How I grieve my brothers, believing there is no afterlife

This First Person article is the experience of James Harvey, a writer based in Sackville, N.B. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

My oldest brother John was a kind man. He loved his wife and cared deeply for the welfare of animals, who he told me were "all innocent." 

He taught Andrew and me, his two younger brothers, how to be kind by his example. I remember him saying that you had to take care of yourself if you wanted to help other people.

Though my brothers and I were raised Roman Catholic, he was the first apostate among us, and I admired his courage in quitting a religion he didn't believe in.

He had conviction and compassion, and I have no doubt that he would have created even more happiness in the world had he lived longer.

John died of a sudden heart attack in 2005 at the age of 23, walking out to pick up some groceries one evening.

While still attending church and making a very earnest effort to believe, I was forced to accept on faith that there was a plan that would explain why classmates die in car accidents and people get cancer and other very bad things happen.

I would not be comforted by a plan that involved John dying like that, collapsing into a ditch, not knowing what was happening to him, while my sister-in-law waited at home for a husband who would never return.

The fact he died unexpectedly is not comforting, but it is the plain truth; and for me that is enough.

I don't resent a beautiful day because it passes into night — I am grateful for the time I had with it. Things have causes, but nothing happens for a reason.

Like the animals John loved so well, meaninglessness is supremely innocent too. I am more comforted by facing what has happened than by pushing my grief aside with a simple explanation.

Not banking on an afterlife 

My brother Andrew was more spiritual than I, but frank discussions in the years after John's death made it clear he was not banking on an afterlife.

Andrew was open to any possibility — this is the beauty of science and objectivity. Neither of us definitively held that gods or the supernatural do not exist. There simply is no evidence that they do.

Our rambling discussions on the nature of human existence settled on a resolution to proceed as if this life is all there is.

Working on that assumption, I haven't been disappointed. My wife and I have a wonderful daughter who loves to hug, run around and laugh maniacally.

Andrew married his partner after nearly a decade of dating. They bought a second house in Gros Morne National Park, and adopted their beautiful daughter in 2021.

Our lives were filled with joy and satisfaction. Andrew's career as a social worker often brought him into contact with people who had been written off by society, and he never faltered in his attempts to provide compassionate service to all.

Though John's death in 2005 first spurred me to consider my views on life and death, it was Andrew's sudden death on Oct. 18, 2021, that brought me to writing this.

Looking back on the life of a devoted spouse, father, brother, son, and friend like Andrew, I am struck by how much time he gave to others.

Without believing in karma or a better afterlife for his actions, Andrew gave himself fully to others. He was not a good person because a holy book told him to be. Andrew was a good man on his own merits.

I am sad that Andrew died. I am only angry that Andrew died when people try to ascribe his goodness to an external source of morality such as a god. 

Remembering the lives they lived

Even in the midst of grief, I do not have to look far for comfort. I don't need a promise of seeing Andrew and John again to take heart after their deaths.

I may have no more time with them, but they have left their mark on me by being sterling role models. They lived fearless and exemplary lives that continue to benefit the world through the better people we are for having known them.

Knowing the value they placed on truth and integrity, I cannot bring myself to entertain a pipe dream about seeing them again when I have no reason to believe it to be true.

I think about this: one day I will have read every book that they read, seen every picture taken of them, learned all there is to learn about my brothers who I loved so much. And then what?

Then, what I truly know of them will slowly and inevitably fade, the sharpness of who they were rubbed away like etched words on an old brass plate.

One day I won't remember the sound of their laughter or the pattern of lines on their faces, but I never lose all of them —  so long as I live, what they have helped me become will remain.

Everything, even beautiful things, have ends. And that's OK.