My Barnabas

Sunday 7/27 will be a year since my friend and fellow pastor, Charlie Summey lost his battle with glioblastoma.  He was only 45 years old.  Charlie's 16-month battle with this vicious brand of cancer was heroic.  He knew he had a death sentence and eventually ceased treatment opting for palliative care and the desire to die with dignity.  His final months showed us how to live.

We shared calling, second-career ministers, the same oncologists, a wicked sense of humor, books, a love for golf, all things college basketball (although our teams were foes) and a passion for broken and wounded people.  A few weeks before he was confined to bed I took him out for coffee.  I could tell he was tired and he was repeating some things, but I remember his courage and the pragmatic way he faced death as a long awaited prize.  The act of dying was not something he sought, but dying and being with Jesus was something he longed for.  He was open and direct about it.  We talked about the culmination of our faith and how much pain this world has compared to the promises we have in Christ.  He was living to die and dying to live.  I remember the tears that flowed from his eyes as he described leaving his bride, Julie and children, Becca and Adam.  He was so proud of them and loved them deep.

I still remember the late December night he called me from a Charlotte hospital saying they had found a tumor in his head.  He was classic Charlie, full of humor, honesty and faith.  I remember quoting the lyrics of a Rich Mullins song to him and praying together.  He chose that song to be sung at his life celebration service.  The next day we drove to Charlotte to see him in the Neuro ICU.

The week before I saw him at Starbucks after he had just run 5 miles!  I was about to finish my radiation treatments and the end of my cancer treatments.  We had no idea he was about to run the race of his life.  And so, "Running With Charlie," stickers and wristbands started popping up all over Greenville.  His race involved brain surgery at Duke, PT and OT rehab, chemo and radiation.

The last time I saw Charlie we watched the British Open together and shared stories of our favorite golfers.  He was weak and barely drinking water.  Before leaving and praying together he asked if I would pray for Julie and the kids.  I don't remember what I said, but I do remember holding his hand and head as we both cried through that prayer.  A week later our mutual friend, Amy called and gave me the news of his passing as I was about to speak at a church in Kentucky.  I couldn't believe it happened so soon.  He beat the national average, but the final months had flown and I simply couldn't accept it was time.

His life celebration service was Charlie to a tee, especially the jazzy version of "When the Saints Go Marchin' In".  I still miss him.  I still haven't erased his contact information from my phone.   He had been one of my strongest supporters and encouragers during my battle with cancer.  I guess deep within, despite knowing better, I thought I could encourage him and be present for his victory and one day when we were old men we would laugh about it all.

Charlie, you fought like hell.  You modeled grace, dignity, faith, transparency and grit.  I miss our chats, your jokes and funny stories.  I miss your encouragement.  You were in many ways my Barnabas.  Hold my spot bro and catch me up when I get there.  You are gone, but not forgotten and forever in our hearts!

Our Cancer Battle Song:
(Rich Mullins)
We'll sometimes my life just don't make sense at all
When the mountains look so big
And my faith just seems so small

So hold me Jesus 'cause I'm shaking like a leaf
You have been King of my glory
Won't You be my Prince of Peace