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Waiting for the light to change, I spotted Tom getting up from a bench across the way and ran to reach him. His fingernails were long, with ridges of dirt beneath them, and his teeth had yellowed deeply. I noticed how thin he was, bonier than I had ever thought his dense frame could be. I asked Tom if he wanted to go to a sandwich shop across the street. After a brief hesitation, he agreed.

As we ate there on the patio, he shifted from topic to topic, circling back, digressing, talking of Catholic priests and the samurai code and a new kind of education system for which he was designing the textbooks. I could hear the schizophrenia in his speech—the clanging. He would repeat a word or pause to spell it, or follow it with words that rhymed, his sentences progressing via not meaning but sound. Eventually, the activity of other patrons started to bother him, so I suggested we go.

How My Brother Survived The Camp Fire

For an hour we wandered the woods, following the bike paths around Westchester Lagoon and then through the alders and spruces that lined Chester Creek. When I asked Tom how often he saw our father, he began to ruminate, calling Dad by his full name, as if he were a stranger or a public figure. He was still angry, but his thoughts were garbled, and I suspected that he no longer remembered much about what had happened between them, only that his father had turned him away.

He gave me occasional sidelong glances, seeming torn between politeness and mistrust, affection and self-preservation. I asked if he needed any camping gear—a tent, a tarp, a sleeping bag. He said no.

I asked where he camped, if it was in these woods somewhere, but he ignored the question. I suggested that he come by the house, for dinner and a shower and some new clothes, but he shook his head. I was getting nowhere. And yet I felt that he was giving me all that he could find within himself to offer up.

I had, he told me, come after him in a crowd with a pistol. We all had, the whole family. I had shot at him. Reluctantly, I nodded and held out a bag containing the uneaten half of his sandwich. He took it absently. I let out a few obvious phrases— O. Then he turned back down the hill, rounded a bend, and was gone. Did I know, back then, that we would lose?

As the years passed, Tom grew more entrenched in his homelessness, bouncing in and out of institutions, only intermittently accepting treatment, unable to break his cycles of improvement and deterioration.

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But when it got very cold, and Dad went to see if he was O. He was absorbed in his fantasies and private missions, aware of the basest necessities and the most transcendent abstractions, and almost nothing in between. He shot me a glance, gauging my reaction. I am close to God. In February, , a shelter in Anchorage where Tom had been staying changed its policy, and Tom found himself stuck outside in the dead of winter.

He overstayed his welcome somewhere and was arrested for trespassing. His physical condition had deteriorated, as well, and he had a rash caused by either scabies or bedbugs. In March, he was deemed not competent to stand trial and was transferred to the Alaska Psychiatric Institute.

By the time Tom contacted our father, that May, he was taking several medications: risperidone, for psychosis; lorazepam, for anxiety; melatonin, for insomnia; and benztropine, to reduce agitation. His condition had improved significantly. He also had a diagnosis: schizoaffective disorder. In June, Tom gave permission for my sisters and me to call him.

It had been at least seven years since he and I had last talked on the phone, and two since we had stood face-to-face. It felt surreal to simply dial a number from my house and ask for him. Just as baffling, just as easy, was the way he said, in his gentle voice, that he loved me, he missed me, he was glad to talk to me.

Everyday brother

It was clear right away that he was far, far more coherent than when I had seen him last. But I could also feel the schizophrenia still in his speech, tightening and stilting his thoughts.

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He left long pauses after I spoke, as if he was struggling to process what I was saying. I called him four times in as many weeks. I asked what he liked about it. We were bolstered, briefly, when Tom was deemed competent to attend his hearing, and when, afterward, his release date was pushed back to late July, giving him more time to improve before having to take the next step. His treatment team seemed to be doing their best for him, hustling to find him transitional housing, but, with a chronic shortage of funding and staff at A.

To help prepare him, Dad brought him a new pair of boots. They talked about Tom visiting home again. They played checkers in a game that dragged on and on until they had to call it a draw. I learned later that, as his release date approached, he had been checking in with his case manager every day, popping into her office, asking if she was sure that his housing application would go through, wondering if she had got a reply yet.

Eight weeks after our moment of optimism, Tom failed to turn up at lunch. When staff went looking for him, they found that he had locked himself in a bathroom. Inside he lay dead. In the months that followed, I would ask and ask and ask myself what had led Tom to decide to die—what blend of fear and bravery, clarity and confusion, mood and circumstance.

Soon, however, that explanation seemed incomplete, as did every other one I tried to come up with. Eventually I would say to myself, Schizophrenia did this. When you go hunting for advice on helping a mentally ill loved one, much of what you find focusses on education: learn as much as you can about mental illness, ask questions, and find a supportive community. Purity presenter in Oradea. Purity presenter in Botosani. Missionaries in Suceava. Purity presenter in Dej. Everything started with one man's vision.

His name was William Holtry.

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He was a man of many talents and passions who tried to live four lives in one. He was a son, a brother, a husband, a Dad, a mechanic, a pastor, a missionary. He was a friend, a confidant and an encourager. Will loved music and enjoyed playing the piano, the violin, and the harmonica. He loved to drive from the roads of Pennsylvania to the Alaskan highway to the German autobahn; he had a keen sense of direction. As a child, he was always tearing things apart. One time, when he was about 6 years old, his mother found him tearing the telephone apart under the kitchen table.

As he grew, the things he tore apart became bigger.

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Fortunately, he learned how to fix them and became a talented mechanic. But his biggest love was for people. Will associated with and entertained people of all classes and walks of life. He saw no differences. No one will ever forget his deep bass voice. This was best heard when he sang his rendition of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot". He loved children, especially dedicating them to the Lord.

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On their special day each was presented with a Bible, always with a personal handwritten note. He has dedicated children at home and around the world, the last dedication being held in Vienna, Austria, on July 25, There will never be one man to fill the shoes he wore, nor the path he walked.

It was one filled with great pain, but also great joy.