The broken clock is a comfort, it helps me sleep tonight
Maybe it can stop tomorrow, from stealing all my time
And I am here still waiting, though I still have my doubts
I am damaged at best, like you've already figured out
The broken locks were a warning, you got inside my head
I tried my best to be guarded, I'm an open book instead
And I still see your reflection inside of my eyes
They are looking for purpose, they're still looking for life
I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart, that's still beating
In the pain, there is healing, in your name
I find meaning; So I'm holding on, I'm holdin' on
I'm barely holding on to you -Lifehouse
Here I find myself again. That awful, heart-wrenching pain in which it hurts to be awake. I know it all too well. It hurts to breathe. The only relief I find is in sleep, and when I wake up for even just a moment, it hits me all over again. I feel physically ill. I can't bring myself to eat. Once again, I ask that question, Why? God, what are you doing? Can't you give me a break? Really? You can't let ANYTHING good happen to me? I try every day to be a loving person. With every new person that I meet, I do my best to look under the surface. To remember that everyone I meet is fighting some kind of battle. That is one gift Evan gave me; to appreciate everyone, every day. To love people, because you never know how much time with them you will be gifted. There is no doubt in my mind that Evan knew how much I loved him, that he was my hero, because I told him on numerous occasions. I have no regrets. I resolved to keep it that way; to never let a moment pass without telling people how I felt. Family, friends, relationships. I have to fight the urge to feel as though I am being punished for that. I have to remind myself that this is not how God works. He is not punishing me. It is just so, so hard.
You know when you're a kid, and you fall down, and you get the breath knocked out of you? And you're okay, but it's just really scary for a minute. And you have to take long, deep breaths. I feel like I just had the breath knocked out of me. Breathing is a chore, and right now, it's about all I can muster.
And any time pain surfaces in my life, and any kind of loss, it brings back those awful reminders that I just want to block out forever. Those memories of the day we found out, Mom's reaction, that feeling when you know something awful has happened, but you don't know what it is yet; that "I can't tell you over the phone, just please come to the house" statement that I heard from Dad that day; the frantic prayers.."Please, God, don't let it be Evan, or Mom, or anyone else I love so dearly..." I called my friends and told them to just pray. The same feeling I had yesterday, that "it can't be" , blindsided, shocked feeling. A different situation-but that same, gut-wrenching, familiar feeling. That feeling that I know so well. How is that I already, at my age, know that feeling so well? I had to grow up way before I was ever ready to.
You see, this is the price we pay for love. To love some freely, fully, and faithfully is to make yourself completely vulnerable. If you do not make yourself vulnerable, take the risks, and love, then you will tragically, sadly, miserably "under-live" life. Grieving is an inevitable part of being fully alive and living in love, but the risk of grief is no reason not to love. Grief is just the inevitable price we someday pay for a lifetime of intimacy, joy, and love with friends, parents, children, siblings, and spouses(Chuck Poole). Would I take back every memory of Evan, because it hurt so greatly to lose him? Not in a million years. Friends I've lost, as recently as yesterday? Never. All the relationships I've lost? Nope. At the end of the day, I have the LOVE of my Savior above all, who never leaves me. Who holds me through the storm. Who never changes. Who loves me when I sure don't deserve it, when I'm mad at Him, when I believe AND when I doubt. Unconditionally. And on top of it all, He blessed me with a wonderful family and friends.
You know the song "Wear Sunscreen"? Some of the lyrics include, "Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindsides you at 4 PM on some idle Tuesday." It's true. The things that I worry about endlessly are things that are not likely to happen; the things I never thought would happen are the things that I am blindsided by; that I never expected. And the Matt Kearney song, "She got the call today. One out of the grey. And when the smoke cleared, it took her breath away. She said she didn't believe it could happen to me, I guess we're all phone call from our knees."
We are all a phone call from our knees, aren't we? People kept telling me that they couldn't imagine, when we lost Evan. I thought myself, "I can't do this". Those are the first words I uttered. Here I am today, still doing it. But you know what? You can do it. I can do it. Believe me, if I can do it, anyone can. It made me a stronger person, in fact. Because when you are faced with the unimaginable, when you get that phone call, you don't have a choice but to survive. People are faced with all kinds of situations. My Aunt found the love of her life; 13 years later, my Uncle Bob was killed in a car accident. A close friend of our family faced a life-threatening brain injury 6 months after giving birth to her precious child; She was not expected to live, and she struggles every day through therapy. Without warning, a husband leaves his wife after 4 years of marriage. We are faced with choices in life, and are dealt cards that we never expected and don't want.
Then, and certainly not overnight, but we eventually come to a fork in the road, and we have a choice to make. We can become bitter, sad, miserable people; or we can praise God through the storm. We can be mad for a while, or we can stay mad forever; We can choose to love again, or we can stop loving. We can never let our guard down again, or we can eventually learn to take another risk. I believe that I will make the right choice; I certainly hope so.
I am really just a bunch of contradictions. I think we all are. I shut people out, I let people in, I keep a wall up, I let my guard down, I believe and I doubt, I hope and I get discouraged, I love and I hate(I actually don't hate anyone) , I feel bad about feeling good, I feel guilty about not feeling guilty.
Letting someone in is hard. I don't do it easily. When we lost Evan, I shut everyone out. I didn't realize it at the time. In my dazed world apart from reality, I wasn't aware of it until I came out of the haze and looked back. The bottom line is, it's hard to let people in, especially when we get hurt. I let my guard down-finally, truly, and fully. Did I know there was a risk associated with it? Of course. That's why I was so hesitant. It's never easy to put yourself out there, to be exactly who you are, to refuse to change who you are, to be open and give someone your heart, and to find out that they don't want it. The easy way out is to keep that wall up-if you never let it down, you don't risk the hurt. But if you don't risk the hurt, as Chuck Poole says so eloquently, you will "tragically, sadly, miserably under-live life."
It's interesting when you look back and see the signs. Kind of like I didn't realize I had shut myself off from the world; that the Lord had sent people to carry me through a most horrific time in my life after Evan died. Friends that loved me unconditionally; that continued to show up when I didn't want them there, when all I wanted was to be alone. That still remained my friend when I was so mad about taking stupid medicine that didn't want, that I slammed the water down on my parent's bed. It wasn't until I looked back that I could see it. A couple weeks ago, I just had this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach, that something was wrong. I couldn't put my finger on it, I just didn't feel good. I had to go into my office and just put my head down during lunch. People kept asking me what was wrong, and I honestly didn't know. I just didn't feel like myself. Maybe it was God's way of preparing me; I just didn't know for what.
Eventually, you find that the pain subsides; that you're able to breath a little easier. I just wish it would get here already! Alas, patience in that sense has always been hard for me. I want to feel better NOW. But you have to get it out; you have to grieve, you have to cry and be mad, or it will assuredly come out at some point or another.
And I remind myself: the Lord is all-knowing. It is SO hard to put all your trust in Him; but that is what He calls us to do. My soul wants to lash back, what ARE you doing? I didn't sign up for this!
But you know what? I have survived the unthinkable; an unimaginable tragedy. I can survive this. I am a survivor. God give me the strength to believe those words.
And the good news is, I've finally lost those last few pounds that have been pestering me, all in the last 12 hours! See, there is a silver lining. Thank goodness I haven't lost my sense of humor!
I'll say it again: I AM A SURVIVOR. You are a survivor. We may fight different battles, but we are all survivors.
The Lord will FIGHT for you; You need only to be still." -Exodus 14:14
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
I just got back from a most incredible weekend at Ft. Stewart. I was so blessed to be there, and I feel like a bit of healing took place. Let me back up though.
Evan's unit just got back from their 15 month deployment. My parents went out to Colorado Springs for the Memorial Service with all of his unit back home. I can only imagine how emotional the experience was for them and Evan's fellow soldiers, but just listening to the stories my parents recounted back to me, even as I cried through them, part of me found peace.
One story I like in particular was one they told of their attempts at promoting Evan. Because of his skill, they wanted to make him a sergeant-Evan said no. They wanted to make him a team leader-Evan said no-but, they made him a team leader anyway. One day that they had training, one of Evan's soldiers was late(this is out at Ft. Carson), and the person above Evan tells him to just smoke the guy(chew him out, in effect). Evan proceeds to do just that-and feels so guilty that he later buys him a steak dinner and takes him to a movie-ah, just like Evan. We both got that guilt gene.
They also said that Evan was just fearless-that he absolutely had no fear. One time they were all hiking up Pike's Peak, and when they got to the halfway house, the people there recommended that they turn around-they were already up to a feet of snow. Evan insisted that they continue up the mountain. He was finally about waist-deep in snow when he was talked into going back down.
I find this so interesting because I am just about the exact opposite of fearless. I have many fears, some that are rational and some that are very irrational. Evan was the closest to anyone on this Earth in terms of DNA to me, and we are very different in that regard. My Aunt reminds me that it has always been that way though-when Evan was a little boy, and we were at the lake, he would beg her to go faster on the jet ski, and to do 360's, while I was begging her to slow down. She didn't know how to explain to me at my age that she had to go at a certain speed to keep the jet ski going straight. Yes, we have always been different in that regard. Evan, always the risk-taker, me-eliminating any possible risk whatsoever. But that's just the way it is-the way it always has been.
