The fragility of life

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.

I finish with a link to one of his sister Marilyn’s wonderful blog articles, where she also mentions an equally wonderful piece by Rachel Pieh Jones. Marilyn writes at https://communicatingacrossboundariesblog.com/2020/02/10/a-life-overseas-on-safety-sanity/

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.

Joy. That was Stan.

So many have written about him. His sister Marilyn has written a wonderful tribute here:

And here is a useful blog post on grief. and how we all grieve differently. Finally, here is Dallas Willard to encourage with the eternal perspective.