Remembering Tom

For those of you who are unaware, I had to move my mother into an adult care home recently. Nan and I (mostly Nan) just finalized the sale of her double-wide mobile home, and today, as I was going through some of her things in preparation to storing them up in my attic, I came upon the eulogy I gave for my half-brother Tom, November 22, 1996. My mother had printed it out and put it in a plastic sleeve with a cover sheet on which was printed a graphic of a dove, the words, "In Loving Memory", and to which she pasted the tiny notice from the Oregonian obituary page of his death and funeral services at Lighthouse Mission Church in Portland.

I hadn't read this since I spoke these words almost twelve years ago, but was once again moved by the emotion and sentiment that inspired me to write it, and so thought it fitting to share it here.

Tom Mitchell was my brother. Our father was a preacher, so I guess it was natural that we both wanted to follow that same path. For me it was a stroll that ultimately led to a cul-de-sac, but for Tom it was a journey that lasted most of his life.

Aside from the fact that Tom and I had different mothers, our upbringings were quite different. Throughout his adolescence, Tom was raised by our father's sister and her husband, Aunt Flora and Uncle Burl, during which time, if I correctly recall my brother's stories, he rebelled against all things religious. He did, however, discover athletics and, with some distinction, ran the high hurdles and played football in high school. Once, when I saw among his things an old slide-rule in a worn leather case, he confided in me that his mathematical abilities were such that Lockheed had offered him a full scholarship to M.I.T. But professional athletics and aerospace engineering were not to be for Tom: when he converted from that most common religion of American adolescent males--an "angry young man"--to Christianity, Tom knew that the ministry was to be his life.

I know little of the beginnings of his ministry. I know he didn't attend Bible school or college of any kind. As to how or where he acquired his considerable preaching abilities, I'm at a loss, other than the belief that it was Tom's gift from God. I remember him mentioning from time to time that he worked for a short while at the paper mill in Moss Point, Mississippi where he had lived with Aunt Flora and Uncle Burl. But I presume that after that he began to preach and through whatever opportunities were afforded him by local pastors, and by virtue of his ardor and drive, never looked back.

My first memory of Tom was of when I was perhaps five years old. Tom would have been 21 or 22 then. He seemed huge to me, maybe because he was almost half a foot taller than our father; and with his bright red hair, and broad smile, and abundant catalogue of funny voices and faces, I thought he was the most wonderful person I had ever met. I loved him almost more than I could bear. When I was seven he taught me to play chess...chess to a seven year old: how he had the patience I will never know. But from that moment on I would beg him unmercifully to play with me. He always beat me horribly, of course. Even after we were grown, I only recall capturing his king once. But I always came back for more. I was playing with my big brother: that was payment enough for the most grim defeat.

When I was eight I took a long trip with Tom. We traveled from Yuma, Arizona to Dallas, Texas where the Church of God (the organization with which he was ordained) held its general assembly. After a week there, we went on to my Aunt Flora's and Uncle Burl's house in Moss Point, Mississippi where I was introduced to traditional Southern afternoon "dinner" (supper is the evening meal in the South) of black-eyed peas with ham hocks and cornbread sticks. And finally we went on to Tampa, Florida where I met Tom's very gracious mother, and my sister Susan. Again I fell madly in love.

When I was nine my sister Joanne came to visit, and I discovered that my brother Tom's singing was a family trait. She was for many years a member and often soloist in the Tampa Metropolitan Opera. She sang on my father's local Sunday afternoon TV show and the switchboard at the station was flooded with calls for the rest of the day. They continued to receive calls for weeks after from people wanting to know when she would sing again. Now I had two sisters and a brother to love.

Two years later I took another trip with Tom; this time to travel with him on the evangelistic field. We drove each other a little bit crazy: I was a slightly precocious and insufferably obnoxious child away from his parents, and he was a bachelor, by now set in his ways and used to coming and going as he pleased. But during the day we golfed together and played board games and practiced the guitar. And every night at church I would sing and "testify"--usually anecdotes and metaphorical stories I had plagiarized...from Tom, of course--and then sit and glory in the fire and passion of my bother's preaching. Never did he fail to move me. Never was he clumsy or tongue-tied. Night after night he wove elegant tapestries of words, sermons like symphonies in which each movement and variation built to a final crescendo of emotion. When, a few years after that, I began to preach, it was Tom, not my father, who was my ideal and pattern.

Tom was never to marry. There were a few close calls, but the demands and rigors of his first love--the ministry--always seemed to conflict with courtship. I believe he would have been a wonderful father. He seemed to me to be much better with children than I am. I remember how happy he was when my sons were born, how he indulged them and took interest in their most minor achievements. But if he had no children of his own, he certainly had no lack of surrogates. Of all the children in all the churches I ever visited with Tom, I never saw one who did not seem drawn to him or was not amused by the same easy manner of his that won me over as a child.

For many years Tom was like a wandering nomad, possessing only the few modest items he could pack into the truck of his car, relying on the hospitality of the churches at which he preached to provide him a bed. It was often a lonely exhausting life and at times an exercise in deprivation. He had no security, no savings, no retirement fund, no insurance, and no mate with whom to share his life. But always he was meeting people, helping people, reaching out, lifting up. My brother probably had more fiends than anyone I've ever met. And finally things began to get a little better for him. Finally, here in Portland, he found a place to plant at least one or two roots; a place where he could travel from and come back to. He had a long tenure as assistant pastor of Peninsular Open Bible Church under pastor Pearl Short. And later, after more very hard times, Tom returned to Portland and found his final home at Lighthouse Mission Church. It was a homecoming in more ways than one for Tom, like a great circle in the arc of his life; Dan Wold (the pastor of Lighthouse Mission Church) tells me that it was with his grandfather, dear Brother DeVrees--a wonderful man of God whom many of us, including me, remember with great affection--it was with Brother DeVrees that Tom got his start in evangelism.

I witnessed a change in Tom as he finally settled here. The life of a revivalist is a troublesome one, especially at the minimalist scope at which Tom operated--a life with which I am well acquainted, for I lived it with my father and mother throughout my adolescence. It is often filled with concern verging on desperation. Where is your next meeting? How will you get there? What do you do when a church cancels a two-week revival two days before you were supposed to start, and your checking account is empty? I won't bore you with Tom's financial troubles other than to say they were many and seemingly endless. The many years he spent on the road had taken its toll. But here in Portland, at Lighthouse Mission Church, finally he could begin to relax. He could experience the small routines that for most of us comprise the bulk of life. And he got to experience a new kind of travel: one different from the scrabbling-for-survival kind he had done in that past. Now he was able to go places he had only dreamed of before. I know he loved going to those far-off places--Kenya, Israel, Greece, Hong Kong--he always brought gifts back to all of us, and told us about the sights he had seen, the people he had met. And best of all, he had a place to come back to, a home in which to unpack his bags, shelves upon which he arrange his mementos.

Perhaps the most poignant fact of Tom's life was the love he engendered in those around him. Not just his family, though we did indeed love him--more than we can express--but also the overwhelming number of people he affected. I am proud of my brother that the measure of his life is not his possessions--for he had almost none; nor his industry--for though often a craftsman, that was not his vocation; or even his artistry--for though he did write songs and sermons, that was not his most noble achievement. The truest measure of my brother's life is the hundreds of people who knew and cared for him, and whose lives were enriched by his fellowship. That is a legacy that will far outlive possessions, or structures, or artistry. It is a legacy embedded in the lives of those whom he touched. It is a legacy of life. It is a legacy of love.