They also said Evan was one of the best and fastest runners in the platoon. Apparently he would say his favorite "yo mama" jokes as he passed one of his other friends while they were running. That's another thing-everyone mentioned to my parents how funny Evan was. Some couldn't even hold it together without laughing, they just said Evan was so funny-and his "one-liners" were often over people's heads. They said you couldn't be in a bad mood around Evan-that he always just lifted everyone's spirits.
I have recently gotten back into running, pretty often. I started with a 5K a couple weeks ago, and at that time, I can't even remember the last time I actually ran, but I have been working out pretty consistently. I have to credit my Aunt with this, but she told me one day a month or so ago that when she is in a cycle class pedaling, and she thinks to herself that she can't pedal any further, she pictures Evan in her mind and says to herself, "If Evan had the courage to get up and do what he did every day, I can keep going." And so she does. This has been most helpful to me as well. If I ever think that I cannot lift this bar again, I think to myself, If Evan can do what he did, I can lift this bar one more time. And I do. Dad said he has had the same thoughts. We draw on Evan's courage to carry us through when we think we cannot do it alone.
Dad said it was an emotional day, and that you could tell the soldiers were hurting and felt a bit awkward around them. He ended up sitting next to someone one of the days they were there, at lunch, and somehow sensed that he would be open to talking about that day that Evan died. Dad asked if he would mind if he asked some questions about that day they lost the 5. He said he didn't mind, and Dad heard firsthand from a soldier what happened that day.
I cried as I listened to these stories-I just couldn't stop the tears, and these soldiers are the closest thing to Evan as we have-they are the ones that were with him every day, and in those final moments. We will always be connected to them in that sense.
The seminar at Ft. Stewart this past weekend was incredible. I decided sort of last minute to go with my Mom. TAPS stands for Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors, and it is a support organization for people who are military survivors. I met some incredible people there, other "gold star families", and we had different sessions and small groups on grief and losing a loved one in the military. I spoke to a general who I felt a strong connection to, and also several members of the Atlanta Rotary Club(they sponsored the event), one who is going to come and run the Memorial Race in June with his daughter. That just goes to show you just one person along the way who was so touched by Evan's life and our story, he is going to participate in one of our events.
Mom and I have decided to attend the National TAPS seminar in D.C. This is on a much greater scale-over 1000 people, multiple workshops, the President and other special guest speakers, and a Memorial Day Service at Arlington. Someone said this past weekend that people had wondered why she went to these seminars, and that it must make it worse to rehash everything-in fact, I cried most of the day on Saturday as I recounted exactly what happened to Evan and our relationship-but she also said it's connecting to others who truly DO understand, and it's like getting some of the poison out. Exactly-like getting that poison out. It's also something that is not going away-I realized this weekend that of all the people that were there, our loss was the most recent-people were there that had lost loved ones up to 15 years ago and longer-and it is something we already knew, but something I wish I could convey to people that haven't been through it, is that it will ALWAYS be a part of us. We will live with this loss FOREVER-as long as we have breathe, all of us. We will miss Evan every day for the rest of our lives. It isn't something that is going away. But-we will make sure he is never forgotten.
And to me, that's what gave me that little bit of peace I returned with coming home today. One thing I said in my sibling group, when asked how I "cope" with the loss, is that I made a promise to Evan from day 1: he would not be forgotten. That as long as I am breathing on this Earth, people will know. I wear my pin because I want people to ask me about it, and give me the opportunity to tell them what a sweet, brave brother I had. And all I can do is continue to do that every day for the rest of my life, until I finally see him again one sweet day.
Evan's unit just got back from their 15 month deployment. My parents went out to Colorado Springs for the Memorial Service with all of his unit back home. I can only imagine how emotional the experience was for them and Evan's fellow soldiers, but just listening to the stories my parents recounted back to me, even as I cried through them, part of me found peace.
One story I like in particular was one they told of their attempts at promoting Evan. Because of his skill, they wanted to make him a sergeant-Evan said no. They wanted to make him a team leader-Evan said no-but, they made him a team leader anyway. One day that they had training, one of Evan's soldiers was late(this is out at Ft. Carson), and the person above Evan tells him to just smoke the guy(chew him out, in effect). Evan proceeds to do just that-and feels so guilty that he later buys him a steak dinner and takes him to a movie-ah, just like Evan. We both got that guilt gene.
They also said that Evan was just fearless-that he absolutely had no fear. One time they were all hiking up Pike's Peak, and when they got to the halfway house, the people there recommended that they turn around-they were already up to a feet of snow. Evan insisted that they continue up the mountain. He was finally about waist-deep in snow when he was talked into going back down.
I find this so interesting because I am just about the exact opposite of fearless. I have many fears, some that are rational and some that are very irrational. Evan was the closest to anyone on this Earth in terms of DNA to me, and we are very different in that regard. My Aunt reminds me that it has always been that way though-when Evan was a little boy, and we were at the lake, he would beg her to go faster on the jet ski, and to do 360's, while I was begging her to slow down. She didn't know how to explain to me at my age that she had to go at a certain speed to keep the jet ski going straight. Yes, we have always been different in that regard. Evan, always the risk-taker, me-eliminating any possible risk whatsoever. But that's just the way it is-the way it always has been.
They also said Evan was one of the best and fastest runners in the platoon. Apparently he would say his favorite "yo mama" jokes as he passed one of his other friends while they were running. That's another thing-everyone mentioned to my parents how funny Evan was. Some couldn't even hold it together without laughing, they just said Evan was so funny-and his "one-liners" were often over people's heads. They said you couldn't be in a bad mood around Evan-that he always just lifted everyone's spirits.
I have recently gotten back into running, pretty often. I started with a 5K a couple weeks ago, and at that time, I can't even remember the last time I actually ran, but I have been working out pretty consistently. I have to credit my Aunt with this, but she told me one day a month or so ago that when she is in a cycle class pedaling, and she thinks to herself that she can't pedal any further, she pictures Evan in her mind and says to herself, "If Evan had the courage to get up and do what he did every day, I can keep going." And so she does. This has been most helpful to me as well. If I ever think that I cannot lift this bar again, I think to myself, If Evan can do what he did, I can lift this bar one more time. And I do. Dad said he has had the same thoughts. We draw on Evan's courage to carry us through when we think we cannot do it alone.
Dad said it was an emotional day, and that you could tell the soldiers were hurting and felt a bit awkward around them. He ended up sitting next to someone one of the days they were there, at lunch, and somehow sensed that he would be open to talking about that day that Evan died. Dad asked if he would mind if he asked some questions about that day they lost the 5. He said he didn't mind, and Dad heard firsthand from a soldier what happened that day.
I cried as I listened to these stories-I just couldn't stop the tears, and these soldiers are the closest thing to Evan as we have-they are the ones that were with him every day, and in those final moments. We will always be connected to them in that sense.
The seminar at Ft. Stewart this past weekend was incredible. I decided sort of last minute to go with my Mom. TAPS stands for Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors, and it is a support organization for people who are military survivors. I met some incredible people there, other "gold star families", and we had different sessions and small groups on grief and losing a loved one in the military. I spoke to a general who I felt a strong connection to, and also several members of the Atlanta Rotary Club(they sponsored the event), one who is going to come and run the Memorial Race in June with his daughter. That just goes to show you just one person along the way who was so touched by Evan's life and our story, he is going to participate in one of our events.
Mom and I have decided to attend the National TAPS seminar in D.C. This is on a much greater scale-over 1000 people, multiple workshops, the President and other special guest speakers, and a Memorial Day Service at Arlington. Someone said this past weekend that people had wondered why she went to these seminars, and that it must make it worse to rehash everything-in fact, I cried most of the day on Saturday as I recounted exactly what happened to Evan and our relationship-but she also said it's connecting to others who truly DO understand, and it's like getting some of the poison out. Exactly-like getting that poison out. It's also something that is not going away-I realized this weekend that of all the people that were there, our loss was the most recent-people were there that had lost loved ones up to 15 years ago and longer-and it is something we already knew, but something I wish I could convey to people that haven't been through it, is that it will ALWAYS be a part of us. We will live with this loss FOREVER-as long as we have breathe, all of us. We will miss Evan every day for the rest of our lives. It isn't something that is going away. But-we will make sure he is never forgotten.
And to me, that's what gave me that little bit of peace I returned with coming home today. One thing I said in my sibling group, when asked how I "cope" with the loss, is that I made a promise to Evan from day 1: he would not be forgotten. That as long as I am breathing on this Earth, people will know. I wear my pin because I want people to ask me about it, and give me the opportunity to tell them what a sweet, brave brother I had. And all I can do is continue to do that every day for the rest of my life, until I finally see him again one sweet day.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
I'm not in the best place right now, so be forewarned. And I would not recommend reading unless you are willing to be pulled into the depths of my emotion, turmoil, and despair. In my darkest hours, it seems that all I know to do is write. When peace is nowhere to be found, and sleep refuses to come, and my mind won't just shut down despite my best efforts to force it to-I write.
Yesterday was one of those days I had to just remind myself to breathe. I lost something-someone-important to me recently,and as I lie in bed last night, flashbacks from that first week last year began to haunt me again. Loss through death and in other ways is very different, don't misunderstand-but they do have their similarities.
