I miss my brother. I wish I had more time. I wish I had more grace when I did have time. I wish I could remember more. And I hold on to the hope that I’ll see him again—not because he lived a perfect life, but because Jesus died for imperfect brothers like him—and like me. If you’ve lost someone, especially someone whose life left you with more questions than closure, I want you to know: you’re not alone.

Very few people know that I had a younger brother.

His name was Clarence Walker, but everyone called him “Denny.” He carried our father’s first name, though he wasn’t a Jr. Denny passed away on May 4, 2017, at just 45 years old. But it’s not the day of his death that gets to me—it’s his birthday.

July 20.

We’re just two days away, and I can’t help but remember him—or try to. The strange thing about grief is how time slowly erodes memory. It becomes harder to recall the details. His laugh, his walk, even his voice. I hate that.

But I remember this: he was taller than me. And he was a better salesman too. That’s saying something, considering I once took home the #1 Rookie Recruiter award in the nation for the Air National Guard back in 1999. But Denny had a charm, a way of talking that made people feel at ease, even when he was selling them something they didn’t need. It was a gift.

Like most brothers, we had seasons—some close, some distant. We shared a bond with our mom. Our dad, Clarence Sr., was there but working a lot. Looking back, I can see how that shaped us both in different ways. Denny’s mannerisms were softer, and kids picked up on that. He was teased, and it left scars.

As we got older, those childhood wounds began to show in deeper ways. He never “came out,” but we knew he struggled with his sexuality. In the early 2000s, our family learned that he had contracted HIV. Eventually, it took his life.

But he was still my brother.

As the firstborn, I always felt this weight—to be the example. I was the rule follower.

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