Remembering Josh
On past Memorial Days my brother Josh and I would think about family members – a grandfather, an uncle, a cousin – all who served our country in various times of conflict and war. My brothers and I would remember Grandpa Olin on a Navy ship off the coast of California in the Second World War. Our memories of him were ripe and beautiful. Our sense of family history was rich.
Today has been a different kind of Memorial Day. It’s been quiet. I did not watch a parade. I did not visit Josh. In fact, it has been 13 weeks since I talked with him about anything. And I miss him. A lot. During the days and weeks since February 18, the date when I learned that my youngest brother died suddenly in his sleep, I have had multiple memorial days. Moments when I have been stopped in my tracks with renewed shock. Josh is gone. Those three words often open the flood gate to memories of childhood, of weddings and babies, of laughing hard during family dance parties, of arguments quickly fought and then repaired, of sitting together by our mother’s bedside as she died. I miss Joshua Paul Olin.
Josh was not a veteran of the armed services. However, for six short months, when he was 22, he worked as an intern in Washington D.C. at the USO offices. I have no idea how he got this gig. I think it’s because he could schmooze his way into any room. He was just finding his way after college, searching for his spot on this earth. In 1994 I spent a snowy weekend with him in D.C., sleeping on his couch. We went to an Irish pub close to Georgetown, and we laughed till our bellies ached. Since that episode almost 30 years ago I have been silly more times than I can count – mostly because of Josh.
Josh never fought an international war. But on Memorial Day I remember Josh. Because in Josh’s 51 years of life, he fought and won some amazing battles. Josh relentlessly entered the war against a boring and meaningless life. Josh took on the darkness of hopelessness that plagues so many. Josh faced down mediocrity. Josh was a rock star of optimism. This is what I remember.
On this Memorial Day I think about Josh’s influence on a high school track team - young men and women with a limited sense of success. Coach Joshua Olin cheered them onto excellence to regionals, to state, to the pride of accomplishment. He was also a drama teacher (because in a small school district one does it all). As such, Mr. Olin coached quiet teens into fanciful and magnificent roles on the high school stage. On this Memorial Day I think about a teacher’s union who needed a few wins regarding salaries and benefits. Josh negotiated during the last week of his life. On this Memorial Day I remember a devoted Christian who never wanted to simply say the words of faith. He would live them. He pushed us to see redemption. On this Memorial Day I think about a father who knew his daughters as the belles of the ball and the stars on the soccer field. I remember a husband who backed his spouse 100% of the time. I remember a brother who told me over and over and over, “Everything’s gonna be alright.” Josh waged war against helplessness.
I can visit the gravesite of Grandpa Olin or the cemetery where our mother is laid to rest. Josh has no headstone. Only a legacy of optimism and hope. This is what matters.
Josh was fighter. A talker. A dreamer. A joker. A mentor. An advocate. An ally. A veteran of grief. A winner. His battle cry was a simple phrase: “We can.” And even when he lost a round or two, he knew how to laugh about it. He knew how to turn the episode into a comedic moment. He never let any of us take ourselves too seriously. This was his victory. He worked to make us the best humans that we could be.