Missing Barry

Two weeks ago my daughter mentioned that her class were studying the Berlin Wall as part of her "A" level work. Did I remember it coming down? Not only did I remember the wall coming down, I can remember it going up, I replied

"But the person you really need to talk to about this is Uncle Barry. He was in the army and on guard duty along the wall when it first went up....." and then my voice trailed off. I had just said something unbelievably silly: it was no longer possible to have a word with Barry.

It is six months today that I saw my brother Barry for the last time. He had been suffering from primary liver cancer for over two years. The previous day he had been taken into hospital and I had been over to see him. He didn't say much except to ask me the date, which he repeated, these turned out to be his last words to me.

The following day I had left home early for a meeting in London. Just as the train was pulling out of Birmingham I had a call from Barry's wife to say that I was needed at the hospital urgently. Similar calls were made to my sister and Barry's children.

My sister and I met and went to the hospital together. The medics were convinced that Barry would not last the day. He didn't say anything, but we were assured that Barry would be aware of our being there and able to hear what we said.

It was a really harrowing day made bearable by prayer, Bible reading, some singing and talking about old times. I was struck by how dignified Barry looked. He didn't say anything but I felt he knew he was dying and did his best to make us feel at ease. However I really wanted the whole thing to stop. I wanted Barry to sit up, get dressed and go home.

I personally felt under strain. I was Uncle David, the one who had to keep his head at all times. There came a moment when his breathing stopped, his lips filled with foam and that was it. I remember his youngest daughter saying "Go to sleep Daddy, have a lovely rest", surely the most wonderful sentence I have heard in the English language outside of the Bible. When it was all over, just after seven in the evening, the hospital staff put into place a well rehearsed but helpful process of taking us to the relatives room, laying out Barry's body and starting the paperwork.

The thing that hit me, and still does, is how upset I am about the death. I'd literally known Barry all my life. When we were kids we slept in the same bed until I was about 7. He was always there. I remember once telling him he was such a snob because he had been born in Willesley Castle (that is another story) and that was one of the kinder things we said to one another!

However I don't think I ever thought of myself as loving Barry. Let's face it boys don't love their brothers. It never occurred to me, even in the weeks before his inevitable death that I would miss him so much.

We did have profound differences of opinion about politics and Christianity for much of our lives but we mutually (to the bafflement of anyone else) shared a great deal with our sense of humour. I took the funeral and many people who did not know me commented how many of my mannerisms and turn of phrase, even my jokes, were like Barry's.

Belatedly I realise how much we shared that is almost unsharable with anyone else. We were witnesses to some of the unbelievable things that happened to us as children and young people. We both had difficult times and a later respectability doesn't tell the whole story of either life. Our testimony to the saving grace of Our Lord Jesus Christ came from a profound experience of God working in both our lives, answering the prayers of the saints who prayed for our family at a local Plymouth Brethren Assembly.

One interesting point, and it isn't meant as a knock because I'm told its the same the world over. My sister-in-law, his children and my mother were inundated with cards. I just got two and one of those was from a close friend who had lost his sister three years before. Perhaps we don't appreciate the mourning that siblings feel on the death of a brother or sister and that is something I will take on board in my pastoral work in future.

There were lots of things I wanted to share with Barry. I don't think I ever put into words my admiration at the way in which he coped with those last few depressing months.

Many times I think to myself, I must mention that to Barry or ask Barry what he remembers about this and that. But I can't and never will do now. There are one or two family issues where his view would be really helpful but he is not here to discuss these things.

At the time I didn't cry. There were others who had greater cause to mourn. However a few weeks after the funeral I was walking through St Albans where I was working, when my mind went back to something very funny that had happened to us as children. I smiled then my eyes filled with tears. I realised that Barry's death was having a greater impact on me than I had admitted to anyone else, or to myself.

When my daughter asked about the Berlin Wall and I realised my mistake my eyes filled with tears again , as they do now as I write this.

I am missing Barry and always will. See you soon Baz.