It was one of those nights that it was just painful to be awake. The only peace that came was in the form of sleep, and then as I awaken- reality hits all over again. I fear I am facing another sleepless night again tonight. I keep waiting for that joy that comes in the morning, something good, that light at the end of the tunnel, and it seems I only face pain. In fact, I am tired of being strong and surviving. It gets old. Surviving is all I can muster sometimes, and actually living-well-that is exhausting.
I long to be my happy, fun self again. I daydream about getting my "old self" back, and I'm so afraid somewhere along the way...I lost her. I had an epiphany a few months back, something as simple as just being patient and kind to someone, and I thought to myself..Thank you God, she's still in there. She shows up every now and then. I do fear that I lost a part of me that day..And there is no doubt-I will always have a hole in my heart, because I will always always miss my brother.
As I sat at his grave today, I reflected on memories of us and our family. One in particular stands out, probably not much longer than a year ago, when Mom and I picked him up from the airport and we stopped by to eat somewhere on the way home. And I thought to myself..Just a year ago, he was sitting in front of me, and now I am sitting at his grave. What? Is that even possible? God give me strength, I cannot do this alone. I often think if I just had a shred of the courage, the bravery he had..I would be so much better off. And then I am filled with pride-I cannot understand how anyone, let alone someone in MY family, with my DNA, could have the kind of courage he had. They must think about their death constantly-many soldiers have told me they write letters to their families if they don't come home. How does one face every day, not knowing if it will be their last? Of course none can really KNOW that, but in a war zone, I'm sure, it is much more likely to dominate your thoughts.
There is a saying that time heals all wounds, and-as I've listened to "My Immortal" several times today-okay-over and over(a friend today said I am a dweller, and like to make bad situations worse-And I'm ashamed to admit that it's true), I've thought about a few of the words..
"These wounds won't seem to heal; this pain is just too real. There's just too much that time cannot erase.."
There's just too much that time cannot erase. And there is. Time cannot "heal" or erase this. Time hasn't even made it that much better. Sure, I can eat and sleep and bathe myself again, but I think about Evan today the same, if not more, than I have since his death. And you know? I think time heals breakups, and bad days, but not this. And I still think I'm shock-thus, I can't be "healing". Sometimes I have to say to myself "Evan's died" over and over again, in some futile effort to somehow have it make sense or believe it. But you know-I'm pretty sure it will never make sense, and maybe one day I will wake up and believe that he is gone, but right now, as I sit on the verge of the one year anniversary on January 28th, I still don't. It's hard to feel like some people are "over it", or have forgotten, because it still dominates me. And I know it's not true..but eventually, people stop calling and sending cards, and you start to think they have forgotten Evan ever existed.
And..I feel sometimes I am treated like an alien. Not on purpose-I realize people just want to help, and be there, and people that haven't been through loss can't possibly understand, and I realize that people think talking about it or listening to me about it is only going to make me upset, but it's not true. I am tired of people avoiding it or me or whatever it is they are avoiding. I've started to just say, you know what? It's ok to talk about Evan. I need to talk about it. It's actually good for me. Because when everyone avoids talking about it, I have no one to talk to but my therapist. And I love her, don't get me wrong, but sometimes I need help more than an hour every other week! But it is hard, when it is the "elephant in the room", that no one wants to talk about, and honestly, people just look at you funny.
I spent three hours at Evan's grave on Christmas Eve, because-and maybe this makes me crazy, but I didn't want him to be alone. I just couldn't bring myself to leave. I'm not sure how many of you saw it, but towards the end of 2008, the Athens Banner Herald published a special section called "The year in pictures". There I was(again), front and center, that picture that so many refer to as "beautiful", the one of me lying on Evan's casket. It certainly sums up MY year. There was also another article, entitled "Notable People We Lost in 2008", that I encourage everyone to look at-Evan is included, along with Eve Carson, and many other wonderful, amazing people that Athens lost last year. As I embark on the new year, my usual "resolutions" seem so inept. I'm pretty sure that, all these considered, January will be the worst month I've had in a good while. Maybe day to day survival is all I can muster to "resolve" to do this year-or at least this month.
I recently read a quote: "Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes it is a quiet voice at the end of the day saying, I'll try again tomorrow." And so it is. My grief overwhelms today; tomorrow, I will try again.
Yesterday was one of those days I had to just remind myself to breathe. I lost something-someone-important to me recently,and as I lie in bed last night, flashbacks from that first week last year began to haunt me again. Loss through death and in other ways is very different, don't misunderstand-but they do have their similarities.
It was one of those nights that it was just painful to be awake. The only peace that came was in the form of sleep, and then as I awaken- reality hits all over again. I fear I am facing another sleepless night again tonight. I keep waiting for that joy that comes in the morning, something good, that light at the end of the tunnel, and it seems I only face pain. In fact, I am tired of being strong and surviving. It gets old. Surviving is all I can muster sometimes, and actually living-well-that is exhausting.
I long to be my happy, fun self again. I daydream about getting my "old self" back, and I'm so afraid somewhere along the way...I lost her. I had an epiphany a few months back, something as simple as just being patient and kind to someone, and I thought to myself..Thank you God, she's still in there. She shows up every now and then. I do fear that I lost a part of me that day..And there is no doubt-I will always have a hole in my heart, because I will always always miss my brother.
As I sat at his grave today, I reflected on memories of us and our family. One in particular stands out, probably not much longer than a year ago, when Mom and I picked him up from the airport and we stopped by to eat somewhere on the way home. And I thought to myself..Just a year ago, he was sitting in front of me, and now I am sitting at his grave. What? Is that even possible? God give me strength, I cannot do this alone. I often think if I just had a shred of the courage, the bravery he had..I would be so much better off. And then I am filled with pride-I cannot understand how anyone, let alone someone in MY family, with my DNA, could have the kind of courage he had. They must think about their death constantly-many soldiers have told me they write letters to their families if they don't come home. How does one face every day, not knowing if it will be their last? Of course none can really KNOW that, but in a war zone, I'm sure, it is much more likely to dominate your thoughts.
There is a saying that time heals all wounds, and-as I've listened to "My Immortal" several times today-okay-over and over(a friend today said I am a dweller, and like to make bad situations worse-And I'm ashamed to admit that it's true), I've thought about a few of the words..
"These wounds won't seem to heal; this pain is just too real. There's just too much that time cannot erase.."
There's just too much that time cannot erase. And there is. Time cannot "heal" or erase this. Time hasn't even made it that much better. Sure, I can eat and sleep and bathe myself again, but I think about Evan today the same, if not more, than I have since his death. And you know? I think time heals breakups, and bad days, but not this. And I still think I'm shock-thus, I can't be "healing". Sometimes I have to say to myself "Evan's died" over and over again, in some futile effort to somehow have it make sense or believe it. But you know-I'm pretty sure it will never make sense, and maybe one day I will wake up and believe that he is gone, but right now, as I sit on the verge of the one year anniversary on January 28th, I still don't. It's hard to feel like some people are "over it", or have forgotten, because it still dominates me. And I know it's not true..but eventually, people stop calling and sending cards, and you start to think they have forgotten Evan ever existed.
And..I feel sometimes I am treated like an alien. Not on purpose-I realize people just want to help, and be there, and people that haven't been through loss can't possibly understand, and I realize that people think talking about it or listening to me about it is only going to make me upset, but it's not true. I am tired of people avoiding it or me or whatever it is they are avoiding. I've started to just say, you know what? It's ok to talk about Evan. I need to talk about it. It's actually good for me. Because when everyone avoids talking about it, I have no one to talk to but my therapist. And I love her, don't get me wrong, but sometimes I need help more than an hour every other week! But it is hard, when it is the "elephant in the room", that no one wants to talk about, and honestly, people just look at you funny.
I spent three hours at Evan's grave on Christmas Eve, because-and maybe this makes me crazy, but I didn't want him to be alone. I just couldn't bring myself to leave. I'm not sure how many of you saw it, but towards the end of 2008, the Athens Banner Herald published a special section called "The year in pictures". There I was(again), front and center, that picture that so many refer to as "beautiful", the one of me lying on Evan's casket. It certainly sums up MY year. There was also another article, entitled "Notable People We Lost in 2008", that I encourage everyone to look at-Evan is included, along with Eve Carson, and many other wonderful, amazing people that Athens lost last year. As I embark on the new year, my usual "resolutions" seem so inept. I'm pretty sure that, all these considered, January will be the worst month I've had in a good while. Maybe day to day survival is all I can muster to "resolve" to do this year-or at least this month.
I recently read a quote: "Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes it is a quiet voice at the end of the day saying, I'll try again tomorrow." And so it is. My grief overwhelms today; tomorrow, I will try again.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Here I am, still breathing, on Thanksgiving Eve. 10 months ago, I didn't think I would ever breathe again. I really thought my life was over. And it wasn't-but it will never be the same. Evan dominates my mind as I sit here.
Tomorrow it will one year since we were last with him, right before we sent him back for his second deployment. Hard to believe. I think about all the soldiers that are over there, away from their families, through the holidays this year, and all I want to do is cry for them. I remember one year, I can't remember if it was Thanksgiving or Christmas, but we were all at my Aunt Claire's house in Columbia, and Evan called us from Iraq, and he was on speaker phone, and we were all in tears by the time we hung up. He was on the line with us while we said the blessing, I remember it so distinctly.
