Remembering Brody

I have often thought that if we need to know how to run, or to tumble and fall, or engage in an activity unconditionally, we need only watch kids. Oh, they know nothing of form or pace, or running a negative split, but kids do know that they run for the joy of it, and that’s all.

I was reminded of all this these past couple of days as I have watched many different children, especially my great-niece and nephew Brea and Brooks. Their energy was remarkable; even more extraordinary their abilities to be in the moment. Only Brea, the older of the two, finally crashed out of her energetic flurry into another moment, difficult to grasp, as she came to a confused realization that her youngest brother, Brody, had died just three days earlier. Watching this was a sobering, but poignant experience.

A couple of weeks ago I ran the Capitol 10K in Austin. My nephew (technically nephew-in-law, but that is only a useless detail here) asked if he could run with me. I’m no speedster, as you all know, but I have tried to learn how to run better races, and it was largely for pace that Bill wanted to run with me. Bill is a big guy, tall and heavy, really a Clydesdale if he chose to look at it that way. Bill is light on his feet, and a good bit like a kid. He’s also a good 25 years younger than me, an age difference which has made less and less difference as Bill and I have shared our love for running with each other. This made the Cap10K a special opportunity. We didn’t talk much (it was a challenging day for running easily), but we managed to stay on pace for the first half of the race, pulling each other along up the Enfield hill. In the end, Bill took off, burned out on the fifth mile and coasted on empty across the finish. I crossed the line a half minute or so later, not unhappy about the race. In fact, I was thrilled to have been of any help at all to Bill. It had been a fun time for us both.

Bill waited for me at the finish and we walked back across the grounds as he looked for his wife Cathy and the kids. My schedule was full that day, so I had to run on without seeing the rest of his family. I could now express regrets about this, but they are of no value here. Less than two weeks later, Bill and Cathy’s youngest son, Brody, died unexpectedly in his sleep. Only a little beyond a year old, Brody was still too young to run, though everyone has observed that whatever this young boy did, he did with a smile and a laugh. It would have been a joy to see him grow and run, tumble and fall, then get up and run again.

We all these past several days, this gathering of relatives and friends, learned much through this profound tragedy. We learned that even when we don’t know what to say, the right thing is said by our very struggle to say it. Words are without meaning, while fellowship becomes our language of grieving, and healing. I don’t know if we accomplish anything with our monuments and memorials. Many say these are for the living, for those of us who have survived, and that the dead have already moved beyond a need for things and gestures. But I have never been absolutely sure of this. The first marathon I ever ran was for the memory of a close friend who had died. WOG (William Oltenberg Ginn) was magic-markered onto my hat. I knew it was there; few others noticed, but I felt my quiet demonstration was met with a subtle spiritual sigh. Was it Bill Ginn or only the wind in my face? I know not.

I tell you of this simply as a reminder that we don’t necessarily have to run always in solitude. It can be with a friend; it can be across the yard with a child, as thrilled to run with us as we are with them. We can also run to the spirit of another, a friend passed or a son lost so young. I see many who do this, making their 10 Ks, or half-marathons, into memorials for those they love, or have loved. Empty gesture? I think not. In our running, tumbling, falling and getting back up, we recapture the spirit of children running, and that is a pure lesson.