MARK

My brother died alone in a hotel room in Georgia.

It was a few years ago. I had to go down there to deal with his “estate.” It consisted of talking to the detective who was called to the scene, returning his newly leased car, dealing with the death people about cremation, waiting to collect his ashes, and gathering a few bags of clothes.

I never received a conclusive cause of death. It seemed to be a combination of a heart problem, cold/flu medicine, and fentanyl. Why was his cell phone missing? There is much I wish I knew. But I had neither the time, energy, nor money to deal with a proper investigation. No one else seemed to care.

I have such contempt for this world some days.

His full name is John Mark Green III. But we always called him Mark. He was my oldest brother, named after my dad. He was a loner. I would see him every ten years or so. He kept his distance from everyone. The last time I saw him I begged him to keep in touch. I warned him he was going to die alone in a hotel room and we would not know for days.

I hate being a prophet.

I was still a kid when he left us. He was fleeing the local authorities for some reason, or maybe just my dad, I’m not sure. How do you just leave your whole family behind, and never come back?

Ringling Brothers Circus was in town and Mark hitched on as a roadie. He would end up working with Gunther Gebel-Williams, the animal trainer for the circus. My brother helped to train elephants and tigers. He told me about grabbing and redirecting an escaped horse once and Gunther (who called him Marko) told him he should work with horses. But Mark preferred the elephants and big cats.

My big brother is the only person I ever met who actually did the proverbial “run off and join the circus.”

He told me lots of stories about his life the few times we hung out. Our conversations would flow and something would trigger a memory. I told him many times he should write a book. I even offered to write it for him. Alas.

He traveled all over the country and did almost everything. He worked on mailing machines for Pitney Bose. He drove a tow truck for public transportation in Atlanta, picking up broken down buses. He worked as a government contractor on the Pacific island of Kwajalein as a maintenance man. There was not much to do there in your off time; he said that’s where he became an alcoholic. Full disclosure: we would usually exchange stories over beers.

He hitchhiked all over America. He once jumped on a freight train with a friend and rode it across the country, hiding in a boxcar. The train slowed and stopped outside of a town in Texas, my brother and his friend had been roasting and thirsting all day. They slid open the door of the freight car they were trespassing on and watched the driver walking down the tracks toward them. They assumed they would be arrested.

The man walked right up to them, flung the door open, and handed them water and cigarettes. He then explained they would need to get off in a few miles because the train would be inspected. He had known about their presence on his train for a thousand miles and had only come back to warn and hydrate them.

It is hard imagining a more American story than that.

He served as second mate on a tugboat in the Gulf of Mexico for a time. Each of these iterations, each of these adventures, came with their own stories. They were endless. I hate that my brother is not here. It would have been a wonderful book.

He told me about becoming a Christian at some point. He had stumbled, lost, drunk, whatever, across some Christian camp in Arizona, (or someplace), and ended up being there for a long time. He said was “saved and baptized.” He felt safe there but eventually had to move on.

When we spoke of God, Mark would just point at the sky and say, “He’s just going to have to have mercy.” I had no argument.

He tried marriage once. It didn’t take. She is wonderful, but he was… well, he was just Mark.

He was a long-haul trucker in his later years. Always on the move. When he wasn’t on the road he would often take care of someone’s condo on South Padre Island in Texas. He told me about looking down the beach to watch the Space X rockets take off and land.

He tried to stay off the grid as much as one can today. He would not even give me his personal email because he didn’t want it “out there.” I am sure there are stories he did not tell me that must have led to that disposition.

It’s a shame, I think he would have liked my Substack. We had each other’s cell number. I would call him and leave a voicemail saying, “are you still alive?” I still have three of his voicemails to me on my phone. One of them is him teasing me back with the words, “are you still alive?”

In many ways my oldest brother was like a photographic negative of me. We liked being together the few times we actually were. With my marriage, kids, and same house for over thirty years, I was the stability he could never attain. He was the vagabond wanderer who has always camped out in my soul.

I could easily have been him. I don’t think he could have easily been me.

It is easy to cut ourselves off from those in our lives today, to become a suburban hermit. No one knows when you are truly gone because you have been gone for years. There is no picture of my brother with this post. No one seems to have one. Can you imagine today having no photographic evidence you ever were?

Every life is a treasure. Every life is a story, a thousand stories. Don’t deprive the world of yours. Be with the people God has given you. Tell them your story. You owe them that. And never assume you will always have time to catch up with a loved one.

Because one day you won’t.

I emptied Mark’s ashes onto a comfortable dune overlooking a calm Atlantic this morning. It’s not South Padre Island, but it will do. A gentle setting for a turbulent life. They felt heavy. I was alone, which was appropriate. I prayed for my brother. Someone had to.

I wept for my brother. Someone had to.

I would give away much to be walking along this beach with him, laughing and telling stories to each other. I plan to meet him again.

My brother died alone in a hotel room. That is such a sad sentence. But doesn’t everybody die alone? Even if a loved one were holding your hand as you passed; you are facing the veil alone.

And God? He’s just going to have to have mercy.

Mark’s minimalist theology was sound. Not because mercy is something that has authority over God. But because mercy is something He is. This world is dripping with self-righteousness. But life is for those who are sure they don’t deserve it.

Eternity will not be governed by published theologians, self-assured activists, and those who have the current correct opinions. It is for the lost. The disreputable. The ones who never felt at home in this world. It is for children and train-hopping hobos and circus tramps.

It is for those who are certain of two things: God is merciful, and they need mercy.

The older I become, the more certain I am of those two things. Most other theology is just arguing with ghosts. I desperately need Christ.

Yes Mark, I’m still alive.

I miss you.

But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even lift up his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” Luke 18