here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

-e.e. cummings

For the past week I have been a collector of stories – a gatherer of reflections and anecdotes that attest to the adventure, sorrow, courage, heartbreak, and laughter of a life lived. Robert -- Rob, as many of you know him, but I was not allowed to call him that – was my cousin, my brother, and one of my best friends.  In my heart, I carry a thousand stories, pieces of my time with Robert, pieces of his heart. You too carry stories – beautiful stories of love, strength, and wisdom.  Of fear, despair, and tragedy.

As a collective, we hold the story -- the memories of Robert that together represent his journey in this world. Of course we don’t have the full story, for there are gaps -- thoughts, feelings, and experiences that Robert had in solitude– that are only shared with God and Earth.  But in this inexpressibly challenging time, we have the honor and the responsibility of carrying this story, these pieces of Robert’s heart -- carrying them in our own hearts and into the world.

***

You carry that Monday in March when he was born in New Jersey. The first child of Marilyn and Bob. You hold the sacred moments of childhood that only his closest of relatives can recall. Of first breaths and movements, sounds and smiles.

I hold countless days spent with a gangly little boy with buck teeth, an inhaler, and a Jersey accent. Days spent at our grandparents' farm reading Nancy Drew books, playing Monopoly (he would always win – I would always cry), exploring the land, and fighting over the 1940’s science experiment book in the back room. Fruity Pebbles.  Sonic the Hedgehog. Watching him get in trouble with his mother for provoking his sister.

You carry Super Mario Brothers, painting his nails, room service at Niagara falls, of watching him eat so many graham crackers and milk that he threw up in his cousin’s shoe. You hold the story of a brother who saved you from drowning, in all that ways that one can do this.

I hold a teenager, gracefully handling incredibly difficult situations with a depth of wisdom and hearty laughter. Of one who had to experience more tragedy at this age than some do in a lifetime. Of a person who learned that families can change, morphing into different forms in different seasons. He was welcomed into new homes and loved by people who weren’t his parents, and in the wake of these challenges he managed to thrive and grow and even express gratitude for them.  As a teenager he looked for God, and experienced God in unlikely places.

You carry a lawn accidentally plowed, earlobes flicked and crossword puzzles finished, a hacky sack exploded and subsequent allegations of pot smoking. Always a free spirit, with wanderlust and deep strength. Always listening. Sensing others’ gullibility and taking advantage. Books read over the phone and a plan to meet in a decade at the flagpole. Young love.  Laughter.  So much laughter.

You hold time at Centre dear spent talking and drinking Speedway coffee on the porch. Of arms linked and legs fatigued as you learned the importance of brotherhood.  You hold a young man who had this idea to walk the Appalachian Trail.  You remember the day he told you what he was doing: “What are you thinking?? You’ve never even been a boy scout!” at least one of you thought.  Perhaps a few more of us shared the sentiment. 

You carry that time on the trail.  One Croc-clad foot in front of the other. Words exchanged.  Stories offered. Time together.  Time in solitude. Time with the Earth, with God – learning that time with the earth was time with God.

I hold a long-haired, too-thin, bandana-wearing young man who left that trail to attend my high school graduation. I rolled my eyes as he gifted me a book entitled How to Stay Christian in College.

You carry the smile on his face as he walked across the summit in Maine – the last AT mountain.

You hold a Rob returned from the trail changed. Spouting new words (sometimes from Braveheart) As one of you put it, always “Finding the adventure in the ordinary. Being brave enough to pursue the extraordinary.” Honest words, classy dinners, a shoulder to lean on. Laughter.  So much laughter.

You hold experiences with Robert of love and rejection, fear and courage, laughter, sorrows, abundant life, death too.

I hold our two years together at Centre – exchanging pleasantries at Cowan or getting together when my parents were in town or when I needed help moving my stuff in. These were not our closest years – my mother once forced him to take me out to dinner and I complained that it felt like she’d sent me out on a “weird date.”

But then, things changed. We both wound up working as youth ministers after college one who I thought was just an ordinary, run-of-the-mill cousin became one of my best friends. Close enough that my middle schoolers teased, incessantly, that I was “dating my cousin” (are we seeing a trend here? Cousins can be confusing.) Annoying as that may have been, it was the 12-year-old way of articulating the fact that my love and affection for Robert were palpable.

You carry an intelligent, kind, engaging, perceptive leader. He brought out the best in others with his playful nature. The gift of teasing without making anyone feel bad. Hobo meals and pizza bagels. Always patient with your questions about God and life.  A “Ghandi- Daniel Boone – wise old man – exuberant child” hybrid – he embraced everyone.  Everyone. And also scared kids in their tents with his mutant monster noise.

I hold that frigid January night when his mother died. Our eyes drooped with fatigue as we sat in the hospital room with my Aunt Marilyn, along with my own mother --  until the morning was upon us and my mom sent the two of us to a hotel for rest.  As our heads hit our pillows we both knew that when we awoke my Aunt Marilyn would be gone.  Squirmy about sharing a bed with his adult female cousin, Robert’s words as we drifted to sleep on opposite sides of that king-sized bed were “Never speak of this to anyone.” (I don’t think he’ll mind.)

I carry that time we went to a concert together (not a date!), drank a couple too many beers, and late into the night made a long list of all the people we each had kissed. One of us had a much longer list than the other. It’s in a physics book somewhere, if you are wondering.