I could never have dreamed this. I am waiting to join a TAPS siblings chat group online at 9 PM tonight, and I'm mad about it. I'm mad I am a part of this group that I never wanted to be a part of. I'm mad that Evan isn't here with us, for the holidays. I'm mad I'm not talking to him downstairs right now, in my parent's living room, or just on the phone. I'll take ANYTHING, but having him gone, forever.
I was looking through some old letters that I had sent to Evan, this particular one being from 2004, that I found to be interesting. Here are some excerpts:
Evan,
I am so glad to have heard from you, and that everything is okay. I'm trying not to worry, but strength has never been my gift. I want you to know that I am so proud of you and the person you have become. I know you will face many challenges, but I have absolutely no doubt that you will succeed in anything you put your mind to. I have the utmost faith in you. I think about you and pray for you every day. I always wonder what you are doing at that moment. I miss you and am so thankful to know that you're fine. I love you, Alice
I think so often of how I want to tell him again, how proud I am, and that he is my hero. He knew-I have many, many letters that prove that, but I just want one more.
I sat at the cemetary yesterday in complete disbelief. Sometimes I still have that out of body feeling. I wonder if I will have that for the rest of my life.
I will close with a letter that my dad sent out to our family and friends, the day that Evan returned from Iraq on his first deployment. He was elated, as we all were, that he was back on U.S. soil. I think it is something that we should all think about as we approach the holidays especially, and as we remember our soldiers that fight so that we may have freedom.
Dear Friends,
Although I usually resist the urge to send out mass emails, I want to share the wonderful news with you that my 20 year old son, Specialist Evan A. Marshall, 3rd Heavy Brigade Combat Team, 4th Infantry Division, has safely returned to the US from ths year long deployment to Iraq. He called us at 2 AM this morning from Maine on his way back to Ft. Carson, Colorado with his fellow soldiers. Let us keep the troops who remain in harm's way in service to our country in our prayers, and let us appreciate the sacrifices that our military, past and present, have made which enable us to exercise the freedoms which we so often take for granted. Sheila, Alice, and I deeply appreciate the expressions of support and concern which we have received over the past year.
Drew
And so it is. This is what I call my "new normal", which I am now living in. In Evan's words, peace is accepting life as it is rather than how you think it should be or how you want it to be. This is life now, and all I can do now is work towards accepting what has happened, and honoring my brother, who I was blessed to have for 21 years, as long as I have breath.
Tomorrow it will one year since we were last with him, right before we sent him back for his second deployment. Hard to believe. I think about all the soldiers that are over there, away from their families, through the holidays this year, and all I want to do is cry for them. I remember one year, I can't remember if it was Thanksgiving or Christmas, but we were all at my Aunt Claire's house in Columbia, and Evan called us from Iraq, and he was on speaker phone, and we were all in tears by the time we hung up. He was on the line with us while we said the blessing, I remember it so distinctly.
I could never have dreamed this. I am waiting to join a TAPS siblings chat group online at 9 PM tonight, and I'm mad about it. I'm mad I am a part of this group that I never wanted to be a part of. I'm mad that Evan isn't here with us, for the holidays. I'm mad I'm not talking to him downstairs right now, in my parent's living room, or just on the phone. I'll take ANYTHING, but having him gone, forever.
I was looking through some old letters that I had sent to Evan, this particular one being from 2004, that I found to be interesting. Here are some excerpts:
Evan,
I am so glad to have heard from you, and that everything is okay. I'm trying not to worry, but strength has never been my gift. I want you to know that I am so proud of you and the person you have become. I know you will face many challenges, but I have absolutely no doubt that you will succeed in anything you put your mind to. I have the utmost faith in you. I think about you and pray for you every day. I always wonder what you are doing at that moment. I miss you and am so thankful to know that you're fine. I love you, Alice
I think so often of how I want to tell him again, how proud I am, and that he is my hero. He knew-I have many, many letters that prove that, but I just want one more.
I sat at the cemetary yesterday in complete disbelief. Sometimes I still have that out of body feeling. I wonder if I will have that for the rest of my life.
I will close with a letter that my dad sent out to our family and friends, the day that Evan returned from Iraq on his first deployment. He was elated, as we all were, that he was back on U.S. soil. I think it is something that we should all think about as we approach the holidays especially, and as we remember our soldiers that fight so that we may have freedom.
Dear Friends,
Although I usually resist the urge to send out mass emails, I want to share the wonderful news with you that my 20 year old son, Specialist Evan A. Marshall, 3rd Heavy Brigade Combat Team, 4th Infantry Division, has safely returned to the US from ths year long deployment to Iraq. He called us at 2 AM this morning from Maine on his way back to Ft. Carson, Colorado with his fellow soldiers. Let us keep the troops who remain in harm's way in service to our country in our prayers, and let us appreciate the sacrifices that our military, past and present, have made which enable us to exercise the freedoms which we so often take for granted. Sheila, Alice, and I deeply appreciate the expressions of support and concern which we have received over the past year.
Drew
And so it is. This is what I call my "new normal", which I am now living in. In Evan's words, peace is accepting life as it is rather than how you think it should be or how you want it to be. This is life now, and all I can do now is work towards accepting what has happened, and honoring my brother, who I was blessed to have for 21 years, as long as I have breath.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
It's been a while since my last entry, and it's called me today. My lack of posts, however, doesn't mean a day has gone by that I haven't thought of my brother. Many days recently, I just haven't been able to find the words. Dad and I were talking the other day, and he was talking about how he had wanted to keep working to help Evan get through college, and how that wasn't a factor anymore, as I thought to myself: Oh my gosh. That really isn't a factor, because Evan REALLY isn't coming home, or going to college..like I was just now coming to that realization. Will this ever seem real or will it always feel like a dream?
I just watched Carrie Underwood’s performance from the CMA awards last night. Her song “Just a Dream” is about losing someone in the war, specifically a fiancée or husband, but there are a few lyrics that are applicable:
“Then they handed her a folded up flag and she held onto all she had left of him
Then the guns rang one last shot and it felt like a bullet in her heart…
It’s like I’m looking from a distance, standing in the background,
Everybody’s saying, he’s not coming home now
This can’t be happening to me…this is just a dream”
And so it is. It still feels like a dream. More like a horrible, horrible nightmare I suppose.
And all of the sudden, the anger returns. Mainly anger at God. Mainly, “why me? Why US??” anger. WHY was Evan in that humvee in that moment they drove over the IED?? His unit has not lost another soldier throughout their entire deployment, except for the 5 that day. Why was he one of the five??? Of course, it makes me ill whenever I hear of another soldier being killed, but it wasn’t supposed to be me, and it wasn’t supposed to be my family.
And he died in war, this Iraq war during which we have lost over 4,000 soldiers. Over 4,000 families that have had to endure pure hell. There’s just no other way to put it. And I'm mad that I can't go anywhere without a reminder. It's on the news, and just about everyone I meet has an opinion about the war. A soldier walked into a Waffle House where I was eating about a month ago and I just burst into tears, right there over breakfast. I also don't perceive so many to be appreciative of the fact that our soldiers are risking their very LIVES every day so that WE can rest easy. I read a quote recently that I really like:
“He is a soldier and a savior and a sword against the darkness, and he is nothing less than the finest, greatest testimony on behalf of the finest, greatest nation ever known…He is an ordinary and yet an extraordinary human being - a person who offered some of his life's most vital years in the service of his country, and who sacrificed his ambitions so others would not have to sacrifice theirs.”
I read something recently, a quote from a Mom that lost her son in Iraq. She says, “time does not heal all wounds, it just gives you a few more seconds each day before the loss begins”. How true I find this statement to be. I do have seconds, minutes that I can breathe. I don’t forget-we will never forget. But sometimes I can be distracted for a moment. Then all of the sudden, the grief hits all over again in a wave. And so often, what people see are the public smiles, not the private tears.
In less than two weeks, it will be Thanksgiving. Last year, on Thanksgiving, is the very day I gave Evan a big hug and told him how much I loved him, and how proud I was of him, and said goodbye as he left for his second deployment. I remember walking down the hall, and looking back one more time. And whispering a silent prayer, begging God to keep him safe. Had I known that would be the last time I would ever look into his eyes…I would never have let him go. God give me the strength I so desperately need to get through this…
All I want is one more time to talk to him, one more time that I’ll never get. I would tell him, one more time, how proud I am of him. And how much I love him. And miss him. And what a deep hole there is in all our lives.
I just watched Carrie Underwood’s performance from the CMA awards last night. Her song “Just a Dream” is about losing someone in the war, specifically a fiancée or husband, but there are a few lyrics that are applicable:
“Then they handed her a folded up flag and she held onto all she had left of him
Then the guns rang one last shot and it felt like a bullet in her heart…
It’s like I’m looking from a distance, standing in the background,
Everybody’s saying, he’s not coming home now
This can’t be happening to me…this is just a dream”
And so it is. It still feels like a dream. More like a horrible, horrible nightmare I suppose.
And all of the sudden, the anger returns. Mainly anger at God. Mainly, “why me? Why US??” anger. WHY was Evan in that humvee in that moment they drove over the IED?? His unit has not lost another soldier throughout their entire deployment, except for the 5 that day. Why was he one of the five??? Of course, it makes me ill whenever I hear of another soldier being killed, but it wasn’t supposed to be me, and it wasn’t supposed to be my family.
