This is a difficult entry to write, but I need to let people know. Last Friday morning, I lost my future brother-in-law to a senseless act of violence. Details are slim and sketchy as they are usually wont to be immediately afterwards a tragic event, but this we do know: Tim Crislip died around 5 a.m. after being stabbed by another soldier on the base he was on in Seattle, Washington.

I was on a cruise ship in the middle of the Caribbean Sea, enroute to Ft. Lauderdale when I got the news via instant message via wireless internet via a satellite feed (isn’t technology amazing?) Saturday evening. My pounding heart sank beneath the boat, reaching the bottom of the deep blue sea underneath me. My senses became dull: colors, sounds, tastes became muted. I had the unpleasant task of telling his twin sister, my future wife. I closed my laptop, weakly got up and bounced off people on my way upstairs like an errant pinball, not really paying close attention to my surroundings.

I found her, took her back to her room and told her. Doctors and army officers do this all the time, delivering the bad news. It is their job. However, the dimensions of sharing bad news takes on a completely different face when the news needs to be shared to someone that you know and love. It is not something I ever want to go through again. Tears were shed.

Twenty-four hours later, we were with family. Flying home with a virulent strain of a cold and a sore throat mitigated with ears that hated the pressure changes of the atmosphere combined with the emotional stress was not a fun experience. But here we are, at home, waiting for details to emerge, including the funeral arrangements. Home is the most important place we can be right now.

I was in the shower this morning when a sobering and heart-breaking realization hit me. I’ve known people who’ve lost their lives due to accidents, disease and old age, but Tim was the first person I knew who had his life taken away by a senseless act of violence perpetuated by someone else. I don’t know what happened that night; we may never do. Tim did have a propensity to piss people off, but none of us would have thought this would have happened to him.

Amanda and I have been together for over two years now. Through all this time, I got to know Tim little by little. The first time I met Tim was when I picked up Amanda for our first
date. He puffed himself up and walked with a certain swagger. He was her brother and don’t I dare forget that. Over the months, talking with him online, hearing stories about him from his family and friends, and hanging out with him at the rare times he was home from the army, I was able to piece together a picture of Tim.

Tim was a beautiful, flawed individual, just like the rest of us. He liked to drink, curse and smoke, but I’ve always believed this was an act of braggadocio, to be a bad boy to appeal to the ladies. He wore his heart on his sleeve, hoping to find a girl that would take his sleeve and make it hers. Settling down and starting a family before 27 years of age was one of his greatest ambition and it broke his heart when he would be assigned the “friend” role or even worse, the dreaded “like a brother” status from girls he liked and wanted to be with. A bad boy Tim was not, no matter how hard he tried to be one. His heart was too soft for it, something that was masked by his frequent stubbornness, something that made people roll their eyes and tune him out. He just wanted to be liked and enjoyed and given attention to in order to quell his insecurities about who he was and where his place was in life. Music was one place that he enjoyed being in as he toted his guitar all over the place.

There was one place, however, that there was absolutely no doubt that Tim was meant to be in and that was in the nuts and bolts guts of an automotive engine. Tim liked cars. He liked tinkering with them, fixing the engines, taking things apart and putting them back together. I remember last December, Tim was driving his truck from Kentucky up to Grand Rapids, Michigan to attend a friend’s wedding that Amanda and I, along with her mom, also attended. Somewhere in Indiana, just the day before the wedding, his truck’s transmission locked up. Now, for those who are not automotive-inclined, anything that goes wrong with the transmission spells death for any car. In an impressive act of mechanic aptitude, Tim took apart the transmission and rebuilt it all by himself in a span of 24 hours and drove himself up with no problems and with plenty of time to spare.

At 22 years of age, Tim was still in search of all facets of his identity, like many of us are still doing at that age. He was a son, a brother, a grandson, a cousin, a friend, all roles that we all play at one point or another. He was also a smart mechanic and a very, very proud army man. Just because I knew Tim and the pride he served his country (no matter how much he clashed horns with his superiors–taking orders was never his strong suit, ironic when you consider that he joined the army) I will always support our armed forces, no matter if I agree or disagree with the politics of why they are where they are in the world. There were still some glimpses of his identity that he couldn’t attain, including being a boyfriend that would eventually mature and become a responsible husband and father.

Sadly, his sudden death means he won’t gain another facet of his identity: he won’t be my brother-in-law. I had hopes of having him come over for barbecues, drinking some beer with him and encouraging and helping him grow into a man that he could have become. Fortunately, I had a glimpse of it when Tim joined Amanda and I and my best friend, Mike, to a beach last summer. We drank beer, swam and listened to Tim talk, talk, and talk. It was a fun day.

And now Tim’s in the best place possible, strumming away on his guitar, finally at peace with himself and where he is and more importantly, who he is. Tim, I’m sorry I never got to know you as a brother, but I promise I’ll take care of your sister and we’ll all see you soon again.



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