Eulogy For My Brother Dave

My brother’s effect on my life was only ever positive.

For example, when I was in 8th grade he gave me two vocabulary books, "6 Weeks to Words of Power" and "How to Increase Your Word Power." Such gifts epitomized his logophilic beneficence, but he was never overly conspontuous about it.

My brother knew that words are the media of thought, and the more you mastered words, the better you could absorb the wisdom of ages, and appropriate for yourself the beauties and the delights of thinkers and poets who felt grand sentiments and knew how to convey them.

Words are the carriers of thought, and my brother was never at a loss for them. He was always ready to tell you a story that just might shape your soul.

For example, at the time of our father’s funeral, when I was 17, he pulled me aside to tell me about an incident that occurred sometime around the year I was born. Our father had volunteered to paint the church basement. He finished it one Saturday and was so exhausted that the next day in church Dad fell asleep. An usher passed by and nudged my 13-year-old brother Dave, grinned and pointed at Dad, as though to say, “Get a load of your old man, asleep in the pew.” That made Dave angry. You don’t make fun of my dad. Then it got worse. Because from the pulpit the pastor thanked the man who contributed the money to buy the paint, but made no mention of dad’s donation of labor. By this point Dave was ready to hit somebody. Afterwards he asked dad, “Dad, doesn’t it bother you that the guy who gave the money gets recognized and thanked, but nobody knows what you did or thanks you.”

And Dad replied, “Son, my reward is not here.”

You can’t imagine how many times over the past 44 years those words have resonated in me, rebuked my vanity, and rejoiced my heart to know that I was not raised by a man whose mind was set on earthly things, but whose citizenship and treasure were in heaven. It was my father who said those words and lived a life worthy of their expression, but it was my brother Dave who remembered them, and put the whole account into words, and even wrote it down, and made sure it got passed along and could bear ever-ripening fruit for decades to come.

Those of you who knew Dave are aware that his delight in noble and transcendent thoughts existed side-by-side with a personality that would say, “Here, pull my finger.” I fell for that one when I was 11 years old. I remember Dave erupting with laughter when he said, “Yeah, Marsha fell for it twice.”

Quite a few times in my own marriage when I’ve been irresistibly tempted to make some comment that lacks decorum but that I find funny, I have said to my wife, “You should be glad I’m not my brother! He has no filter at all.”

Isn’t that right, Marsha?

Poor Marsha is the one who had to endure my brother’s comic flights of lunacy. Like the time he got really bored in a worship service when they were singing, slowly, over and over again, “Hallelujah, hallelujah...” Dave decided to make up his own lyrics and he sang them out loud. “This is boring, can we go now, pass the offering, this is boring…”

The rest of us when we heard Dave relate that story laughed so hard our heads hurt. But of course we didn’t have to stand next to him, mortified, while he was doing it.

So, this is as good a time as any to say publically what I have long felt in my heart. I know that my brother Dave was a great man. A great, wise and generous man. But I also know that great men can be impossible to live with. I know that from reading biographies and from personal observation. Therefore I tell you the truth, one greater than David is here. And we need not wait for a far future funeral to acknowledge that. So, Marsha, on behalf of all Lundquists, living and dead, thank you for loving, enduring, and putting up our brother Dave.

Proverbs 17:22 says, “A merry heart doeth good like a medicine, but a broken spirit dryeth the bones.” I know that my brother’s heart was not always merry. But more important, he made the hearts of others merry with his antics and wry observations and outright slapstick.

A few years ago my wife found a meme online - a poster picture of 6 or 7 apples, each with a single bite taken out. The caption read, “Life with a toddler.” It was probably put up by some exasperated parent whose child had taken one bite apiece out of several apples. And Lisa said to me, “This reminds me of your brother Dave!” She was referring to a story Dave liked to tell, where on Teacher Appreciation Day some kind soul had put an apple in each of the teachers’ cubbyholes. Dave went up and took a bite out of each apple, then put the apple back with the good side facing out. And then he sat down to watch teachers come in so he could enjoy the results of their appalling discoveries.