And he died in war, this Iraq war during which we have lost over 4,000 soldiers. Over 4,000 families that have had to endure pure hell. There’s just no other way to put it. And I'm mad that I can't go anywhere without a reminder. It's on the news, and just about everyone I meet has an opinion about the war. A soldier walked into a Waffle House where I was eating about a month ago and I just burst into tears, right there over breakfast. I also don't perceive so many to be appreciative of the fact that our soldiers are risking their very LIVES every day so that WE can rest easy. I read a quote recently that I really like:
“He is a soldier and a savior and a sword against the darkness, and he is nothing less than the finest, greatest testimony on behalf of the finest, greatest nation ever known…He is an ordinary and yet an extraordinary human being - a person who offered some of his life's most vital years in the service of his country, and who sacrificed his ambitions so others would not have to sacrifice theirs.”
I read something recently, a quote from a Mom that lost her son in Iraq. She says, “time does not heal all wounds, it just gives you a few more seconds each day before the loss begins”. How true I find this statement to be. I do have seconds, minutes that I can breathe. I don’t forget-we will never forget. But sometimes I can be distracted for a moment. Then all of the sudden, the grief hits all over again in a wave. And so often, what people see are the public smiles, not the private tears.
In less than two weeks, it will be Thanksgiving. Last year, on Thanksgiving, is the very day I gave Evan a big hug and told him how much I loved him, and how proud I was of him, and said goodbye as he left for his second deployment. I remember walking down the hall, and looking back one more time. And whispering a silent prayer, begging God to keep him safe. Had I known that would be the last time I would ever look into his eyes…I would never have let him go. God give me the strength I so desperately need to get through this…
All I want is one more time to talk to him, one more time that I’ll never get. I would tell him, one more time, how proud I am of him. And how much I love him. And miss him. And what a deep hole there is in all our lives.
Friday, September 26, 2008
"Peace is only a thought away..."
Those wise words that Evan left with us from his sermon on Youth Sunday are the same words I have to remind myself over and over again.
I celebrated a birthday yesterday, and into this weekend. I do have the most amazing friends, that picked me up even though last week, celebrating was the last thing on my mind. I just didn't feel like celebrating, and I didn't WANT to celebrate without Evan. He always asked me what I wanted for my birthday, and I always told him not to get me anything. And he always did..
Today is also the anniversary of my grandmother's death last year. I remember bursting into tears in the middle of the night, when I awoke and got the message on my cell phone. I am the only girl in the family, so I was her only granddaughter. I remember one of her close friends coming up to me at her funeral and whispering in my ear, "Your grandmother absolutely adored you." As she did Evan. Oh-how proud she was of Evan. I stayed on the phone with the Army and Red Cross people for days trying to get Evan flown home for the funeral. It was the first time our entire family has been together in so long, it seemed. That would have been the second to last time I saw him, I suppose.
Her anniversary also reminds me that it is a few months until we will encounter the first year anniversary of Evan's death. And so we enter the first holidays without him. Holidays were usually some of the only times we got to see him when he joined the military, and came home on leave. The first Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year. I remember distinctly being at my Aunt Claire's last Christmas, and I happened to awaken when he called her house. I was so thankful because it was early in the morning and normally I wouldn't have been up. I talked to him on the phone for a good while. That would be the last time I heard his voice. He would go through periods of time when he was on a mission of some sort, and just wouldn't be able to call..
Is it possible that it has almost been a year? It seems like it was yesterday that we got the news, and at the same time, forever since I have heard his voice..
It seems that lately, I have undergone an "attack" of some sort. On my mind, I suppose. I am haunted constantly by images in my head that just won't go away. Of that horrible day, January 28th.
I imagine the circumstances of it. Of any thoughts that may have gone through Evan's head that morning. Did he know? Was he scared? When I get to a certain point, I just have to stop, for fear I am really going to make myself crazy. I want to cry and scream and just breathe again. I want to wake up and have a "normal day", to wake up and have my brother in my life again. I feel like I'm drowning.
Did this really happen?? The culmination of all my fears the whole time he was deployed, in one moment in time, realized?
I go back to Evan's sermon constantly. Sometimes, it's the only thing that keeps my breathing, I am convinced. I remind myself of his last few words. "Whether you choose to be at peace or not is up to you. Peace is only a thought away."
Yes, peace is a choice. It's MY choice, and no one else can choose it for me. I must choose it for myself.
Those wise words that Evan left with us from his sermon on Youth Sunday are the same words I have to remind myself over and over again.
I celebrated a birthday yesterday, and into this weekend. I do have the most amazing friends, that picked me up even though last week, celebrating was the last thing on my mind. I just didn't feel like celebrating, and I didn't WANT to celebrate without Evan. He always asked me what I wanted for my birthday, and I always told him not to get me anything. And he always did..
Today is also the anniversary of my grandmother's death last year. I remember bursting into tears in the middle of the night, when I awoke and got the message on my cell phone. I am the only girl in the family, so I was her only granddaughter. I remember one of her close friends coming up to me at her funeral and whispering in my ear, "Your grandmother absolutely adored you." As she did Evan. Oh-how proud she was of Evan. I stayed on the phone with the Army and Red Cross people for days trying to get Evan flown home for the funeral. It was the first time our entire family has been together in so long, it seemed. That would have been the second to last time I saw him, I suppose.
Her anniversary also reminds me that it is a few months until we will encounter the first year anniversary of Evan's death. And so we enter the first holidays without him. Holidays were usually some of the only times we got to see him when he joined the military, and came home on leave. The first Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year. I remember distinctly being at my Aunt Claire's last Christmas, and I happened to awaken when he called her house. I was so thankful because it was early in the morning and normally I wouldn't have been up. I talked to him on the phone for a good while. That would be the last time I heard his voice. He would go through periods of time when he was on a mission of some sort, and just wouldn't be able to call..
Is it possible that it has almost been a year? It seems like it was yesterday that we got the news, and at the same time, forever since I have heard his voice..
It seems that lately, I have undergone an "attack" of some sort. On my mind, I suppose. I am haunted constantly by images in my head that just won't go away. Of that horrible day, January 28th.
I imagine the circumstances of it. Of any thoughts that may have gone through Evan's head that morning. Did he know? Was he scared? When I get to a certain point, I just have to stop, for fear I am really going to make myself crazy. I want to cry and scream and just breathe again. I want to wake up and have a "normal day", to wake up and have my brother in my life again. I feel like I'm drowning.
Did this really happen?? The culmination of all my fears the whole time he was deployed, in one moment in time, realized?
I go back to Evan's sermon constantly. Sometimes, it's the only thing that keeps my breathing, I am convinced. I remind myself of his last few words. "Whether you choose to be at peace or not is up to you. Peace is only a thought away."
Yes, peace is a choice. It's MY choice, and no one else can choose it for me. I must choose it for myself.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
I went by my parents house yesterday, and noticed the tape of Evan's service at First Presbyterian sitting out. I considered it a moment, and decided to watch it. I am cautious to put it in the VCR, as I know that I can go from ok to hopeless in a matter of moments. Nevertheless, I opted to watch it. I am amazed at how little I remember from his funeral. I don't know how to describe it, except that I was not present that day. Very much an out of body type feeling. I will not attempt to instill any words of wisdom of my own(my futile attempts at them anyway). Rather, I will leave you with a few excerpts from Dr. Doak's meditation, as I think he answers questions that I have had, and delivers a beautiful message about Evan and about God's love for us.
"We are stunned in disbelief that we are here today. We know the what of what happened to Evan; but the why is harder to understand. I do know that the why was not the will of God. He does not will tragedy for you and me; he does not will that we leave the ones we love and that care for us to join him in the heavens.
God's will for us is happiness, life, and goodness. God would not have sent us the Christ if God had wanted us to be miserable and suffering people. But tragedies do happen all around us. A bomb explodes and people that you and I care for die. On days like these, days when our young people and children are taken from us, I believe there is sorrow in the heart of God.
The freedom God gives us does not allow God to protect us from these tragedies; but God does suffer along with us and loves us through them. Today we can thank God that he gave us Evan for a few brief years; one to share with us the warmth and love and friendship of life.
Teenage years can be a struggle; times where we try and figure out the purpose of life. Some struggle with those years more than others. Evan wrote about that struggle in a youth Sunday sermon that he gave from this pulpit four years ago, his senior year in high school: 'Throughout the recent years of my life, I have tried to change to make life better, but I've always failed. I wanted to be someone that I wasn't. But now I have learned the most important lesson of my life: I ain't what I ain't. I am what I am. I have finally accepted myself for who I am and have realized just how good life really is. I have a family that cares for me and friends that love me. I have found in a few days what I have been searching for; I have found peace.'
As a pastor, I often tell people that life is a gift from God, that life is a gift on loan to us for a passage of time. The psalmist wrote, 'deep calls to deep, all your ways and your billows have gone over me.' The deep in God touches the deep in us is what the psalmist is trying to say. Some catch that better than others.
Evan was a quiet man, and the quiet ones are the ones we need to pay the most attention to, because the waters often run deep. They keep their deep thoughts..
In the meantime, we can thank God for this young man, who was a good son, a good grandson, a good brother, a good nephew, a good cousin, a good army buddy, and a good friend. We can thank God for that and from there begin to put the pieces of our lives back together again.
Psalm 23 read earlier says, 'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.' We have to walk through the valley before we ascend the hill. So many get trapped in the valley, but we are beckoned through the valley by none other than the Christ our Lord.
