TIGARD -- Paper table cloths draped three small folding tables in the backyard of Jeff Keller's home on Sunday. One red, one white, and one blue. It was here, not far from where two brothers once played as little boys, that a grieving family tried to stop the world from wobbling.

The military record will show that

. He was shot by insurgents on a hillside in Charkh, and when the "Soldier down!" call came, two men in his unit ran up the hill two miles to his body.

Keller was dead from a gunshot to the head.

Where do you start? How do you tell such an important story for what is the 34th local family to have a son die in Afghanistan since the war began? How do you ever again read the words, "Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness," and not also think about Andrew's mother, Kim, sobbing in her black dress at the foot of the stairs he climbed as a 10-year old?

Jeff Keller coached a memorable team of ballplayers from Murrayhill to the Little League World Series in Williamsport, Pa., in 2006. His youngest son, Derek, was a star on that team. His oldest son, Andrew, was a MVP on the Southridge High School football team. This family was all of us -- and America, too -- right down to their home in the cul-de-sac, the fishing trips and the scrapbook that mom kept of Andrew's military career.

Inside, there are photographs of Andrew, standing tall in uniform. And his first letter home, in which he wrote, "I miss you guys so much it hurts but this is what I want in my life." And even the Delta Air Lines boarding pass from Andrew's flight to boot camp. He sat in seat 17F, and I wondered if he looked out the window and watched Portland disappear as the plane took off, or maybe turned to the passenger beside him and explained that he'd joined the Army.

Soldiers are brothers. We hear that all the time. But you don't fully grasp it until you hear Jeff Keller talk about those two soldiers who ran to his son's body. They saw that he was dead, and pulled off their shirts to shield him as a helicopter stormed in. As the rotors hurled rocks and debris everywhere, they covered his dead body with their bare backs to the sky.

"They got," Jeff said, choking up, "all torn up protecting his body."

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Then, in his second year of college, he told his parents, "I'm thinking of joining the Army."

Dad said, "Now, let's talk about this."

Andrew said, "I've already joined."

Andrew was 22, an adult, and the exact kind of proud, confident, capable soldier that our country has long relied upon. His parents, while worried sick at the idea of their first-born seeing combat, knew he had to make his own journey.

It was one that ultimately led to what was supposed to be a 48-hour mission to secure an observation post.

One that led to Andrew’s final communication to his father:



"I'm safe. I'm on a hill in some God-forsaken place. Text you as soon as I can."



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Derek, 19, was home alone when the military officer arrived. Neighbors rushed over after seeing the scene unfold on the porch. Kim was at the post office, mailing a care package Andrew would never receive. Jeff was in Newport on business when his phone rang with "Derek" popping up on the caller ID.



Nothing has felt the same since.



"I drove two and a half hours straight home," Jeff said. "All I remember from the drive was hitting the rumble strips on the side of the road and middle of the road."



Jeff called me on Friday from the Air Force base in Dover, Del. He, his wife, son and Marissa had made the trip to receive Andrew's body. They were lost in a swirl of grief.



The father said: "I knew I had a wonderful child, but I didn't realize until he died that so many people felt the same way I did."



Jeff cried talking about the 22 flags placed by Andrew's friends on the roundabout near his home. He cried talking about seeing waders on the garage wall, reminders of a family fishing trip they’d planned for next year. And he cried again talking about his son's fiancé. "I'm heartbroken for my son and Marissa; they had plans."



They were escorted to the tarmac Saturday, where they received Andrew's body. There will be a military autopsy. There will be a service this week. Andrew's cousin, also in the military, will accompany the body to Portland where Andrew will be buried in Willamette National Cemetery. But this was a private moment, with tears running down everyone’s cheeks.



The family that had spent so much time talking about losing Andrew had him back, finally.





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Lots of people knew Andrew. There were all around the Kellers’ home on Sunday. They brought food. They brought hugs. A few stood on the porch, smoking cigarettes, looking at the United States flags planted in the lawn and the poster-size photograph of Andrew with the word "Our hero" on it. Andrew's grandmother, a warm woman with a great hug, stood not far from a dining-room table covered with photographs of Andrew as a little boy.



Andrew caught his first fish at 6. He caught a 32-pound salmon when he was 7. His father tried to take the rod and help land the fish, but Andrew wouldn't let anyone touch it.



He was fiercely loyal, and kind. Andrew's friends talked about his athleticism, and his giant hands, and his passion for life.



A classmate who was picked on in high school called Jeff after hearing the news and said, "Sir, I want you to know your son was nice to me when nobody else was."



So yeah. How do you do justice to Andrew and his family? What do you do with a good life interrupted? What do you make of the news that Andrew's unit was pulled off that hill in Charkh after his death because it was deemed too risky for anyone to be there?



Kim and Jeff tried to make sense of that in the wee hours of Sunday morning. They decided that their son would tell them, "Mom, Dad -- if my death saved other people from being in danger and losing their lives, then my death was worthwhile."



All we ever want is for our lives to mean something.



Andrew's did.





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There is no consolation in learning the details of a soldier's death. But context becomes comfort. Jeff said, "My son was doing what he wanted to do. If we were there for a reason, he wanted to be fighting for us."



The father stood around that table of photographs on Sunday, with a group of friends and neighbors, recounting the story of those two soldiers rushing up that hill, risking their lives to protect his son's remains. There's a brotherhood among soldiers that we could all learn from.



Jeff said to the room: "If there's any comfort that's where it lies because there isn't much comfort anywhere else."



Pfc. Andrew J. Keller is the 154th soldier with ties to Oregon and southwest Washington to be killed in Afghanistan and Iraq. I stood in his family's home watching as they wrestled with their son's brave desire to serve his country and their gut-twisting grief. I kept coming back to that flight before boot camp. I hope the passenger sitting beside Andrew in Row 17 turned and thanked him.



I hope someone thanked him for us all.



"I'm going to keep him alive in everybody's heart," his dad said. "It's my my goal to make sure nobody ever forgets my son."