I hold those years when he worked for NOLS and I spoke with him less frequently, but knew that every few months I would get a voicemail: “CUZ! I’m out of the woods for a few weeks. Call me.”

You carry a disorganized, sometimes disheveled man who exuded humility and honesty as he led groups of students on backpacking trips – he was real, approachable, and oh-so-human.  Compassion for all of his students. Managing to make 14 days of rain a blast for everyone involved.  When one begrudging young hiker complained “Rob, it feels like we’re just walking in a big circle…what’s the point?” He responded “You’re right, we’re just walking.  I wonder why I enjoy it so much?” After two weeks the student loved camping, of course. Always the lover of junk food, he encouraged his colleagues and friends to support the local hot dog stand with a homemade sign “Don’t be a meanie, buy a weanie.”

Toward the end of his full-time work with NOLS, he told me a story that was also rehashed this past week: Robert was about to take a group of middle school girls out on a trip, when one of them asked “So, where do you live?” He replied: “Well, uh, all my stuff is in my car.  When I’m not out in the woods I live out of it, mostly visiting friends and family.” To which this young lady replied: “So you’re HOMELESS?? That’s awesome.”

Robert told me this story and reflected “Hannah! I’m homeless! I’m a homeless guy with a ponytail who takes middle school girls out into the woods!“ And then he laughed and sighed and said something to the effect of “Maybe it’s time for me to have a home.” And for the next two years he found one in Mankato.

You carry his time spent studying and living there.  First a Master’s degree in Experiential Education.  And then the pursuit of another in Industrial-Organizational Psychology. A 30-year old man living above a diner with a roommate and no doors.  An authentic, genuine human being who loved Arby’s and God and asking hard questions. Learning. Challenging others. Teaching his teachers. Laughing. So much laughing. You hold that day that a group of his colleagues went out for a climb and Robert took a chair and posted up with his books instead of climbing, “looking like some Holy man about to dispense wisdom.”  When asked if he was okay, he replied “Yes, I’m having a wonderful day!”

I carry that time I asked him to be in my wedding. He was sitting in the den at my parents house watching TV, and I walked in and said:

“Ummm Robert? So. You’re kind of important to me.”

“Uh huh.”

“Would you want to be a…bridesman?”

And he gave me that hearty laugh and mumbled something about that’d be funny and would he get to wear a fancy dress?

“Seriously, though.”

“Oh!” And then he made that noise he made when something warmed his heart but he didn’t really know how to express it: MMNNYYAAAWWW.

I hold the last few months that have been challenging for him.  Riddled with questions – big questions – about God and truth and healing, about love and life and darkness. He told me that in the midst of some struggles he felt he was able to see truth in places he had never seen it before, and that it was both liberating and frightening. Sometimes he felt he was “faking it.” I’m so grateful to be one of those with whom the questions could live. He held mine too.

You carry a Robert who began to have trouble seeing what others saw – questioning his own capability and his connection to others.

I hold a beautiful vacation at the beach just weeks ago. Of everyone there, my daughter Elsie seemed to take to him the most. “Robu Robu Robu“ she waddled around saying, vying for uncle Robert’s attention all week long. So loving with my child, with all of our children. Playing games, sharing meals, getting rest.  Being shown the stars with an illegal laser pointer.  A man on a journey, not entirely sure which direction to face, where to put his walking stick in the ground next.  But growing, healing, and learning nonetheless.

Robert was messy -- totally disorganized. Never a good planner.  A little irresponsible with things like paperwork and finances. And boy did he love junk food. But how those quirks were somehow endearing because Robert was endearing.  

We carry laughter, pain, sorrow, happiness. Games, practical jokes.  Meals together. Deep conversations. Questions. Anger, love. Love.  So much love.

***

I wish I could carry more.  I planned to carry more.  I planned for Uncle Robu to be there.  Close. To be there for my children. For I to be there for his.  Or maybe for him to grow old in a tiny house in the corner of my yard, alone but never alone.

My heart is heavy. All of our hearts are heavy. I imagine they will be heavy for some time.  I am angry that I have to learn how to live in a world without Robert.  I am confused and frustrated and feel that this is incredibly unfair. I miss Robert. And frankly I’m pissed off about all the crazy tragedies that keep happening around here. And yet, I am comforted by the experience of a holy Presence. So although death and life are both great mysteries, I feel this truth in my bones: that Love transcends time and space in ways incomprehensible to us.  That Love conquers death, even as it conquers life. 

The holy presence of Love is here, in your stories. Thank you for sharing them with me, for trusting me with them.  They have lightened my heavy heart.  For they tell of a life lived -- well-lived, even.  Of a boy, and then a man, who lived brightly and loved deeply for 33 years. Who spoke truthfully.  Who humbly asked important questions. Who was not afraid of the adventure at hand.  Who laughed with conviction. Who loved and sought something greater –the presence of God within and around. What I heard and read repeatedly in your stories is that Robert was one of those rare lights in the world whose very presence somehow helped us all to come alive.

We have the honor and the responsibility of carrying this story, these pieces of Robert’s heart -- carrying them in our hearts, into the world. May they inspire us to live brightly. To love deeply.  To speak truthfully. To humbly ask important questions.  To never be afraid of the adventure at hand. To laugh with conviction. To love and seek the presence of something greater within and around us. To help others come alive.

My dear cousin.  My brother. My friend.  My bridesman.

I carry your heart with me.  I carry it in my heart.