Two little girls in their jammies snack on raisins while sitting on their uncle’s grave. A simple, beautiful moment.
“He’s not really here, honey. It’s just his bones.” I spoke these words from my own mouth, but I wasn’t sure I believed them. Part of me desperately wanted to believe that his spirit somehow lingered in this place, where flesh becomes fodder for earth dwelling creatures. I parked on the gravel path right in front of his gravestone, as my preschooler pointed excitedly to the cross on the altar at the cemetery center.
“Look, mommy! That’s where Jesus died!” Our recent Easter lessons had paid off, and my young daughter was now intimately familiar with the story of Christ’s death and resurrection. “That’s right, sweetie. But remember, he’s not dead anymore, he’s alive.”
Sadly, I couldn’t say the same …
Has it really been five days since I’ve written? Hmm. It feels strange…that it doesn’t feel strange. You see, I’ve had a bit on my plate the last two weeks. In the course of fourteen days, my youngest daughter first came down with the rotavirus, had two days of relative good health, then got another stomach bug for 24 hours, and then to top it all off, is now fighting RSV. Ooph. Throw in the typical Christmas hustle and bustle, plus a sick husband, and another sick child in the mix, and you start to see why I’ve been kept away from the laptop.
Now I guess that’s not completely true. I’ve had time to write. Small chunks of time, but time nonetheless. So, then, what kept me from sharing my usual once-a-day posts? I just …
I wish I would have. Years ago. (image from: http://shannamurray.bigcartel.com)
Brave.
It’s a word I’ve been called over and over again because I chose to come out of the shadows and tell Eric’s story. My story. The dark one.
But I am not brave.
Brave would have been standing by my parents’ side when the held up protest signs outside of the Cathedral. But I didn’t.
Brave would have been attending all of the trials, hearings and facing his perpetrator. Looking him in the eye. But I didn’t.
Brave would have been telling this story years ago, not more than 12 years after the fact. But I didn’t.
Brave would have been shaking the Bishop’s hand, holding it tightly, and giving him a piece of my mind for orchestrating the cover up. But I didn’t.
I am not brave. I am like …
I’ll always picture my brother in this jacket.
“I think we’re getting together on Sunday to visit the grave.” I had to pause for a moment after hearing my mom’s voice through the phone. Of course. The grave. The anniversary. How could I have forgotten? Well, I didn’t forget. I just wasn’t thinking about it at the time. All the time. Like I used to. Has it really taken me 13 years to reach this point? More than a decade for most of my thoughts during the months of September through October to not send me into a downward spiral? Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?
Perhaps, it’s been rattling around in my mind, creeping around corners and ducking under tables when the lights are turned on. Whispering to me, instead of shouting. …
I’ve found release, but am now bound by a new agony. Still, I know there is hope. (Image from delicioushealing.com)
Recently, I was asked by a class of college students what it was like to bear my soul when writing essay after essay about my brother’s suicide. How did I prepare? How did I handle the exposure? I wasn’t sure how to answer the questions, because honestly, the way it unfolded, and why, was a mystery even to me. Sure, I knew I was trying to find peace and closure. I knew I found a desire to turn these essays into a book someday. I knew that my desire to write (and write and write) could only be compared to Forrest Gump’s desire to run. I just did it. But I didn’t see the …
Yesterday would have been Eric’s 42nd birthday. This time of year typically puts me into a spin cycle, hurtling me towards the anniversary of his death on October 29, then to the holidays where his presence is noticeably absent, then finally spits me out sometime in January, when the frigid weather numbs my raw emotions. My brother Luke’s birthday was August 31, and mine is coming up on Sunday. We always celebrated our birthdays together, my two brothers and I. With all three birthdays little more than a week apart, it was not only convenient for my family, but was a special bond we all shared.
This year, we celebrated Luke’s birthday separately, and it felt nice. I couldn’t help but feel, though, the void in between. With my birthday coming up on Sunday, we’ve lost the …