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Andrew Millette was my roommate, my friend, and my brother. When I moved to Atlanta in January of 2010 he took me in. I was living in a house in home park with four other guys, but Andrew gave me a place with heating and an adequate bathroom.

We spent most of the first few months plunking on the ground with our ice-cream filled bowls, and marathoning MASH.

We talked about church, and community, and girls, and failures, and love, and wisdom, and relativism, and soccer, and politics, and we prayed.

He is still my example of how to live in the world, to love people, to give humbly and graciously, and to love life.

Death is a dreadful thing postponed.  It is final, but it keeps me waiting for the moment when I realize my heart has been rend from my chest and filled with the hollows of lost time. It has already flooded my mind and pounded my heart, but is waiting for my eyes to succumb to the torrents of the storm.

A dear brother is gone, and missed. I love you Andrew.

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I’m reminded of the time when my van was stolen. Andrew didn’t speak he simply moved toward me and hugged me. At the time the hug wasn’t warm and welcome, it was cold and awkward and I didn't understand, but now I know. He was looking beyond life and death, into eternity, and saw that I needed a hug.

Also, he ate really really loudly, and I never told him how much that made me want to put a stake through my skull, and I'm glad I didn't.

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