OUT OF ORDER

A reflection on loss, disorder, and life refusing to follow the script.

It can mean so many things: broken, malfunctioning, inappropriate behavior (like a judge reprimanding someone in court), not currently in use, or simply not in the correct sequence. I want to focus on that last meaning—because being in the right order, the right sequence, is what makes the world go around.

There are physical laws of nature that all depend on things happening in the right order. Otherwise, they won’t happen—ever.

Nature plays by certain rules, and one of those is that some things just can’t happen out of order. A ball won’t roll unless it is pushed. Human development goes from cell to embryo to fetus to child to adult to elder—you can’t be an adult without the previous steps. You can’t get fruit before flower. Stars have life cycles, and those cycles always happen in the same order.

Most of us, most of the time, give little thought to order. We acknowledge and understand that order prevents chaos, and if we’ve paid any attention at all, we understand that the universe demands sequence. When that sequence goes wrong, our life experiences and expectations become scrambled, causing us to feel… something I’m not sure how to describe. Maybe “off balance” is the best I can offer.

And then, suddenly, without warning, that order was gone.

On the morning of April 14th, I learned what it feels like when life refuses to follow the script.

The morning sun promised a beautiful spring day. I started a pot of coffee and was visiting with our friend David as I waited for the pot to fill. No rain in the forecast and mild temperatures—it would’ve been a good day to get some work done in the garden, maybe plant some flowers.

I poured us each a cup of fresh coffee and we walked toward the table. There’s a good view of the street and sidewalk from where I stood, and I saw a police officer and someone else walk into view and come up my driveway. Maybe looking for something or someone else?

I went to the door and stepped outside to greet them. They both had serious looks on their faces, and maybe a little fear… they were about to do something neither one wanted to do, and it showed.

Knowing that there isn’t any good way to do what they had to do, the officer stopped at the bottom of the steps, looked up at me, and simply said:

“Your brother John died last night at work… we are so sorry.”

I knew terrible news was coming before he opened his mouth. Quite honestly, I can’t tell you exactly how I responded, but the gut reaction was disbelief.

“What? That can’t be right.”
I was 21 years old when he was born. People in their 50s don’t just drop dead.
“He went out of order; I was supposed to go long before him.”
He was supposed to bury me—not the other way around.
“It wasn’t his turn!”

Unbalanced. Disoriented. Lost. Confused. Questioning.

Feeling like that universal natural order had been turned on its head… or painfully onto my head.

Like falling into a black hole.

Feeling out of balance is painful. Everything felt tilted. Time became a blur.

The timing chain in your car keeps everything in sync. If it breaks, some really bad stuff can happen to your engine. At that moment, I felt like my internal timing chain had snapped.

I was scrambling to stay upright. My mind was struggling to figure out my next step.

There was fear, too. I’m the eldest member of my immediate family. I would need to be the big brother, the leader, the helper, the comforter of the others.

There was some real doubt—could I do that?

Then the tears started. I tried to stay composed, but I kept hearing the same thing over and over:
Your brother John died last night.

I couldn’t hear anything else around me. My vision blurred, and the tears became sobs—loud, broken sounds I couldn’t stop.

I wasn’t crying—I was unraveling.

Maybe if I closed my eyes tightly enough, I’d be able to stop. Or maybe this was just a bad dream.

It was. But not the kind you wake up from.

Pain like that doesn’t go away—not ever. The best you can do is learn to deal with it a little better with each passing day.

I don’t mean to make my loss seem harder or more devastating than any of the millions of others who have lost loved ones. It isn’t. We all know that loss hurts, and my hurt is no greater than the pain suffered by others.

Like almost everyone else, I grieved the loss of my parents—but their loss, while painful, wasn’t unexpected.

Because we live in a universe that is held together by natural laws—including the one about how most natural processes can only happen if done in sequence.

I’ve always thought of death the same way: the old go first, the young follow. We take our turns. That belief wasn’t something I ever said out loud or etched in stone—it was just there, like gravity.

My rational brain knows that sometimes children do die before parents. But continuing to believe that the natural order is always old before young has given me psychological stability when thinking about loss—or the potential for loss.

I still believe in order. In the idea that nature has given us examples of why sequence matters.

But now I know those natural laws are not guarantees. They’re more like a hope we grasp in the face of chaos. And when that hope breaks—like a timing chain snapping at full speed—we are left to rebuild from wherever we land.

My landing was cushioned, just a bit, by seeing how much friends, family, and community mean.

The support has been nothing short of amazing.

I’m still picturing groups of people standing along the roadway in a cold, windy rain, hands over hearts in appreciation for John’s service to this community.

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Thank you for reading. I'm grateful for your presence here.