My brother Don is a man of few words. He calls on my birthday or when somebody we both know has, or is about to die. Don called Wednesday night.
 
"Hey Marley." 
 
"Hey Don. How you doing"?
 
"Getting by. You know."
 
"Yeah, no kidding. Hey Don, it's not my birthday. Who died?"
 
"Have you talked to Mom?"
 
"Nope."
 
"Stan's in the hospital. I don't think he's going to make it out. Mom just wanted to let you know."
 
"Thanks Don. Give Mom my love."
 
Two hours later, Don calls again. I carry the cell phone into the bedroom, shutting the door from the noise of the television and another Michael Jackson expose, things unspoken between husband and wife.
 
I answer, "Hey Don."
 
"It's Mom, sweetheart. My phone doesn't work in the hospital. Marley, my precious Stan is gone."
 
I felt his essence, the memory of Stan sweep by my right shoulder at that very moment. "Mom, Stan's here. I just felt him."
 
Mom giggles in her quiet, shaky voice, her once upon a time, melodic voice, still joyful but weakened, fighting kids and cancer and life's advance, voice "Oh, I know son. Stan so wanted to see your new home on his own two feet. He's up on the roof deck right now." She sighs and giggles again, "Oh yes, he loves the view from above all those trees, just like you told him he would."

Two months earlier, June 13th, Stan sat in our little dining room, his walker standing guard, his smile large and constant, firecrackers in his eyes. Five granddaughters chased, herded, corralled the almost a dozen flock of always hungry great-grandkids. The mayhem seemed to calm him. He absorbed the noisy bouncing energy like a sandstone boulder soaks in the sun, giving it back calmly, all day long.
 
Stan watched the video of our new rising home between the bouncing herd of heads and said, "Someday I'll see that view for myself." I saw Mom squeeze his hand just before they shuffled off to bed.
 
Last Wednesday night, Don called, Mom cried, Stan died and came to visit. Stan came to visit and stood high on our roof deck where I'm sure he enjoyed the view.
 
Stan was a Living Architecture. His life, like all good lives, was built across the abyss of doubt, it spanned mistakes, dug foundations in the rocks of faith and hope, it sprung walls of fire forged brick experience and his architecture sheltered my Mother and her flock with persistent arms of patience. Stan's architecture sometimes shifted, it creaked and cracked and moaned sometimes but Stan kept coming back to Live His Architecture, to fix it, to make life better at every chance. 
 
And that's what it's all about, people.
 
Live YOUR Architecture. Make it wonderful and strong and true and meaningful and long lasting. Build it with patience and forbearance and sensitive giving. Build it with what you have at hand, a bridge, a window, a doorway, a passage, a pillow but build on it every day, every day, in little ways. Morph it, change it, tear down what doesn't work. Re-build what fell apart but dream and plan, design, dig in and build, Your Living Architecture.
 
YOUR architecture is Daring to Dream Out Loud.

PS: Mom sent two emails this morning to the family. Both had attachments. The first email was supposed to be Stan's obituary (A Life's Set of Architectural Blueprints). The second email said, "Oops! Sorry everybody. Getting ahead of myself a little. I attached my obituary instead of Stan's!"
 
Now, that's planning ahead!