Kenneth Bryant
From a distance I knew him, far enough away in age and miles that I lay awake tonight wondering if I could/should say anything at all. How did I know this man? I didn't, not really. And yet I did in what is, to me, sacred memory. And I knew him in knowing some of his children. And that is how I remember him first. So many children that I'm afraid to name them, fearing I will miss one. There was Becky, the eldest and her he-man husband, Ron, both of whom loved me early as a young man, setting a good example of a godly life. Then there was Mark, the cowboy – well all the guys were cowboys in a way. Mark and Steve were the older brothers. Then came Liz and Mary, Nathan and Sarah, and that little guy running around under foot, Micah. I might have missed one but I think that is it.
As I say, I'm just a distant observer but on this day of remembering the man, the father of this clan, I keep seeing a lot in my memory. I remember his eyes. Kenneth Bryant had this ever-present way in his expression, nearly impossible to describe. It was not a twinkle though it had merriness to it. It is like he knew this secret and it gave constant energy and joy to his life. It was nothing he lorded over others. In fact it seems like it was the secret that kept him going in service to everyone else. A pleasant truth, reflecting a well never running dry, a life really lived in ways and from sources the rest of us puzzled over before going our lesser ways.
My most fixed memory of Kenneth Bryant, his wonderful wife and fun family, is seeing them arrive at church camp grounds in Wichita, Kansas. The grounds were always hot and dusty and when the Bryant clan arrived there was an old car kicking up a plume of dust, pulling a trailer, and a pickup with a topper following, I guess. I only remember that they weren't driving anything fancy! But it had to be more than one vehicle to handle all of those kids. An
d they set up camp in and outside their cabin over there in the SW corner of the grounds. Nothing too romantic on those dusty grounds, mind you, but if there was time to tell it all you would know why I consider those memories sacred.
d they set up camp in and outside their cabin over there in the SW corner of the grounds. Nothing too romantic on those dusty grounds, mind you, but if there was time to tell it all you would know why I consider those memories sacred.
Around the Bryant cabin I was introduced to a lasso, messing around after and between services to learn something about lassoing someone's little brother or related mischief. There was some real coyboyin' goin' on in that family as I knew for sure when I went with Steve in '82 to visit Mark on the backside of nowhere in Arizona. Having grown up in western Kansas I knew big spaces, but NE Arizona redefined it for me. Steve and I drove for a long time – maybe an hour or more – no markings, no stores, nothing but....nothing. And then in the middle of all that we found Mark with a trailer and truck and horse, doing his job in service to a rancher who, honest, had cattle out there somewhere. We took Mark's truck and left him with a car as I recall so we could return to Kansas where church camp was getting started again in one of those hot, dusty, happy Augusts.
And so when we met the Bryants, starting in 1978 in that happy place in Wichita, it was always with all those kids and somewhere around was Mrs. Bryant -- always smiling in my memory -- and Mr. Bryant. Of course they loved God and you knew it, and they loved Him with service and love and just being in a way that made you almost forget they were there. As Micah told me, “Dad wasn't on any big councils or big important stuff like that, but he lived Jesus in a way like no one else I ever knew.”
As I grew older I didn't see them as much. One of the last times was in Miltonvale in 1989 or so. Whatever year it was, they had lost Steven in the past year. One of the pastors motioned toward Mr. Bryant and said, “There is a man of God, just buried a son, carrying on in faithfulness and truth and love.” I looked across at Mr. Bryant and knew, in my youthful unknowing, that there was a mysterious truth to this and a sustaining enabling in his life.
As I say, I knew him from a distance, but I could not shake his memory as I lay awake tonight. He died sometime on Monday, leaving eight children and their families, a heritage that is really priceless. I confess I remember him as being very poor – seemed like they had so little. But as the saying goes, the most important things in life are not things, and the Bryants had that in abundance. A real, simple, living faith in a God who was good, faithful, loving, steady, honest, always there. That was Kenneth Bryant, I think, living faithfully so that we saw in him the Jesus he loved and trusted. And so now that he is gone from us his example helps us to believe that we, too, can walk that life of faith, if faint by comparison, and someday rejoin him in heaven. I think that makes sense; I think that is real. And I believe it all the more because of the life and love of this good man I knew from a distance, Kenneth Bryant.
