Lately I have been feeling more and more like I am healing into a whole person again. Not the same girl who entered the darkness, but one who has seen the terrors that go bump in the night and has emerged with wider eyes and a greater understanding of human suffering. And God. I have learned a few things about Him and His goodness, too, as I have leaned into Him more and more.
My sea legs are almost gone and while I stumble through fewer and fewer moments of complete anguish, I have found one constant, nagging, companion. The urge to want to still include my brother in conversations about my present life.
Now, I understand that there are many ideas of afterlife – even in the Christian community – but I would like to preface this post by saying that I believe my brother made it to Heaven. His profession of faith through blinking sealed the deal and I have no reason to doubt that. And beyond that, I do not believe that a good God who says that an eternity with Him includes “no more sorrow, and no more tears” would include the ability to see or be present spiritually on this earth. Because it is messy here and full of reasons to do just that – be full of sorrow and cry. So no, I do not think that my brother is in the wind or the trees or the birds or the odd glimpses of look-alikes that cross my path. (But I do cherish every one of them as a reminder of his life and his memory.)
I say this not as a reprimand or challenge to any one person’s belief but as a way to frame my heartache.
To help you, my friend, understand how utterly alone it can feel to celebrate a family graduation without his laughter heard from some back room where he was playing a video game as if beckoning others to join his world, or a wedding without feeling his continual hug goodbye as if he never wanted to let you go, or adding something into a group text that you knew he would enjoy and waiting as if he would actually be able to respond with everyone else.
I have come to understand that in this stage of acceptance there lies a whole new level of grief. Wrestling with the loss not just of your presence, but our sharing of life.
I find myself every now and again talking at the wind. It helps for a moment as I release all of the pent up things I had been holding on to tell him. And then the stillness that follows reminds me again of the separation we still live in.
The feeling of wanting to share a bit of my life or my feelings never goes away, but the reasons keep changing.
At first I remember thinking…
I wish I would have asked your final wishes.
That one week we had, the one in the hospital, I was so focused on keeping your mind in a positive place that I never got around to asking if you wanted me to call someone. I never asked if there was something you left undone or always intended to do but never got around to.
Then there is the whole topic of death. I never pushed the idea of religion or talking over eternity and your thoughts on death as I thought it might be too hard for you. And for me, I suppose. It was too hard for me to acknowledge death as a possibility because it felt like a betrayal of faith. But it turns out, it would be our reality and I never knew if you were scared or relieved or indifferent. I just kept saying “you’re okay” when you most assuredly weren’t because it was easier than drawing attention to the tough stuff. I would give anything for one more moment to talk about the tough stuff.
When the initial shock and feeling of being shattered started to subside, I remember thinking…
I wish I would have told you how important you were to me.
Words of affirmation is not any one of my top three love languages. In fact, if Physical Touch wasn’t on the list then words of affirmation might just be the last way I would ever express love for another person.
It’s odd isn’t it? For a person who processes emotion through writing to struggle so much with saying the very things she can freely put down on paper? But alas, that is me. The girl who laughed through her wedding vows and still cringes during movies with long monologues between couples. Legit cringe.
But in all of my awkwardness, I still struggle that I never said how important you were to me, John. I never said that you were the sole male version of my very DNA and your life was a gift to our family that offered more than just a different lens to see the world. You were a key piece in the unit that was The Benbow Bunch and figuring out how we worked without you is taking more time than I ever imagined.
As time marches on and new “big things” occur I still think…
I wish I could tell you about our family.
Stephanie got married which meant that we added another brother in law to the bunch and you weren’t there. Then we got the news that Steph is pregnant (!!!!!!!!!) which means we will be adding another niece or nephew and you will miss that, too. I was so excited for each thing and yet at the same time suffocated that you weren’t here to be a part. The celebrations, birthdays, the kids accomplishing new things, you are missing all of it.
I want to tell you about Jacob’s fascination with girls and how he writes love notes (that I confiscate of course) and performs better when someone he thinks is cute happens to be watching.
I want to tell you about Michael going into the sixth grade and how he reminds me so much of you. In shear looks alone as his personality is basically me.
I want to hear your reactions as Beth and Nolan both started new positions, Dad continues to embrace his identity as Tim Allen from Home Improvement by fixing all the things, and Mom adds more and more to her garden. You could say sarcastic things that none of us can (but all of us want to) and it would still be funny. I miss that. I miss knowing how you felt about everything, and your not being afraid to say it.
And when I see something that reminds me of you I wonder…
I wish I could have seen what your journey could have been like.
I read an article yesterday about a paralyzed man who walked down the aisle accompanied by his now wife. He had been spending so much time in physical therapy despite his paralysis to gain small motions that would make him appear as though he was walking just to say that he walked her down. I held back crocodile tears (and only because I was at work when I stumbled upon it and it wasn’t such a safe space to let them flow).
I know that you would have been miserable in a chair, confined to seeing the world through a seated position for the rest of your life, but every time I see a paraplegic accomplish great things I often wonder if it could have been you. If you would have been the man to find the love of his life, the woman who gives you the strength to make even small movements to walk her down the aisle, and then build a family through adoption. (This man and his wife literally adopted five girls and fostered countless others. I just can’t.)
I wanted to share the video with you. I wanted to encourage you that it was possible despite all of your questions of “who would love me” or “how can I have a family, now”. I wanted to point to someone doing it, living life to the absolute fullest despite their overwhelming and life-changing injury, and say that happiness and thriving was still possible.
I wanted to have that conversation with you.
But here I sit, facing the days without you in them. Talking to myself and to God about all of the things I miss and wish could be different. All of the things that make this new reality hard and feeling impossible. And still hearing God whisper back to me that I will make it through. That my brother is still very much alive and well. And that no matter the distance, we will see him again. That we are only separated for a moment in the expanse of time and while my present might not include him, my future does.
When I think of Jesus as our Mediator between us and God, I find joy in thinking of Him as a middle-man. Because I need one of those these days. Someone to relay all of the good things until we can be in a present relationship again. I don’t think that the Holy Spirit is telling John any of the things that I share with the air, but I do believe that He is the constant still for John and I. That He is speaking to both my brother in Heaven, and us here below. And while their conversations in the clouds are most likely filled with celebrations and only good news (scriptures say that all of Heaven rejoices over those who choose to believe), ours on Earth consist mainly of pep-talks to accomplish new things, challenges to repent/grow, and encouragement laced with a whole lot of comfort for my weary heart.
I can’t wait to have conversations like John is having now.
When it is just joyful laughter and celebration. When every tear is wiped away and there is one full clear picture – seeing all things as God sees them. I can’t wait for Heaven. To not have to feel the heaviness of grief or the constant emptiness in every new thing.
And until I see those ornery hazel eyes looking back at me, I will continue to tell God all of the things that I wish I could tell you, little brother. I will continue to share aloud the happy things and the sad things. I will continue to laugh until I have almost peed my pants (which unfortunately isn’t too hard these days) and cry until I need to scrub my face of a full blown mascara attack. Because I am talking to the Middle Man now. And He is the best listener in your absence.
(Which could be a total head spinning idea if the Holy Spirit is foreign to you. Which I pray He isn’t, but I am here to talk if He is.)
I love you to the moon and back, Buddy. And I can’t wait to see you again.
We will have so much catching up to do.
(And in your memory, and our shared love of funny cards and memes, I am attaching some of my favorite funnies about our common friend. I can’t wait to hear your laugh again.)