There it is, life with a toddler. My brother had a brilliant mind and a toddler’s sense of fun. Few things are more joyful than hearing the laughter of a small child. Dave could cackle like a toddler well into his 70s.

And nothing was off-limits. Like the time he suffered a gruesome injury, losing a finger to a malevolent garage door. It took Dave almost no time to realize that that was comedy gold. Because for one thing, it was the same finger on the same hand at the same knuckle joint of the famous missing middle digit of Jerry Garcia. And for another thing, it gave Dave the opportunity to write some light comic poetry about now only being able to flip you half a bird.

Dave could laugh in the face of injury. But can you laugh in the face of death? Many draw the line there. Death is the ultimate taboo topic for many. There are people who pride themselves on their ability to engage any subject at all but they will shudder at the mention of death and say, “Please talk about something else! Change the subject!”

But not in our family. In-laws have noted with amazement that we are the “death family” because the topic does not phase us at all. In April of 2001, my brother came to the Chicago area for our mother’s funeral. While there he dropped in on an old friend whose wife met Dave at the door. She was in tears, distraught. She explained, “I’m sorry you caught me at this time Dave. I’m upset because my dog died.” And Dave listened for quite some time as she spilled out her grief. He sympathized with her, thinking all the while, “Boy I bet I can top this!” Finally came that magic moment when she said, “So, Dave, what brings you to Chicago?”

Once again, as Dave related that story to me with uncontrolled chortling, I laughed so hard I thought I was going to have stroke and die myself.

Now I don’t believe that it is mere morbidity or a perverse delight in dark humor that accounts for the ease with which our family broaches the topic of death. There is more to it than that. It’s a matter of our knowing something about death so glorious as to extinguish all fear of it. Hebrews chapter 2 verse 15 talks about those who all their lives were held captive by their fear of death. But followers of Christ need not fear it. Because Jesus Christ, Son of God, conquered death, rose again from it, and he gives eternal life to all who trust in him. For those who trust in Christ, the Bible says, “Nothing, not even death, can separate us from the love of God.” As the hymn-writer Christian Gellert wrote, “Jesus lives, and death is now but my entrance into glory. Courage then, my soul, for thou hast a crown of life before thee. Thou shalt find thy hopes were just. Jesus is the Christian’s trust.” Or as St. Paul said, on death row, awaiting trial under Nero Caesar, “I desire to depart and be with Christ, which is better by far. To me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.”

I’m sure my brother would approve my quoting John Donne at this point:

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and Dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me... One short sleep past, we wake eternally. And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

Over the years my brother gave me many books to read. One of them was a thick book of anecdotes, taken mostly from historical sources. When he gave it to me he opened it up and pointed out a story about Joseph Addison, 18th century British scholar and statesman. It said that on his deathbed Addison called for his stepson, Lord Warwick, and said to him his final words: “See in what peace a Christian can die.”

Ever since Dave showed that to me I have wanted those to be my final words too. They probably won’t be my final words, because if I die suddenly there won’t be time to say them, and if I die slowly my brain will be too addled and my body too wracked with pain to say anything significant. But even if the words themselves cannot be expressed, may the truth and the reality still hold: “See in what peace a Christian can die.” And for that matter, see in what peace the body of a Christian can be laid to rest.

Let us pray.

Father, thank you for the life that was Dave Lundquist. Thank you for his generosity of spirit, and for the privilege I had of growing up under his broad shadow. Thank you for the mercy you had on his soul through your Son Jesus Christ. If there are any here who fear death, and rightly fear it, because their sins have hidden your face from them, grant them even now faith by which they repent and cry out to you for mercy, and then receive the glad assurance that all who call upon the name of the Lord will be saved. And as we await the consummation of that deliverance, please give us a special measure of grace to honor and imitate everything about Dave in which he honored and imitated Jesus Christ, his Savior and ours. Amen.