My Big Brother
The French philosopher, Montesquieu, tells us that “knowledge makes men gentle.” A simple phrase that offers generations instructions for changing the world. Empathy has a profoundly humanizing effect. It will change a person. Change societies. And eventually change the world.
My goals today are less audacious, but I certainly hope my honesty will provide the knowledge that might lead each of you to gentleness.
I hope my brother’s story.
My family’s story.
Might leave you a bit more compassionate,
a bit more understanding,
a bit more empathetic,
a bit gentler.
I believe the bright light of truth is necessary to move forward through darkness. Unfortunately, that light doesn’t guarantee outcomes, but it offers a chance at healing and helping others along the way. So, I start here.
~
On November 5, 2024, just before six in the morning, my big brother, Chris, under severe distress, took his life.
That is a horrible sentence to share with you. It is heartbreaking. It is devastatingly sad. But it is not a fact that I am embarrassed to share with you. It is certainly not a fact that I’m ashamed of.
It is part of my story.
It is part of my family’s story.
It is part of Chris’s story.
And I am not ashamed of my big brother, Chris.
I am not ashamed of the mental illness he battled courageously for nearly 25 years.
And I am not embarrassed to tell his story.
Our story.
Mental illness is remarkably difficult.
It’s frustrating.
It’s exhausting.
It’s intimidating.
It’s even scary at times.
It requires a family to make devastating choices. To set heartbreaking boundaries that leave one feeling shame and guilt. While at the same time, knowing that feeling does not begin to describe the pain
and the fear
and the loneliness felt by the one suffering.
But there is something mental illness can never do. It cannot touch the heart. It cannot touch the soul. It cannot touch love. Not for one single moment.
~
Chris loved being an uncle. He would endlessly refer to himself in the third person to anyone who would listen as Uncle Chris, Uncle Chris, Uncle Chris.
And though by the time I had children, it was impossible to let Chris be the uncle he wanted to be, his love for my girls was obvious. All he ever wanted was to be around them, FaceTime them, hold them, take photos with them, and shower them with his love.
When we spoke with Quinn about Chris’s passing, she was heartbroken. She cried, and she cried. Begging for more time with him.
She remembers only his love, his “kind heart” in her words, and his gentleness. She saw him at his best. She remembers him as the uncle he wanted to be, just as he would want her to remember him.
~
Chris loved being a part of this family. And that love extends to all the friends in this room, whom we consider family. Many of you were so generous with Chris, always seeing him in his best light. I will be forever grateful for your grace and perspective.
He was so excited to participate in our wonderful traditions—Fredericksburg Christmases and Thanksgivings in Taylor. He spoke so highly and admiringly about this family. Even in these last few years, when we could not give him the access he wanted, he never lost his love for everyone in this room.
His journals from his final days were filled with gratitude, speaking mainly of his family. At a time when we believed it best to separate Chris from the gatherings we all know are so incredibly special, he was alone, writing words of gratitude.
While he didn’t always know how to be part of this family, please know how deeply he loved all of you.
~
And more than anything else, Chris loved being a big brother. I remember this vividly from a young age. He loved Ryan and me with a passion. He was a big brother and wanted the world to know it.
He loved deeply and out loud. Oftentimes EXTREMELY loud. He thought of himself as our protector to the very end.
Like all brothers, we would fight as children. I’d get so fired up and go at him with everything I had. Fists flying.
But his response to my fury was always gentleness. He would never lift a finger to hurt me, no matter my actions. No matter my words.
I hear stories of big brothers roughing up little brothers. Making them tough. That was not my experience. That was not my big brother. Chris would not hurt a hair on my head. And in the most difficult times, this feeling of safety never left me. Even when others thought I was foolish to think so.
No matter the circumstance, I knew I was his little brother, and my big brother would always protect me.
~
A story I’ve told many times that highlights Chris’s love for being a big brother occurred during my senior year of college. If you took time to look at the photos we staged in the entryway, you saw a photo of my family decked out in Rice gear and Chris holding up the number 1 with a HUGE smile on his face. That photo was taken shortly after the story, and Chris’ enthusiasm is evident.
For the first time in many years, the Rice Owls did not host a regional, and we were forced to travel to LSU’s Alex Box Stadium to take on the Tigers. Those of you who know college baseball know that Alex Box Stadium is one of the most difficult places in the entire nation to play. They were wildly talented that year, like they always are, and their fans were some of the loudest in the country.
I remember Coach Graham coming out for mound visits. It was so loud that we could not hear anything he said from just a few feet away. The crowd seemed to turn the noise level up to a point that did not seem possible.
But Alex Box Stadium and the Tiger faithful hadn’t met Chris Reichenbach. From the top of the first base stands, Chris never stopped yelling at the top of his lungs.
“Let’s go Rice!” Let’s go Rice!” Encouraging the small contingent of Rice fans to join him for the entire game.
From third base, I could hear Every. Single. Word.
Admittedly, I was embarrassed, but my teammates LOVED it. Two of them called after Chris passed to reminisce about Chris at the LSU regional.
We swept LSU that weekend in two games, and Tiger fans were throwing things at Chris late in the final game. They’d clearly had enough of Chris Reichenbach and that Rice Owl beatdown.
But the point of this story is made by my second time up to bat in Game 1.
The pitcher left a 1-0 fastball up in the zone. I swung and connected for a two-run home run to left field. And as I started towards first base, I heard a familiar voice over the quieted crowd.
My big brother is standing up, screaming at the top of his lungs over and over again, “THAT’S MY BROTHER!” “THAT’S MY BROTHER!”
As I rounded second base, he’s still going. “THAT’S MY BROTHER!”
I then rounded third and headed for home. “THAT’S MY BROTHER!”
He was so proud of me in that moment.
He was so proud to be my brother in all moments.
His love had no shame. No embarrassment.
Through the most challenging moments with Chris (and Chris could be extremely challenging), I never once questioned his love for me.
He would give his life for our family. There is not one ounce of embellishment in that statement. His love was undeniable.
~
I was the last to speak to my brother Chris before he passed, early in the morning on November 5th. He was in an exceptionally difficult place.
In truth, I, tired and annoyed, intentionally ignored his first five calls. Five calls. Five immediate clicks of that red button on my iPhone, sending my brother, who was obviously grasping for his brother’s support, straight to voicemail.
But perhaps by divine intervention, I picked up the 6th, and I responded with calm, with equanimity, with grace, with kindness. I encouraged him to calm down and seek help. I followed up with a text filled with similar compassion.
But I didn’t always respond that way. Many times (or maybe even most of the time), I responded coldly, dismissively, or even harshly.
I aspire to be the person I was early on the morning of November 5th.
In these times, especially, I hope we will all strive to be more understanding.
More compassionate.
More empathetic.
More generous.
I hope we will respond with grace and charity. Especially when it’s difficult to do so.
I hope we will strive to see others in their best light. The way my big brother, Chris, saw me.
