(I wrote this for the celebration service for my brother, Steve Henry Gillespie, 11/7/2015. I’m in no mood to edit this and would think it’d lose something if I did, so here you go…)

Good afternoon. I think everyone here knows it, but on the off chance you don’t by now, I’m Jonathan Gillespie, Steve’s brother. The angel just up here was my wife.

I wanted to say something before I began. I’ve been in a number of churches in my life, from the small Church of Christ of my youth and several informal Bible study groups of my adolescence on through the prison ministry I was a part of and my current church, Church of the Apostles in Atlanta, GA. The Church of the Apostles is in many ways 180 degrees from the church of my youth. For one thing, it’s so large I’m pretty sure planes that lost their instruments on an approach to Hartsfield-Jackson could use the building as a visual reference.

I bring this up because in every good congregation I have seen that great Biblical promise borne out: that wherever two or more of us are gathered He is among us. That’s certainly been the case over these past, difficult days following my brother’s passing. I can say with complete certainty that my parents are part of a church that exemplifies Christian love and fellowship. I wanted to express on my family’s behalf our deep gratitude for all of you and all you’ve done.

I also want to thank those of you that made the drive from parts south to be with us. I’m sure Steve sees all of you here today, and the support of so many friends and family is deeply moving to the rest of us he’s left behind.

So with that said, I’m going to try to get through some words without breaking up.

Services in the U.S. after someone passes before their time, like my brother did, are conducted like a post-mortem at a fortune 500 company after there’s been some sort of product launch or project failure. The hope is that if enough sharply-dressed people are brought together into one room, perhaps some sense can be made of the senseless.

But my brother’s passing was senseless, and there’s no other more appropriate word to describe it. He didn’t deserve this. He deserved better.

Steve was the most loyal brother one could ever hope for. There were many long periods of time when I wouldn’t reach out to him, because I was upset with him, and even hurt. But he would still reach out to me. He never wanted to cut that connection. That’s because Steve loved in a way that was purer than logic and more decent than simply tabulating a ledger of past grievances. Steve was determined to be my wingman, even when I didn’t want to fly in formation with him. In the past two years especially, as his health started to degrade, I scrambled to rejoin him in flight. To let bygones be bygones and give him more time with Michelle and my little girls, who he loved and still loves dearly. I am so glad I did this, because on Monday Steve’s flight took a different trajectory. He peeled off up into the clouds, and ever since I have strained to see him in the sun.

I’ve had time to think in between the mad rush that accompanies the loss of a loved one. I’ve had time to reflect. I’ve had time for regrets, yes, but also for good memories.

Steve lived his life dialed to 11. Before he was even in college he’d done a broader range of activities and engaged in more hobbies than most people do over the course of their entire lives. He was a store manager and a teacher cadet by high school. He was an accomplished poet, feverishly writing and rewriting poems in his journals. I’ve read through them over the past few days, having only heard a few of them over the years, and I’ve marveled at his talent, his emotion. He applied this same talent and energy to music, penning lyrics and playing guitar for Proof Negative, one of those rare garage bands that transcended into legitimate paying gigs and actual street cred. He was gifted in the kitchen. He was a talented gardener. He was a voracious reader, consuming everything from Plato to Guillermo Del Toro.

He also possessed an incredible sense of humor and timing. And he was impulsive. I think here some examples seem appropriate. In order to protect the innocent, for the following memories I’ll omit names and just tack on “allegedly” at the end of each.

He took part in an impromptu off-road adventure with a golf kart, of all things, through our neighborhood with one of my cousins, who will go unnamed. Allegedly.

If rumors I of course can’t substantiate are to be believed, he may have thrown somewhere between one and three dozen parties at my parents’ house at times they were out of town. And at one of these said parties someone went for an unintentional swim in the outside pool—in February. Allegedly.

He once attempted to cross a sand dune in a two-door sports coupe, and was shockingly unsuccessful. Allegedly.

He was offered a pepper to try, sometime around age eight, and even though he’d just seen how his brother had dared only a nibble, he bit the pepper off all the way down to the stem, with the result looking like something out of a Warner Brothers cartoon. Allegedly.

Stick around with those that were lucky enough to have Steve in their lives and you’ll hear all sorts of similar stories. You couldn’t always bank on what Steve was going to do, but you could always bank that you wouldn’t be bored.

And whatever he said, he meant. Steve had his problems, as we all do, but his love was genuine. At times, you could say the same thing about his anger. But he’d get over his anger, inevitably, and the love would remain.

The love is there in his journals, even in the moments he was most challenged. For all that dogged Steve, it never really beat him, because he never lost that bright center of himself. At times you’d have to strain to see it, like trying to fish a silver coin out of a stream bed, but then you’d find it again, and you’d remember why you loved him, and you’d hope things would get better, and when they didn’t you’d understand what unfair meant.

This is what I wish people could understand about my brother and about my best friend on Earth—one of the few people who have really understood me. There’s a beauty in the middle of this tragedy, and it’s this: Someone who goes through hell and still shines is a rare coin indeed.

So none of this should have happened. None of this makes any sense, and will—despite reflection in the years and decades to come—never make any sense. But there are still some lessons that can be learned.

First, and I want to underscore this for the younger people among us today: Be careful to never overestimate how much you can really control. And be careful what contemporary philosophies you buy into. I mourn the rising intellectual tide in our country that says God does not exist and his edicts are not worth following. Among the many problems with this mindset is that it underestimates the presence of evil. And Evil is just fine with you not believing or respecting it, in the same way a sniper is more than happy for some careless soldier to miss their presence. Steve did overestimate how much he could control, I think, and as I said he had his faults, as we all do, but I can say without any doubt that his faith was constant, and it was endearing, and it was that cornerstone that kept him from ever losing himself. A line in one of Steve’s journals reads “People only turn to God when they’re desperate. I’d turn to God every day. I do. I really do.” Consider that.

Second, life is more fragile than we think. Steve spent his time around us more cognizant than most seniors of how precious time with our loved ones is. He was wiser than me because he’d grasped just how quickly today’s chances could become yesterday’s regrets. Don’t put off calls to your loved ones. Forgive first, always. Don’t let arguments and bad blood linger. Don’t stew in your own juices banking that you’ll be able to turn off the oven eye when you’re good and ready.

Finally, don’t ever let anyone in your life get away with believing they aren’t worth the attention of others or that they don’t measure up compared to others. It’s a sad fact in our lives that the best of us are usually the hardest on themselves, and it’s a pattern of thinking that, if engaged to the extreme, can have tragic results. There’s a reason Christ dined with the tax collectors. And there’s a reason you have to be determined not to let anyone believe all they’re good enough to be is out of the way so they don’t cause others trouble with their problems.

I wish Steve hadn’t withdrawn so many times, and hadn’t felt so alone. I wish I had listened longer and on more many nights to that often-unsteady voice on the other end of the phone. But if I haven’t been the best brother, at least I can get this right, and honor the man that I was lucky enough to know.

I always loved you, brother. And I always will.

Hallelujah.