Brothers
My younger brother Jon died in an accident four years ago; his MS had led to decline in quality of life over many years before that
This is a companion essay to
by Nikki Meyler Miller. We met in a recent Zoom online Story Summit class. Having both lost a sibling, we collaborated on writing our essays, describing the special relationships between brothers and sisters and the ensuing grief following their loss.
My brother Jon was always faster, stronger, and more athletic than I was. Three years younger than me, he loved sports, action, and physical competition. (Unlike me—I was the band and speech kid. Our older sister, Jacki, was the smart one.)
As his big brother, I always wanted to protect him.
During a 4-H intramural basketball game in junior high school, when our club was playing another club, one of Jon’s friends derisively shouted at me, “Your brother is a better basketball player than you are!” I was angry and embarrassed—but knew he was right. “OK,” I grumbled.
I had tried school sports but quit after 9th grade. Jon, however, was our family’s sportsman: baseball in the summer, basketball throughout high school, and multiple intramurals in between. We had a pastor who once gave Jon a pole vault pole so he could practice in a makeshift pit we built by our milking parlor.
My brother was very much into motor sports, especially motorcycles, competing in weekend dirt bike contests through high school and early college days.
As long as I can remember (continuing well past college), Jon and I had this little competition when heading upstairs at bedtime in the old family farmhouse: I would race up the stairs, with him in pursuit, trying to catch my ankles to tackle me before I reached the top. I celebrated a special kind of victory if I got to the top without him snagging me!
In adulthood, my brother continued physical activities, including adult intramural leagues, motorcycle riding, and racing his jet ski on the lake. He was always on the move, fast.
It seemed especially cruel then, that in his late 30s, around the same time as his marriage ended, my brother was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, MS—which led to a gradual and continued decline in his physical capabilities over the remaining 30 or so years of his life.
I learned that MS is a disease that causes breakdown of the protective covering of nerves, which can cause numbness, weakness, trouble walking, and vision changes. Eventually, the disease can cause permanent nerve fiber damage, bringing gradual declines in physical abilities, mental acuity, verbal skills, or all of the above.
This is how we gradually lost our brother Jon.
Jon had settled in Ohio as a United Methodist pastor and would typically visit us back in Iowa about three times a year: Christmas, July 4, and Labor Day weekend when Humboldt holds its annual Rock’n’Picnic band fest in Sheldon Park. In the past, he often traveled to Iowa on his motorcycle.
Sometimes grief comes all at once. Other times, it happens over time, like a slow-dripping faucet that eventually creates a rust stain in the white sink below that can no longer be ignored or erased.
Each time we saw him, we could tell his physical capabilities seemed just a bit diminished from the time before. We seemed to lose brother Jon, a little at a time.
It was difficult watching his decline:
He rode his motorcycle until he no longer felt safe doing that, so he sold it. I thought It was not just a vehicle, but part of his soul he had to give up.
In the past, when he came home to visit, he would often make arrangements to preach at his home church while in town. People loved that as they remembered the old Jon. But after a while, his messages became disjointed; he got confused. I remember feeling like an ass when, after one of those church services, when he had particular problems getting his words out, I suggested that he might consider retiring from that activity. You know, big brother still trying to protect him. Today, I am still conflicted about that, not completely sure it was the right thing for me to do.
One trip back to Iowa, driving west on Highway 20, Jon got disoriented and ended up almost to Sioux City, over 100 miles west, before realizing he had missed the Fort Dodge exit. Distracted? Unaware? Declining vision? That was before cell phones; my sister and I worried that something terrible had happened to him. We were so relieved to finally see him at our door.
And each time he came to visit, he seemed to move a little slower and was more unsteady—especially on stairs. We would watch carefully as he went up and down. I longed for the old days when he chased me up those stairs.
Jon always seemed to be trying new meds. Some were shots, some were pills, some were very expensive. I lost track of what he was taking, when. And I felt dishonest trying to answer when he asked, “Do you think I am doing better now?”
His conversations included many pauses—sort of like his mouth was trying to catch up with his mind so he could tell us what he was thinking about. And although I was trying to be compassionate, I was also impatient.
And often his facial expressions were flat and hard to read. Was he paying attention? Was his body allowing him to pay attention? I wanted to shout, “Jon, wake up!”
But—Jon’s kindness, humor, close connection to our kids, and social interactions, though awkward, remained genuine as ever. His love for others never failed.
Four years ago, in June 2021, we spent time with my brother in person for the last time. It was the weekend of our daughter Kate’s wedding, during which I spent three full days either smiling or crying while celebrating.
Kate had asked her Uncle Pastor Jon to come to St. Paul, Minnesota, to participate in the ceremony by reading the scripture. He chose the love chapter, 1 Corinthians 13.
She knew it would be a challenge for him to fly to the Twin Cities, but he joyfully agreed and arrived in good spirits. We had not seen him for a while.
About two hours before the service, it was family picture time, and we scouted around for family members. Jon was missing. I called his phone—no answer. I panicked and raced across the street from the wedding venue to the hotel, imagining the worst. What if my brother died right before his niece’s wedding?
I was relieved when he opened the door and admitted he was having difficulty tying his necktie. I helped him with that, then carefully held his hand as we slowly journeyed across the street for photos and the wedding.
The ceremony went beautifully. Jon got from his chair and made it to the front lectern and back safely; he read the scripture powerfully and beautifully.
The next morning, we gave him a ride to the MSP Airport. He looked at me from the passenger seat and said, “I miss you guys already.”
We hugged him at the curb as the airport assistant rolled him away in the wheelchair. Our last conversation.
At about 10:30 p.m., July 22, just over a month after the wedding, I got a call from Jon’s daughter in Ohio. A conservation officer had just visited their house bearing the news that Jon had been discovered by boaters late that afternoon, face down in Buckeye Lake east of Columbus, his jet ski floating nearby. No one had seen what had happened, and no one knew how long he had been there.
I recalled that with his motorcycle long gone, his jet ski had become one of his last vehicles of freedom and independence. That day’s trip was his final action, his final ride.
I have to force myself not to imagine the last moments of his life and what took place out on that lake.
Rather, I choose to think he died doing something he loved to do.
Jon Keith Sayers - October 12, 1951 - July 22, 2024
Grief. Following my brother’s death, I felt empty, as if I had lost a piece of my past. I grieve that I can no longer see him and about those parts of life he missed because of the effects of his horrible disease.
Yet I have joy.
Today, as I look at old photos, each one with his face brings back a memory and a story about part of the life we shared together.
As I look at Jon’s United Methodist Book of Hymns, now a keepsake, I find that inside the back cover, he listed, by date, the songs he chose for almost every worship service he ever led in his ministry. I am surprised by his level of organization, but certainly not by his style.
I grieve for my brother, and I am joyful for the times we spent together and the life stories we shared.
If you believe in an afterlife and knew Jon, you likely picture him riding this motorcycle now.
Wonderful tribute. As we say in the Jewish faith, may his memory be for a blessing
Jim, you and Nikki have both paid tribute to your siblings in a tender and loving way. How blessed you were to have them in your lives, leaving you with beautiful memories.