Most of my young life, growing up as the oldest grandchild of four adult children, I remember tall tales spun about the personalities of Dean, Marty, Charlotte, and the golden one- David. These tales were shared at our frequent gatherings, almost painting there four as caricatures of themselves, highlighting sibling goofiness, childhood character defects and talents, and Spartanburg culture.

I was the oldest, and so was he. As I kid, I knew my uncle was cool, and I knew he was smart. I also know how totally in love he was with my equally cool aunt, and that I wanted to make him proud. It’s really only been in my adult life, having walked both the beautiful and brutal parts of life, that I realized I didn’t have to. David accepted me. He loved his family, and he just wanted for all of us to be together.  This week as I’ve combed through four decades of my own memories with him, and seven decades of my mom’s memories with him, that one theme has sung through: David was there. He was there in the glittery moments and in the heartbreaking ones.

My grandmother Sara’s favorite story to tell about David was this: “your uncle- I just knew he was something special when he walked at six months. He was a genius from the start!” And indeed he was. But here is what is also true about David as a son: he carried the mantel of responsibility of my grandparents’ poor, humble, hardworking beginnings.  He showed up for them all of their lives, helping to make sure my grandparents’ income and savings would be enough for quality of life in retirement, and planning and taking them on a cool driving tour of New England the year my grandfather retired. He burned the road between Charlotte and Spartanburg and was so faithful to go see them on an almost weekly basis, as were my mom and uncles, until the very end of their lives. David was there for them, and they knew it.

I know my mom’s perspective best, but can only assume what it was like to grow up as a younger sibling to David. He was twenty months older than my mom, and for all of her aware life, he was a partner to her. Growing up the only girl with three brothers held challenges for sure, but she remembers him well as the brother who walked to school with her, who accompanied each summer to a tiny milltown of Enoree, to stay with relatives so my grandmother could take a break and take care of the younger two. My mom remembers that they really clung to each other during these trips. His brothers remember his love for tennis at a young age. David was indeed the pacesetter for my mom and her brothers. Heck; he was still the pacesetter for me. But he was also a lighthouse, a dependable and safe place for my mom in every season of her life.  He cheerleaded her, including her socially in highschool, helping her get acclimated on the scene at USC, when she arrived two years after him. He never treated her like a tag-along, but helped her navigate friends and academic life.  He empowered my uncle Dean by taking him under his wing soon after Dean graduated and found himself needing to begin climbing the ladder and making income, spending time with him and giving him odd jobs and a leg up. 

David used his brilliance for other people. His compassion drove the car while his intelligence sat shotgun.

As my uncle, he stepped right in during the summer of kindergarten. I remember him sitting with me on the floor in our den, saying “Mer, self-respecting women cannot go to kindergarten without knowing how to tie their laces.” At fifteen, he gave me my first job: taking care of my two precious cousins Zoe and Eli. I had to drive to his house from Fort Mill on my first day, and the largest rain storm I’d seen popped up on my drive, but I knew to pick up my clunky car phone and call him. Sure enough, he guided me from Archdale to Cherokee.  He was there, and he was so easy to be with. His presence is threaded across my life: he came to visit my family in England and brought baby Zoe, he came to visit me during my post-college year in Colorado, and many years later, when we were walking similar paths of personal pain, he willingly entered in again. This time, with candidness and love, and as an equally bewildered, caring, aching friend.  I am not the only one for whom David did this. Most of you here could say the same.

Uncle David was there, and he was for me. He was human, vulnerable, and though he had giftings many of us do not, his caring and vulnerable presence made us all want to be with him.  In our differences, in my failures, when I couldn’t make him proud, he showed up, in love.  I think everyone who loved David felt this. 

I’ll end with a story that my mom and I realized is a metaphor for where we find ourselves now.  David, Allie and Zoe came to England when we lived there, and they continued on from our house to Switzerland for a business trip. We flew to meet them there and spent some amazing days in Lake Locarno.  I remember Zoe’s precious baby cheeks and how I wanted to squeeze them, and the swanky hotel he arranged for us. I remember the Alps rising behind us, and Aunt Allie’s very scandalous dinner choice of black squid pasta. These are the things that stick with a nine year old.

Uncle David invited us to take a train that ran near and just across the Italian border, for some sightseeing.  So my mom, dad, sister and I boarded with them and began our day trip. At some point, border patrol checked passports and David realized he had left theirs at our hotel. The patrol led him to the front of the train, and unbeknownst to us, removed them from the train, to send them back to Switzerland. We could find them anywhere, and we didn’t want to continue much further without him. My mom and dad had us get off just over the Italian border, where we wondered around for about an hour for the next train and found some good cappuccino. I was in Italy all of ninety minutes and I remember it as my shortest ever visit to a country. My mom remembers how she and my dad didn’t really know what to do without David and with no way to contact him. He’d arranged the trip but had been forced off the train too soon. We had to enjoy the beauty without him, until we eventually were reunited later that day.

Uncle David- we didn’t want you to go so soon. There was a lot of beauty you showed us, and there was more for you to see. But we will honor the man you were by getting back on the train, continuing to travel, to treat people with dignity, to ask good questions, to frequent recovery rooms, and to show up in the hardest moments and the glittery ones. And one day, we hope to be re-united with you. We will love you forever.