We learn we can depend on Jesus a little more, and we're the better for it. These lines from Evan's sermon are a fitting closing to this meditation. The theme for that day was peace, and I think it is our theme for today as well. Evan wrote:
'Peace is accepting life as it is and not the way we think it should be or how you want it to be. It sounds simple, doesn't it? It is.
When life takes a turn for the worse, simply accepting the pain you feel instead of wishing it was different can bring you peace. God has a plan for each and every one of us, and although sometimes our lives seem to be filled with sadness, we can rest assured that God is waiting to pull us out from the darkness at the end of the tunnel.' "
As I sit in my parents living room, I cannot help but feel sadness, but feel that I am still in the valley, that I am still struggling and missing Evan more than I can even put into words. I am reminded that this isn't going away, that it is something we are all going to carry with us until we take our last breath on Earth.
I love the last prayer that Dr. Doak delivered at the service, which I heard for the first time today, and I think it is a good closing:
Oh God, we thank you for your promise that all of your children will live eternally with you. Especially we thank you for the life of Evan, for the goodness of his life. For all in him that was good and kind. We thank you for the ways he lifted his friends and family to higher ground, and what he taught all of us about life and its struggles.
In that place where peace and holiness will reign forevermore, from all our scattered memories, give us the courage and strength to live again. And though we look back over our shoulder from time to time, to wish again for more; for all the times which have been, direct us to the life we have to live. To the future, yet unborn. To others who now will lead our affirmation of what is good and pure and holy. Guard brave men and women who risk themselves in battle for their country. At moments like this oh Lord, it is difficult to know what to do next, but we know enough to trust in you. So we return to you the gift of life, which in love was given to us. Help us hold hard to our memories of Evan.
"We are stunned in disbelief that we are here today. We know the what of what happened to Evan; but the why is harder to understand. I do know that the why was not the will of God. He does not will tragedy for you and me; he does not will that we leave the ones we love and that care for us to join him in the heavens.
God's will for us is happiness, life, and goodness. God would not have sent us the Christ if God had wanted us to be miserable and suffering people. But tragedies do happen all around us. A bomb explodes and people that you and I care for die. On days like these, days when our young people and children are taken from us, I believe there is sorrow in the heart of God.
The freedom God gives us does not allow God to protect us from these tragedies; but God does suffer along with us and loves us through them. Today we can thank God that he gave us Evan for a few brief years; one to share with us the warmth and love and friendship of life.
Teenage years can be a struggle; times where we try and figure out the purpose of life. Some struggle with those years more than others. Evan wrote about that struggle in a youth Sunday sermon that he gave from this pulpit four years ago, his senior year in high school: 'Throughout the recent years of my life, I have tried to change to make life better, but I've always failed. I wanted to be someone that I wasn't. But now I have learned the most important lesson of my life: I ain't what I ain't. I am what I am. I have finally accepted myself for who I am and have realized just how good life really is. I have a family that cares for me and friends that love me. I have found in a few days what I have been searching for; I have found peace.'
As a pastor, I often tell people that life is a gift from God, that life is a gift on loan to us for a passage of time. The psalmist wrote, 'deep calls to deep, all your ways and your billows have gone over me.' The deep in God touches the deep in us is what the psalmist is trying to say. Some catch that better than others.
Evan was a quiet man, and the quiet ones are the ones we need to pay the most attention to, because the waters often run deep. They keep their deep thoughts..
In the meantime, we can thank God for this young man, who was a good son, a good grandson, a good brother, a good nephew, a good cousin, a good army buddy, and a good friend. We can thank God for that and from there begin to put the pieces of our lives back together again.
Psalm 23 read earlier says, 'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.' We have to walk through the valley before we ascend the hill. So many get trapped in the valley, but we are beckoned through the valley by none other than the Christ our Lord.
We learn we can depend on Jesus a little more, and we're the better for it. These lines from Evan's sermon are a fitting closing to this meditation. The theme for that day was peace, and I think it is our theme for today as well. Evan wrote:
'Peace is accepting life as it is and not the way we think it should be or how you want it to be. It sounds simple, doesn't it? It is.
When life takes a turn for the worse, simply accepting the pain you feel instead of wishing it was different can bring you peace. God has a plan for each and every one of us, and although sometimes our lives seem to be filled with sadness, we can rest assured that God is waiting to pull us out from the darkness at the end of the tunnel.' "
As I sit in my parents living room, I cannot help but feel sadness, but feel that I am still in the valley, that I am still struggling and missing Evan more than I can even put into words. I am reminded that this isn't going away, that it is something we are all going to carry with us until we take our last breath on Earth.
I love the last prayer that Dr. Doak delivered at the service, which I heard for the first time today, and I think it is a good closing:
Oh God, we thank you for your promise that all of your children will live eternally with you. Especially we thank you for the life of Evan, for the goodness of his life. For all in him that was good and kind. We thank you for the ways he lifted his friends and family to higher ground, and what he taught all of us about life and its struggles.
In that place where peace and holiness will reign forevermore, from all our scattered memories, give us the courage and strength to live again. And though we look back over our shoulder from time to time, to wish again for more; for all the times which have been, direct us to the life we have to live. To the future, yet unborn. To others who now will lead our affirmation of what is good and pure and holy. Guard brave men and women who risk themselves in battle for their country. At moments like this oh Lord, it is difficult to know what to do next, but we know enough to trust in you. So we return to you the gift of life, which in love was given to us. Help us hold hard to our memories of Evan.
Monday, July 28, 2008
I often say that my mind is a battlefield: that it is by far, my biggest enemy. How often we think these horrible thoughts, that we know we shouldn't be thinking, that only add to our pain? How often I wish I could make them just go away, but they hang around, threatening to take over, to steal me away, to draw me closer to them and away from some of the pain that has seemingly been lifted. Often these come in the form of "what ifs." They make me crazy.
I recently received the third book on grief, sent to me by church. They are so good that I have wanted the next one after each that I have read; but they only send them out after a certain amount of time has elapsed. One of the chapters on the most recent book that I received relates to dealing with anger.
It talks about how most people say they expected to feel sad about their loss, but the emotion many people say surprised them was anger. I am thankful to say that for the most part, my anger has subsided. But I was very surprised by this emotion, particularly from a girl that really doesn't have an angry bone in her body. Even when someone does something that should, I suppose, make me angry, I get upset-not mad. And that's just the way I have always been.
The book says that the three most common targets of our anger are: God, our loved one who has died, and ourselves. I don't think this could be more true, and I have, in fact, experienced this in every realm that the book discusses.
I have undoubtedly had spurts of anger over the past few months. Particularly, I was angry at God for a long time. I remember a friend telling me that I should tell him I was mad at him, because he already knew. The book talks about how many people hold that inward, or are ashamed to tell anyone that, but it goes on to say that it is perfectly ok to be angry at God. It even says that you should scream at God if you like. That's what many of the writers of the Psalms in Bible did.
I was also angry at the people who told me it was God's will that Evan was killed. Kim Arnold, whose daughter recently suffered a traumatic brain injury, responded to her daughter, who asked her why this had happened to her: “I don’t know why. But I do know that God didn’t cause it to happen." Everyone is entitled to their opinions and beliefs, but I choose to believe that God is not the author of suffering, and he does not will that evil things happen like this. There is, however, evil in the world, and I believe that he did NOT will this to happen to my brother. I do believe he can use it for good, because it has happened. But he didn't will this to happen to Evan, and he didn't want this for our family.
My friends never knew when I would snap right there in the beginning. It really scared me, in fact, because I didn't even recognize myself, or the anger that I felt. I snapped at those friends who would call incessantly in the beginning, then show up when I ignored the phone calls, because I just wanted to be alone. One time I practically threw the water at one of my friends for shoving anti-depressants at me that I didn't want to take (Mom coaxed her into the job, it wasn't really her fault). I screamed a few times in my car, alone of course, for fear of people thinking I was crazy. Of course, everyone was just trying to help. I was just mad at the world.
I have also at times, and I am a bit scared to admit this to the world, but I have been mad at my brother. This is when those "what ifs" take over in my head. I cannot HELP but have the thought that if Evan had not chose to join the Army; if he had, in fact, just made a different decision, decided to go to college, or go to work; anything but join the military-that he would still be here. When he was in basic four years ago, I remember one of the parents asking how many would be deployed; the response? Everyone. I remember my heart sinking in that very moment.
On the other hand, Evan had become a totally different person since joining the Army, and I cannot deny that fact. Whose to say what may or may not have happened, had Evan made a different decision? My mind plays games with me sometimes.
Lastly, I have been mad at myself on numerous occasions. Things from the past; that sibling rivalry that most kids have, but many don't really give much thought to because they still have their brother or sister in their life. But how profound they seem after the loss of someone so close.
In the final paragraph, it goes on to say that recognizing, accepting, and expressing anger can be a very healing experience. I believe that-I believe that letting go of it can be healing.
I believe that all the emotions that surface when we lose someone so close to us are healthy, and normal, and that we have to find ways of getting them out, of expressing them, or they will inevitably come back later in life, in a variety of different ways. It's interesting how all these things that I thought were "crazy", that I didn't want anyone to know, are actually perfectly normal. I just didn't know much about grief.
Finally, I am so very thankful to have friends and family that have, and continue to, stick by me, through every emotion that I have experienced since this new journey began. From people who have been friends since I was a child, to acquaintances that I never in a million years expected to be such strong sources of comfort, each and every one of you have helped me to keep breathing, and I am grateful.
