Eulogy for Brent by Parker Phillips

I want to begin by expressing to Dr. and Mrs. Turner and Jannell how deeply honored I am to have the opportunity to say a few words here today. I think I can say that most of us in this room love your family as if it were our own, and we regret above all else the unnecessary, wholly undeserved pain that these events have brought on you.

My name is Parker Phillips. Brent Turner was one of my oldest and best friends. Having never imagined that I might be in the position of speaking at a best friend's funeral, I sought the advice of someone close to me on how I might approach such a heretofore incomprehensible task. She suggested that I focus on feelings. This made enormous sense to me, so I have compiled a list of feelings evoked in me by Brent's death:

Sadness over the permanent loss of a friend I truly regarded as a brother.
Loneliness as I imagine the years ahead without that great friend.
Regret that my daughter will never know such an essential figure in her father's life.
Alienation from a world which Brent felt so compelled to escape.
Frustration that I didn't or couldn't prevent this from happening.Relief that a long and terrible struggle has ended.
Anger that the Turner family and the rest of us are left in this profoundly disturbed, unresolved place.
Finally, I hold onto the hope that Brent is experiencing in the next realm the serenity, self-love, and self-forgiveness that so clearly eluded him in this world.

I first met Brent in the seventh grade. He had come to MUS from Germantown Middle School, and, despite these exotic origins, he quickly distinguished himself with his oddball sense of humor, his athletic prowess, and, of course, his forever enviable comfort and facility with girls. My friendship with Brent was cemented on maybe the first night I spent at the Turners, when they still lived in Germantown. We were no more than 13 and had slipped out in the middle of the night to visit one of Brent's many girlfriends. On our way back home, some long-forgotten mischief found us being pursued by an enraged homeowner. Knowing the lay of the land, Brent easily escaped, but I was apprehended and subsequently found myself in the living room of a complete stranger waiting on the arrival of the Germantown police. About five minutes into this ordeal, we heard a knock on the door, and it was not the police. It was Brent. He had come back to share some of the grim burden with me. I realized then that I had found a friend for life.

Although I could not have articulated it then, I saw in that simple, selfless gesture the kindness, compassion, and fierce loyalty that characterized my friend. Brent was easy to be around. I think that's why he found it so easy to make friends and why so many people sought out and relished his company. When Brent was scheduled to arrive at a gathering, there was always excited anticipation, and when he finally did arrive, there always occurred a subtle but palpable easing of social tension. I guess we might call what he had charisma, but whatever we call it he had it in spades.

Brent was also intelligent and intellectually curious. He loved to read and think. He had a particular aptitude for and interest in history, but he also loved and had broad knowledge of music, art, and politics. It's actually hard for me to listen to any music lately because it seems like all my music has some association with Brent. In my view, what killed Brent was a disease of the soul. I recognize it because the same disease killed my older brother and many others I have known and loved. The question then arises why some of us survive this spiritual malady and others of us don't.

My own feeling is that the answer lies outside our intellectual and emotional grasp. I know that it has very little to do with morality, intelligence, discipline, upbringing, or socio-economic status. Brent had all of these attributes, as did my brother, yet these strengths and advantages were not enough to protect either of them from the torments that destroyed them. In Alcoholics Anonymous, there is a saying that what we have is a daily reprieve contingent on the maintenance of our spiritual condition. I make no claim for any particular form of spirituality or concept of God, and I reference the saying not because I practice it consistently or effectively. In truth, I struggle to maintain my spiritual condition or even to understand what it means. Months go by sometimes when I get lost doing it my way, that is, the disease of the soul takes over.

If there's any meaning at all to Brent's senseless and premature death, perhaps it's to remind the rest of us of just how precious and momentary that daily reprieve is. I know a few of us have asked ourselves over the past few days, When was the last time that Brent was truly happy. One image that comes to my mind is of Brent the young basketball player, drenched in sweat, bathed in the afternoon sunlight, and swept up in the reverie and repetition of practice. It was in that almost unconscious, hyper-focused place that Brent seemed to find peace. I pray that he is there today.

I am going to finish with an excerpt from a poem by Dylan Thomas, a poet I know Brent read and admired.
The poem is called Fern Hill.

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.