Ronda Rich

Syndicated Columnist

Brent’s birth, when he joined his sister, Laurie, and brother, Jay, on an autumn day was joyous. Brent, looking straight into his mother’s eyes, smiled with an abundance of sweetness. He was happy to meet the world that he would be his new home.

Laurie and Jay, mesmerized by this tiny creature, gathered around, joining everyone’s great happiness. From the beginning, there was no jealousy. Just love. (Although they slyly planned the games they would play with him — such as kidnapped or hide and seek.) At last, Laurie and Jay could be on the same team, not warring against one another.

Brent grew at a healthy pace and, by 16 months, he could walk, long past crawling, say a few words, and romp happily with his adoring siblings. One day, around the age of 18 months, he became sick. Then sicker. The doctor tried to counsel over the phone but finally, concluded, “Meet me at the emergency room.”

The news was scary and uncertain as they checked through a possible list of diagnoses. It turned out to be the worse one listed: “An inborn error of metabolism, pripionic acidemia, which left Brent in an arrested stage of a 1-year-old for the remainder of his life.” Milk had been the culprit. Brent’s words were lost, walking required assistance, and food was fed like a baby receiving his nourishment.

His parents adored Brent as much as they did Brent’s older siblings.

“As much care as Brent took – which was pretty much 24 hours a day — Laurie and I never suffered from a lack of attention,” Jay says. “They didn’t take from us to give to Brent. We all received similar attention and love. Mom and Dad were always at our ballgames and anywhere else we wanted them.”

For decades, with Jay in our family, I remember how sweetly Dot and Johnny, Brent’s parents, looked after Brent. He was never treated like a baby but as a young adult who needed some help. In truth, he needed a great deal of assistance.

Then came the news that brought us all to our knees. It started as something simple – these things always do – with Dot complaining of heartburn on Mother’s Day. “I’ve had it for a couple of weeks,” she said, as she popped another Tums.

Twenty-one days from diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, Dot, the sweetest, most remarkable woman any of us has ever encountered, passed gently into the arms of the Lord. Heaven, she had long relished. Leaving her child, who had depended on her like a baby for over 37 years, was not relish or relief. It was heartbreak. His father took charge.

Johnny, though, stepped up and mimicked Dot as much as possible. He held Brent’s hand to lead him slowly into a ballgame, church, or bathroom. He prepared Brent’s favorite foods and fed him, gently cajoling him through every bite. Johnny didn’t begrudge one moment. He treasured every second and prayed that Brent’s time on earth would be gloriously long. After all, he had already lived over two decades longer than doctors had predicted.

In addition, Brent taught all of us, especially his siblings, nieces and nephews, how much non-verbal, non-communicative people have to offer the rest of us. Thanks to Brent and the example of his parents, we all have a stronger dose of compassion, empathy, and understanding. His life was a gift to us all.

When Brent, who had outlived predictions by a surprising number of years, died, there was no relief. Only bone-deep sorrow and harrowing heartbreak that clouded us for months. Brent never cussed or hated or was ever unkind. And his extraordinary father followed Brent’s mother and cared for him lovingly until Jesus welcomed him home and rejoined him with his mama within the gates of glory.

Brent’s simple life made our complex lives so much better. We shall all be grateful to Johnny and Brent, always.

Ronda Rich is the best-selling authors of the Stella Bankwell Series. Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her free weekly newsletter.