I wish we'd had more time

A couple years ago I came across a picture on Facebook, posted on a friend of a friend's page.  I couldn't believe my eyes.  There was my oldest brother Brett in full color, in a picture I'd never seen before of him.  He is the one in the yellow shirt, front row on the left.

The year was 1979.  He must have been 16 or just turned 17.  These were his friends from Wickenburg High, where I would eventually graduate six years later.  There are 3 other guys I recognize, the rest I don't know.  They look like a bunch of teenagers hanging out in their own space, goofing off, building a fire, having fun.  Maybe it was a late summer night, that summer before we moved back to London, where Brett would graduate from high school the following May.  Maybe they talked about being seniors the next year, summer crushes, or dreams after high school.  Brett had big dreams of flying, like Dad.

But a year and a half later he was gone.  His plane went down one cold January day when the wings iced up and the plane got too heavy, and crashed on the way to the Grand Canyon with his flight instructor, his instructor's brother, and the brother's 2 sons.  Just 18.

We lost Brett that day, January 12, 1981.  The other family lost 4.  All of our lives were changed forever.

Honestly I wasn't close to him.  We were 6 years apart.  I have a few memories, but most are lost.  But I wish we'd had more time.  To grow up, to grow together.  To not feel the distance in our ages as we aged into adults.  To find out the things we had in common and the values we both embraced.  To learn from each other, laugh with each other, lean on each other.  I wish.

But I have a hope, deeper than deep, that someday I will see him again.  Standing next to Dad, my Aunt Essie, my sister-in-law Rachel, and others yet to be known, they will welcome me into heaven's dwelling with smiles and open arms.  And our time will have just begun.

Thank you Jesus for that hope.