In memoriam

Early Tuesday morning last week my brother Preben suddenly died. He was only 54 years old and there had not been any warnings that anything was wrong. He had come home from work, prepared supper for the family and set off to play with his band as always on a Monday. He came home just before midnight, happy after having spent the evening with playing with "Container Band" and went straight to bed. He never woke up again.

Left behind is Preben's wife, Irene, 5 children, the youngest only turned 18 in January, 3 grandchildren, 2 brothers, our mother and, as we saw at the funeral, a large and extremely diverse group of friends, acquaintances and colleagues. There was the musicians, who brought their guitars, violins and a box as drums, there was the consultants from his work place, there was the guy who was somewhat drunk at the arrival, there was people with long hair and signs of a rough life, there were people in suits, wondering where in the world they had landed, there were people in uniform from The Salvation Army. There was a friend from school, who sang a song no one really understood. People from different backgrounds, others with similar background, but who life had treated differently, or maybe they had treated life differently. It was a very diverse group and was a testimony to a special man, who by no standards could be called conventional. Preben always went his own ways; he pushed and often crossed boundaries. He had no respect for authorities, convinced Socialist, extremely intelligent, for most of his life had no formal education. He wrote poetry and even books, lyrics and songs. Worked in theatres and participated in political happenings on the streets.

In his forties he decided it was time to get an education. 18 months ago he graduated with his Master in Political Science from Copenhagen University, 4 months ago he began his new job, one week ago he died.

I have never experienced a funeral like Preben's and have been to quite a few funerals through the years. Torben, our eldest brother, led the programme. He started with saying a few words about how one of the big trees in the forest had fallen and we still could feel the earth shaking. Irene, Preben's wife spoke, quoting Ecclesiastes words about how there is a time for everything and told how the family had sat at home the night before, playing a word game, fixing words to Preben and his life through the whole alphabet, and shared the list with us. The two eldest of Preben's children also spoke, very personal. It was extremely emotional, I have enormous respect for them being willing and able to do it.

As mentioned several friends participated with songs and music. We also listened to a recording of "Container Band", with Preben as the lead singer. "If anyone calls, tell them I've left" we heard his characteristic voice sing again and again – he probably did not have his own funeral in mind when he penned those words, but somehow they were very appropriate. In the beginning it was Johnny Cash we listened to. "When the man comes around" was the title. It did not mean anything to me, but listening to the song it sounded familiar – it was inspired by the words in Revelation about Christ coming on the white horse. If I got it right then the song ended with a line something like "After him another rider on a pale horse will come, and hell followed him" – I looked at my notes for what I was going to say – no way did I have courage to be as frank as that.

Irene and the children had asked me to conclude the funeral. I would have preferred not to have to do that, meaning I would have preferred my brother to be alive, but I felt it a privilege and honour under the circumstances. I did not have to try and balance between the roles of brother and pastor, because I felt no need to, I am both and tried to be both 100% in what I said.

It was a fair guess that most of those present do not go to church every Sunday, for many probably no Sunday, but it was moving to hear almost everybody praying The Lord's Prayer at the end (we had handed it out in printed form).

After the funeral everyone was invited back to Preben and Irene's house for "Chilli con Carne". I don't know whether party or reception would be correct terms to use, but it was held in the garden. It was freezing cold, but a lot of talking and even laughter filled the air. The whole day was a celebration of a life lived and very much kept in the spirit of Preben.

As you would expect many thoughts have gone through my mind this week, countless memories of Preben, especially from my childhood. Quite a few questions too, but those I will blog about the next couple of days.

Tomorrow morning it is a week ago my Mother called to tell us Preben had died. He was only 54. It does not seem fair, but then life is not fair. Preben did not grow old, but he certainly left lasting impressions on countless of people. He was no saint, but he was extraordinaire. Many lives are the richer because of Preben. Preparing my talk for the funeral I was reminded it is not a question of how long, but how much Preben lived. That is true for us all. We do not have any guarantee of a long life, not even of tomorrow. All there is certain is now and the question is how much do we live now?

29 years ago our Father died, 54 years old. His youngest was 17, Preben was 25. At that time Preben wrote a poem, which I had never seen, but Torben had a copy he shared with me. I can think of no better way to end this blog but by quoting Preben words in gratitude for his life and his lasting impressions on me:

Come my brothers; hold me close
while I am holding you.
Death has been here
but left us behind.
How will you use your day?