I recently received the third book on grief, sent to me by church. They are so good that I have wanted the next one after each that I have read; but they only send them out after a certain amount of time has elapsed. One of the chapters on the most recent book that I received relates to dealing with anger.
It talks about how most people say they expected to feel sad about their loss, but the emotion many people say surprised them was anger. I am thankful to say that for the most part, my anger has subsided. But I was very surprised by this emotion, particularly from a girl that really doesn't have an angry bone in her body. Even when someone does something that should, I suppose, make me angry, I get upset-not mad. And that's just the way I have always been.
The book says that the three most common targets of our anger are: God, our loved one who has died, and ourselves. I don't think this could be more true, and I have, in fact, experienced this in every realm that the book discusses.
I have undoubtedly had spurts of anger over the past few months. Particularly, I was angry at God for a long time. I remember a friend telling me that I should tell him I was mad at him, because he already knew. The book talks about how many people hold that inward, or are ashamed to tell anyone that, but it goes on to say that it is perfectly ok to be angry at God. It even says that you should scream at God if you like. That's what many of the writers of the Psalms in Bible did.
I was also angry at the people who told me it was God's will that Evan was killed. Kim Arnold, whose daughter recently suffered a traumatic brain injury, responded to her daughter, who asked her why this had happened to her: “I don’t know why. But I do know that God didn’t cause it to happen." Everyone is entitled to their opinions and beliefs, but I choose to believe that God is not the author of suffering, and he does not will that evil things happen like this. There is, however, evil in the world, and I believe that he did NOT will this to happen to my brother. I do believe he can use it for good, because it has happened. But he didn't will this to happen to Evan, and he didn't want this for our family.
My friends never knew when I would snap right there in the beginning. It really scared me, in fact, because I didn't even recognize myself, or the anger that I felt. I snapped at those friends who would call incessantly in the beginning, then show up when I ignored the phone calls, because I just wanted to be alone. One time I practically threw the water at one of my friends for shoving anti-depressants at me that I didn't want to take (Mom coaxed her into the job, it wasn't really her fault). I screamed a few times in my car, alone of course, for fear of people thinking I was crazy. Of course, everyone was just trying to help. I was just mad at the world.
I have also at times, and I am a bit scared to admit this to the world, but I have been mad at my brother. This is when those "what ifs" take over in my head. I cannot HELP but have the thought that if Evan had not chose to join the Army; if he had, in fact, just made a different decision, decided to go to college, or go to work; anything but join the military-that he would still be here. When he was in basic four years ago, I remember one of the parents asking how many would be deployed; the response? Everyone. I remember my heart sinking in that very moment.
On the other hand, Evan had become a totally different person since joining the Army, and I cannot deny that fact. Whose to say what may or may not have happened, had Evan made a different decision? My mind plays games with me sometimes.
Lastly, I have been mad at myself on numerous occasions. Things from the past; that sibling rivalry that most kids have, but many don't really give much thought to because they still have their brother or sister in their life. But how profound they seem after the loss of someone so close.
In the final paragraph, it goes on to say that recognizing, accepting, and expressing anger can be a very healing experience. I believe that-I believe that letting go of it can be healing.
I believe that all the emotions that surface when we lose someone so close to us are healthy, and normal, and that we have to find ways of getting them out, of expressing them, or they will inevitably come back later in life, in a variety of different ways. It's interesting how all these things that I thought were "crazy", that I didn't want anyone to know, are actually perfectly normal. I just didn't know much about grief.
Finally, I am so very thankful to have friends and family that have, and continue to, stick by me, through every emotion that I have experienced since this new journey began. From people who have been friends since I was a child, to acquaintances that I never in a million years expected to be such strong sources of comfort, each and every one of you have helped me to keep breathing, and I am grateful.
Monday, July 14, 2008
I woke up this morning after an amazingly restful night to pick up the paper and a cup of coffee this morning. After reading the headline, I immediately wished I hadn't.
9 American soldiers killed in Afghanistan on Sunday. It goes on to say that this is the deadliest attack in Afghanistan in 3 years. Instantly, my heart felt broken all over again for these 9 families. My mind replayed the day we found out about Evan, and I imagined what these families are going through in this very moment.
I also thought about how many would read that headline, and what would go through their mind. I think many have gotten used to reading about these fatalities in the paper-I believe most have even gotten to the point where they are detached from it, and that's a hard pill to swallow.
..And then I remember hearing about fatalities on the news while Evan was deployed. I certainly payed more attention to them before, and my heart broke for these families, but of course, it just didn't affect me as if it were my family. I said a quiet prayer for the family, and thanked God that it wasn't Evan.
And then it was us and it was me, one horrible day.
I was in Starbucks this morning, and they had bags of coffee you could buy to write a short message on and they would ship them oversees to the troops. I really wanted to consider what to say, so I decided to go back tomorrow morning when I would really have time to think about it.
And it would be easy to just let it go, and to not go back and not do it. I've never seen those in any Starbucks (And I've been in a lot of Starbucks). It seems like such a small thing, but I believe that every little bit counts, and I believe that every time a soldier in Iraq or Afghanistan receive anything that shows that Americans are in support of them, it makes a difference to them in that moment.
People keep telling me how strong I've been. Interesting that I haven't felt strong. I've felt incredibly weak, in fact. But when I look back and think of the progress even so far, something within me tells me that I have been strong. One of our dear friends that was around the house the first few weeks told me later that she didn't think I was going to make it. One interesting thing she pointed out was that I wouldn't make eye contact with anyone. I honestly could not even lift my head. I couldn't function as a normal person.
But somehow, eventually, I just kicked into survival mode. I believe all of us have it, even if we don't know it. I sure didn't know I had it in me, of all people. I hear people say all the time that they couldn't go on if one of their parents, or their kids, or their husbands or wives or siblings were taken from them. I can't tell you how many times someone has said to me, "I can't even imagine."
But then in the time it takes to receive phone call, all of the sudden they are faced with it and the only choice they have is to survive, and so they do. And all of the sudden the strength that they didn't know they had, that has been in there all along, surfaces.
I can't tell you how many stories I have heard since Evan's death, of people losing loved ones: a friend that lost a child to suicide, another that lost a child to homicide, my aunt who lost her husband in a car accident, many others that have lost loved ones in this war, we are all, in fact, survivors of these unthinkable tragedies.
So maybe as I look back, I have been strong. I have certainly tried to be, especially for my parents, even when I feel as though I have failed miserably. I was telling a friend the other day that I couldn't believe I was sitting there in front of him, that I had even made it to this point, after being dealt this shocking blow.
And all of the sudden, I realized that just that very fact makes me strong, and makes me a survivor.
9 American soldiers killed in Afghanistan on Sunday. It goes on to say that this is the deadliest attack in Afghanistan in 3 years. Instantly, my heart felt broken all over again for these 9 families. My mind replayed the day we found out about Evan, and I imagined what these families are going through in this very moment.
I also thought about how many would read that headline, and what would go through their mind. I think many have gotten used to reading about these fatalities in the paper-I believe most have even gotten to the point where they are detached from it, and that's a hard pill to swallow.
..And then I remember hearing about fatalities on the news while Evan was deployed. I certainly payed more attention to them before, and my heart broke for these families, but of course, it just didn't affect me as if it were my family. I said a quiet prayer for the family, and thanked God that it wasn't Evan.
And then it was us and it was me, one horrible day.
I was in Starbucks this morning, and they had bags of coffee you could buy to write a short message on and they would ship them oversees to the troops. I really wanted to consider what to say, so I decided to go back tomorrow morning when I would really have time to think about it.
And it would be easy to just let it go, and to not go back and not do it. I've never seen those in any Starbucks (And I've been in a lot of Starbucks). It seems like such a small thing, but I believe that every little bit counts, and I believe that every time a soldier in Iraq or Afghanistan receive anything that shows that Americans are in support of them, it makes a difference to them in that moment.
People keep telling me how strong I've been. Interesting that I haven't felt strong. I've felt incredibly weak, in fact. But when I look back and think of the progress even so far, something within me tells me that I have been strong. One of our dear friends that was around the house the first few weeks told me later that she didn't think I was going to make it. One interesting thing she pointed out was that I wouldn't make eye contact with anyone. I honestly could not even lift my head. I couldn't function as a normal person.
But somehow, eventually, I just kicked into survival mode. I believe all of us have it, even if we don't know it. I sure didn't know I had it in me, of all people. I hear people say all the time that they couldn't go on if one of their parents, or their kids, or their husbands or wives or siblings were taken from them. I can't tell you how many times someone has said to me, "I can't even imagine."
But then in the time it takes to receive phone call, all of the sudden they are faced with it and the only choice they have is to survive, and so they do. And all of the sudden the strength that they didn't know they had, that has been in there all along, surfaces.
I can't tell you how many stories I have heard since Evan's death, of people losing loved ones: a friend that lost a child to suicide, another that lost a child to homicide, my aunt who lost her husband in a car accident, many others that have lost loved ones in this war, we are all, in fact, survivors of these unthinkable tragedies.
So maybe as I look back, I have been strong. I have certainly tried to be, especially for my parents, even when I feel as though I have failed miserably. I was telling a friend the other day that I couldn't believe I was sitting there in front of him, that I had even made it to this point, after being dealt this shocking blow.
