leaving Stan to hold the fort at home with six year old Mark. Stan did this
willingly, of course: it was not in his nature to be mean or ungenerous in any
way.
One of my
most treasured possessions is a photograph of Stan and Tami with Byron, Lisa
and us, and as many children as we all had at the time, grouped together on the
steps of our verandah in Nyeri. It has been in the same photo frame for nearly
30 years and has had pride of place in every house we have lived in. Another
photo, taken on the same visit, shows Stan and Richard in a paper plane
throwing competition. Recent photos show that Stan had barely changed since
that time: his hair greyer – and a little shorter; his face a little more
wrinkled; but his smile is as broad as ever.
We knew that
Stan had faithfully prayed for our children, on his knees, for years. His
prayers were, we are sure, instrumental in their spiritual growth and in
becoming all that God meant them to be. (And we know, not because he said
anything – he was far too humble a man
to ‘show off’ about his prayer life – but because his wife Tami told us.)
Yet another
photo shows Stan, arms stretched upwards, to catch Mark aged, two, flying
through the air. Out for a walk on a camping weekend in a remote game reserve,
we had come to a stream too wide for the toddler to get across. The guys – Stan
and my husband Richard – decided, in typical male fashion, that chucking the
baby across the stream was the simplest solution. Mark had no fear: he knew his
dad would catch him. Many years later, when Mark was grown and a qualified
helicopter pilot, we joked that this event was responsible for starting him on
his flying career.
There was so
much laughter. Our little group met often: we went camping; went out to lunch; met
in town for coffee. Stayed in each
others’ homes. Church, of course. Christmas together, where we exchanged
ridiculous Secret Santa gifts. Stan had found intriguing trinkets in a ‘hole in
the wall’ shop in town: I seem to remember that he ended up with a ridiculous,
rather disreputable, straw hat which he refused to give up in exchange for
anything else.
Then there
was the famous ‘CIA’ incident. Stan had gone on a business trip to Nigeria, unfortunately
contracting malaria while he was there. The treatment, Larium, had an
unfortunate effect on him. It caused him to hallucinate...and started to
proclaim that he was not, in reality, a businessman but a representative of the
CIA, the US intelligence agency. It wasn’t long before he was being
interrogated by the authorities... Tami, of course, knows the detail which now
escapes me, but I do remember that it took quite a lot of effort and diplomacy
to get him released and put on the next plane back to Nairobi. Stan, in typical
understated fashion, downplayed the incident, retelling just the few salient
points with a somewhat rueful smile...
Spending time
with Stan and Tami during our sojourn in Nakuru was a special time in our
lives. That little group became the model for every other small group we joined
or initiated. The level of love and honesty we enjoyed with Stan and Tami was a
benchmark, a minimum standard we aspired to with others.
I started
this reminiscence with a title: The Fragility of Life. I could have titled it
The Uncertainty of Life. I have interrupted this writing with a long WhatsApp
conversation with Lisa, as we have shared our news of the circumstances of
Stan’s death. It now seems it was as a result of a fall...and just a day after
the murder of Stan’s sister-in-law’s nephew. A double blow for his brother Ed.
How much sorrow in our ‘safe’ world can we bear?
I read and
reread what I have written. I barely scratch the surface in trying to show who
Stan was and how much he has meant to us and our family. “Stan had barely
changed ...” In that sentence, initially I unwittingly wrote ‘has’ instead of
‘had’. In my WhatsApp conversation with Lisa, we exchange ‘broken heart’
emojis. It is unbelievable that Stan is no longer with us somewhere on the
globe.
She quotes
Rachel: “Safety is a Western illusion crafted into an idol...”
I think of Stan. I
think of him as a loving husband, father, father-in-law, son, brother and
friend. I think of how he refused to bow to idols of any kind, whether
emotional, mental, physical or spiritual. (I put them in that order, for I
think that most of my own – Western – idols are indeed emotional or mental.) I
think of how he lived his life with purpose, as a man of God, dedicated to
serving Him.
I remember Stan’s
kindness and gentleness; his unfailing good humour, even when circumstances
were difficult; his love for and interest in others.
And I am thankful
to have known him. As I remember Stan and recall so many wonderful memories, I
find my heart, surprisingly, healing. For those memories are patching the
brokenness, healing the wounds of loss and bringing with them unwitting,
unexpected joy.
