We were ten. I loved that number. I still do. Our dad was a grocer, our mom was a mom and they did the best they could with ten children, the first being born as the Nazis invaded Poland and the last one, me, coming along the same time as Sputnik.
My mom, a Catholic convert, took care of all of us in a big, drafty, two-story house that was a way station for an assortment of aunts, uncles, and cousins. My three older sisters all took turns mothering me with multiple trips to toy stores, amusement parks, and the beach. Having six older brothers was both a boon and a curse. The older ones were hard to get to know because so many of their formative years were behind them by the time of my arrival. They would filter in and out of my daily existence to take a turn taking me under wing. One taught me how to tell time, one how to tie a tie, another how to handle a school yard bully. I could boast over varsity basketball players, football and track stars — well, they told me they were stars — and the ultimate bragging rights for any young boy on a playground in those long-ago days — I had brothers who were United States Marines. Game, set, and match. When all was said and done, being the last in a long line is okay.
Which brings me, in a very round-about fashion, to my brother Ray, or Gunny, as we called him. He was a younger brother to some of us, a big brother to others, and a twin to one of us.
When you come from a big family, and when you’re way down on the bottom of the food chain as the “baby”, one thing quickly becomes clear: You’ve got a lot of funerals in your future. I have been to more than I can count. But they were always for “older” relatives like grandparents, aunts, and uncles. My brother Ray was fifty-seven. That isn’t old anymore. In fact, it’s getting younger every year. But forty years of smoking Pall Mall reds caught up to my brother and ravaged him. Ray died last month of lung cancer.
He was tough as nails. He joined the Marines right out of high school, was given an all expenses paid trip to Southeast Asia courtesy of the U.S. government, and came home in one piece. He loved his wife and raised his family. He was obstinate, stubborn, short tempered, and had a mouth like a, well, like a Marine Corps gunnery sergeant. He lived on cigarettes, chocolate donuts and coffee and if his health hadn’t turned so drastically for the worse I was half considering marketing his diet in book form.
I don’t pretend to know why God chose to call my brother home when He did. But on the other hand, I am not wringing my hands or shaking a fist skyward challenging the Almighty on His timing either. In the old days we used to pray for a “good death.” We’ve kind of lost the meaning of that, but my crazy, maddening brother Ray showed us all how a Catholic man does it.
The night before Ray died, his wife, Josie, called me to say that if I wanted to say goodbye, I'd better come over. I didn’t want to say goodbye, but I went. When I got there Ray was in the family room, lying on a hospital bed supplied by hospice care. He was very uncomfortable, the cancer having spread throughout his body. He went in and out of consciousness, would look at me, nod and go back to sleep. Like the coward I am, I came up with any number of words just to have something to say, though none of the words were “I love you.” That wouldn’t have worked for my brother anyway. This was a man who never gave the sign of peace at Mass to a single human being in his life. That was “hippy” stuff.
But he lived the sign of peace in his sometimes difficult, almost always chaotic life. His faith was as simple as a tap on a rock in the Old Testament, and twice as hard. Later that evening my brother Joe, a priest, came over to anoint Ray. By this time, due to the pain and the inability to get comfortable, Ray had moved to the couch in the family room. He was lying on it, his eyes closed, when Joe approached him and loudly announced he was here to anoint.
Without a word, and without opening his eyes either, Ray struggled into a sitting position and without another prompt from Joe, extended his arms and turned his palms up for reception of the holy oils. He was anointed; we all prayed the Our Father and around four in the morning my brother was gone.
It was the hardest funeral I have attended, so far. But during the reception, as my brothers and sisters gathered together, it struck me. Through all these years, through bickering, disagreement, and unchristian attitudes we have all shown one another, the death of our brother revealed just how close we really are. And there was real joy in knowing I belonged to such a group of people so different and so alike.
There are times when it feels like we are just the sum of our imperfections, but there is never a time when the bond is not felt between myself and all of my brothers and sisters. Our brother Ray has shown us the way to leave home and the way to go home. And as we laughed and cried, and laughed again during the funeral reception, all huddled together in some kind of tribal imperative, I never felt better in my life about my family, my deceased brother, and my faith.
You might expect me to end this piece with “Now we are nine.” But that wouldn’t be accurate, because as our mother and father taught us and we believe, Ray lives on, and not just in the collective memories of his nine brothers and sisters, but in the reality of Christ’s promise. I’m stuck with them all. We are still ten and will remain ten. Forever.
Robert Brennan is a professional television writer based in Los Angeles. He and his wife, Melissa, are members of St. Cyril of Jerusalem parish in Encino, CA.
This article originally appeared in the National Catholic Register and is adapted by permission of the author.
