I baked challah bread for a few friends today, a group of my classmates who recently moved into a house together. I thought a fresh loaf of bread might make a nice house-warming gift. See? I can be nice… sometimes.

This afternoon, I was struck by how odd my memory can be. My mind so readily associates specific actions with past events that it’s almost scary. For instance, I can’t listen to Bob Schneider’s song “Gold in the Sunset” without thinking of the day six years ago when I sat on Mission Beach in San Diego, listening to the whole album after a long shift at Sea World.¹ I also can’t wash dishes without hearing my friend Chris saying, “If it ain’t foamin’, something’s roamin’.”  And as I discovered today, I can’t bake challah bread without being reminded of the last weekend in May 2010 – the weekend my brother went to be with Jesus.²

We’d all gathered at Robert’s father-in-law’s lodge in Burnet, TX for a a weekend of family, jet skis, and Texas barbecue. It was utter chaos. The weekend had been planned months in advance, but the week before Robert’s doctors had informed him that we’d exhausted every treatment option Western medicine could offer. The cancer was still running rampant in his body and the best they could do was make him comfortable and try to keep him from having any seizures. I’m pretty sure he knew that weekend was going to be his last, but I thought we still had a few more weeks.

It was one of the strangest weekends of my life. On one hand, we had all of Aimee’s siblings, their kids, and all of our family there. It was a hot Texas weekend and we had a lake, boats, and loads of food at our disposal. On the other hand, my brother was getting weaker by the hour and was tethered to a ventilator because the tumors in his lungs were making it difficult for him to breathe. Adding to the chaos, Robert’s closest friends were flying in from all over the country to see him. Emotionally, it was completely bizarre. How could one weekend be simultaneously fun and heartbreaking?

I’d been tasked that weekend with cooking on meal for the group, but I decided to up the ante by baking a few loaves of challah from scratch. I’d been practicing for months and was anxious to show off my culinary skills. After my dad and I arrived at the lodge, I went to the store and picked up all the ingredients. This introvert was emotionally overloaded and needed some time alone to settle his thoughts. When everyone else called it a night and we’d comfortably settled Robert in bed, I wandered into the kitchen and got to work. By the time I finished kneading and braiding the loaves, it was 1 o’clock. So I stowed them in the refrigerator and made my way to bed in the dark. I’d hoped to fall asleep quickly. Instead, I spent the next hour listening to Robert’s ventilator and laid in bed with tears streaming down my face. I can’t call it weeping. There weren’t the normal sobbing, heaving breaths; there were just the tears, quietly making their way out of my eyes and down my cheek to the pillow.

Eventually I fell asleep, but only for thirty minutes. I woke up to the sound of Robert’s groans and coughs as he tried to re-situate himself in his bed. I woke up and spent the next half hour getting Robert comfortable, only to find that no number sheep would ever coax me back to my slumber. Too awake to sleep and too dazed to do anything mentally taxing, I found a spot on the couch and read through 1 John. After that, I grabbed my phone and called a friend who I knew would be awake.³ We spent the next twenty minutes on the phone. Jaye said little. I just wept. Robert had always been the strong one. It was frightening to see him so weak, so frail. Still, it helped to hear the voice of a friend, even if neither of us could find the words I needed to hear. I didn’t get incredible council, but I did get a long-distance hug.

After the call, I did little but stare blankly at the open pages of my Bible, too emotionally drained to even think. At about 5 o’clock, Robert’s daughter Emeline woke up and wandered downstairs, planning to wake up her grandmother and get an early start on the day with a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

“Gwammy? Gwaaammyyyy? I’m hungwy…”

“Emeline, shhhhh. You don’t have to wake up Grammy. What do you need?”

“Unk Joe? Yo’ ‘wake?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. What do you need?”

“I want some bweakfast. I want ceweal.”

“What about bread? You want to help me finish baking some bread?”

“No. I want my ceweal.”

“OK, Em. Let’s get you some cereal.”

Emeline quietly worked her way through half that bowl while I was whipping the bread’s glaze together. Her curiosity finally got the best of her and she crept into the kitchen to see what I was doing. She grabbed my wrist as I was brushing the glaze onto the first loaf, looked up at me with wide eyes and a mischievous grin, and whispered, “I twy?”

I smiled and handed her the brush. She did the best any two-year-old could. It wasn’t pretty, but it was adorable. Emeline and I finished glazing the loaves as the sun rose and poured its gorgeous orange-red beams into the kitchen. We put the loaves in the oven and quietly played in the kitchen until everyone else woke up to the smell of fresh-baked bread.

Two nights later, eighteen⁴ of us were crammed together in Robert’s bedroom, praying and singing over him as he slept. We held each other; we held him; we held our breath while his chest slowly rose and fell. Eventually, the rising and falling came at increasingly longer intervals until they stopped all together. It was completely surreal. We wept and stared at the bed where Robert’s body lay. I can’t possibly describe how strange that moment was, and I hope you never have to learn yourself. Unsure of proper mourning protocol, I gave a hug to everyone in the room, put my hand on Robert’s chest as I whispered goodbye, and made my way back to the kitchen. I pulled out the flour and yeast and set to work on another two loaves of challah.

My mind plays tricks on me. I’ve made at least another dozen loaves of challah since that night. Still, I can’t help but remember that weekend in May every time I try to bake that bread. This afternoon, I could have sworn I was back at the lodge in Burnet. My mind ran through the whole weekend again and again as I kneaded that dough. And I may have been a little too enthusiastic when I was driving my fists into it. I don’t understand it, but maybe it’s some kind of doughy catharsis that ends deliciously. Especially with a little butter or nutella.⁵

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¹ Don’t ask.

² I promise, I won’t always write about such morose topics, but I will write about things that are on my heart. And tonight, this is it. Sorry.

³ Thank God for friends on the nightwatch.

⁴ That number is a total guess. It could have been more, but certainly not less.

⁵ I hope this hasn’t been too depressing. I’m honestly thankful that the Lord allowed my brother to pass the way he did. Robert told me months before that I he had a choice, he wanted to be surrounded by the people he loved. And that’s what he got. Good for him.