And all of the sudden, I realized that just that very fact makes me strong, and makes me a survivor.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
I'm struggling, and I'm tired of pretending I'm not. It is these moments that I'm alone that it seems to hit me the hardest.
There's no one in the world that likes to laugh and be happy like me, but I'm just not. I'm haunted by constant images of my wedding day without Evan. Of feeling so helplessly alone as my parents age. Of never being an Aunt. Most importantly though, the comfort and support of my only sibling, this only other person in the world that has my DNA, to go through life beside me. All these things that were snatched from me that moment that Evan's life ended.
I know this pit becase I've been in it many times in my life, and many before my family went through this. My closest friends are certainly aware of this, but I struggled with depression long before Evan was killed. This is why I constantly ask myself the question of why ME, of all people that could survive and be strong and get through this, I'm not one of them. I'm just not cut out for this kind of stuff.
And it just wasn't supposed to happen. Period.
I hate feeling so dependent on others, and I hate that I've felt so needy the last few months. That I needed someone to sleep in the bed with me for so long because I didn't want to be alone. That I've been emotionally needy with all my friends, who never know if I'm going to be my cheery self or in a puddle of despair. And every time I go back to Athens, all I want to do is be anywhere else.
All I feel, right now, is lost.
Then something within reminds me that I can be strong, and I will be strong, for the sole reason that I have to be. I don't have a choice.
There's no one in the world that likes to laugh and be happy like me, but I'm just not. I'm haunted by constant images of my wedding day without Evan. Of feeling so helplessly alone as my parents age. Of never being an Aunt. Most importantly though, the comfort and support of my only sibling, this only other person in the world that has my DNA, to go through life beside me. All these things that were snatched from me that moment that Evan's life ended.
I know this pit becase I've been in it many times in my life, and many before my family went through this. My closest friends are certainly aware of this, but I struggled with depression long before Evan was killed. This is why I constantly ask myself the question of why ME, of all people that could survive and be strong and get through this, I'm not one of them. I'm just not cut out for this kind of stuff.
And it just wasn't supposed to happen. Period.
I hate feeling so dependent on others, and I hate that I've felt so needy the last few months. That I needed someone to sleep in the bed with me for so long because I didn't want to be alone. That I've been emotionally needy with all my friends, who never know if I'm going to be my cheery self or in a puddle of despair. And every time I go back to Athens, all I want to do is be anywhere else.
All I feel, right now, is lost.
Then something within reminds me that I can be strong, and I will be strong, for the sole reason that I have to be. I don't have a choice.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Love
I was just reflecting, here again in this office, on Evan, but also on everyone that I have ever loved and lost. I am surrounded by pictures: of my Grandfather who I loved dearly, who I watched suffer in the hospital for months before he died; pictures of my Uncle Bob; many of Evan and I together, as kids. I love Evan's baby pictures, particularly the ones of Evan as a toddler, because he just always has this smirk on his face, like he was up to no good.
I remember a book I was looking over not too long ago, called "Don't Cry Past Tuesday". It's a collection of sermons written by Chuck Poole. Anyway, one of the sermons is called "The Strange Gift of Grief". It talks about what a risk love is-that if we didn't love, than we would never have anything to lose. Would we choose not to take that risk, not to love others with all we have, to avoid the grief we feel if we lost that person? Of course not.
I was talking to my Grandmother yesterday, and she was telling me that she probably thinks too much(runs in the family), but we were talking about how Evan came to visit her when my other Grandmother passed away last September. He drove over to Columbia to see her one day because the three of us were working, just to spend some time with her. She said she thinks about it a lot, and wonders if maybe it was because my other Grandmother had passed away, and he was afraid of how much time she had left, or maybe Evan had some sort of premonition, and wanted to see her before he went back.
The point being, appreciate the time you have with someone, and love them with all you have. Myself first, people so often say it, but don't live it.
I am working on being more "present" in life. In all seriousness, I am working more on detaching myself from my cell phone-in fact, I've been leaving it places on purpose so I don't have it with me all the time and so I won't be constantly checking it. It can wait. No, I don't typically answer my phone when I am with someone, unless it is a short conversation or pressing matter, but I want to be fully present in conversation with whoever I happen to be with. I want them to know that they have my full attention. This is part of loving people and showing them that I care.
A friend apologized to me last night for venting, and I told her I may not always be the best at giving advice, but I was always willing to listen. Isn't it true that many times, that's all we need? Just someone to listen to us? And being present...
I suppose we are all works in progress.
I remember a book I was looking over not too long ago, called "Don't Cry Past Tuesday". It's a collection of sermons written by Chuck Poole. Anyway, one of the sermons is called "The Strange Gift of Grief". It talks about what a risk love is-that if we didn't love, than we would never have anything to lose. Would we choose not to take that risk, not to love others with all we have, to avoid the grief we feel if we lost that person? Of course not.
I was talking to my Grandmother yesterday, and she was telling me that she probably thinks too much(runs in the family), but we were talking about how Evan came to visit her when my other Grandmother passed away last September. He drove over to Columbia to see her one day because the three of us were working, just to spend some time with her. She said she thinks about it a lot, and wonders if maybe it was because my other Grandmother had passed away, and he was afraid of how much time she had left, or maybe Evan had some sort of premonition, and wanted to see her before he went back.
The point being, appreciate the time you have with someone, and love them with all you have. Myself first, people so often say it, but don't live it.
I am working on being more "present" in life. In all seriousness, I am working more on detaching myself from my cell phone-in fact, I've been leaving it places on purpose so I don't have it with me all the time and so I won't be constantly checking it. It can wait. No, I don't typically answer my phone when I am with someone, unless it is a short conversation or pressing matter, but I want to be fully present in conversation with whoever I happen to be with. I want them to know that they have my full attention. This is part of loving people and showing them that I care.
A friend apologized to me last night for venting, and I told her I may not always be the best at giving advice, but I was always willing to listen. Isn't it true that many times, that's all we need? Just someone to listen to us? And being present...
I suppose we are all works in progress.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Hope
This morning, I woke up with a small ray of hope invading my heart. I don't know why, or where this hope came from, but I am so grateful. Even if it doesn't last long, even if it is just for this very moment, I feel hopeful that I'm going to survive and join the world of the living again. Or maybe just KEEP living.
I'm with my family in Columbia for a few days, and there's something about being with my Aunt that grounds me. There's nothing like family-or maybe just those members of your family that you let into the depths of your soul, that know you like many don't. And also, family that have met tragedy themselves, maybe of a different kind, but that know that feeling all too well, having been to the pits of despair and back, and who can honestly say that they have emerged stronger people because of it. Sadly, our family is no stranger to sudden tragedy.
I remember in the beginning, asking my Aunt how she got through it when her husband was killed in a car accident. Not believing I would EVER survive my brother's death, I kept telling her she was so much stronger of a person than I am. Her response? "Alice, you were TEN when Bob died. You are speaking of the person you know now, not the person I was back then. The person I am today is a result of what happened when I lost my husband, who was my rock. I can honestly say I am a stronger, better person today than I was before I lost Bob, a person that I would not be had it not happened to me."
And she is right. I didn't really remember the person she was back then. At the young age of ten, I had my first experience with death and grief, and a tragic one at that. Not a grandparent, but my Uncle in his 30's, my amazingly cool uncle in fact, who would sit with Evan and I for hours upon hours and play our kid games while the adults played scrabble in the kitchen. Who would take Evan out on the wave runner and give into his constant demands to do 360's as my Grandmother nervously watched from the house. Evan was always a risk-taker, completely contrary to my personality. I remember waiting up at the lakehouse for Claire and Bob to get back from USC games, and we are talking late at night, prepared to run towards the car and jump into his arms. I remember bits and pieces from the funeral, and I don't particularly remember this, but Aunt Claire tells me I never left her side the whole time.
I am sitting in my Aunt's office in Columbia, looking at a picture of Bob in fact. It's been almost 15 years, and it took many of those for me to accept that he was gone. I think often about how nice it would be to be able to go to him and ask him for advice whenever I am having a probem, particularly with my "boy troubles", which are actually not even close to the great matters of my life!
And I wonder how long it will take me to accept the fact that Evan is gone. As Mom came out of twilight sleep yesterday at the hospital, she reached out to hold my hand(as she told me how beautiful, intelligent, compassionate of a person I am. Give this woman drugs more often!) I asked her the question: Do you still find it hard to believe that Evan's gone? She replied, "You can't even imagine how hard it is to believe."
Even so, even though it doesn't even make sense to feel this way right now, I sit here with that hope, close to joy, wedged in my heart, and I reflect on those things that really matter in life. As I waited on my prescription yesterday at the drug store, I picked up a book that caught my eye, called "50 things that really matter".
The introduction begins, "Big homes, luxury cars, diamond bracelets. These days we're surrounded by such symbols of wealth. And if we aren't among the lucky few to enjoy these prizes, we feel left out, stressed, perhaps even unworthy or depressed. Why? Those aren't the things that really matter in life. Not by a long shot."
It goes on to describe these 50 things, and I will not list all of them, but my notable favorites include memories, faith, bubble baths, passion, the sounds of music, seashells, candlelight, flowers, kindness, thunderstorms, family, gratitude, quiet time, contentment, hugs, sunrise, a child's art, romance, holidays, trust, holding hands, summer nights, a good cup of coffee, a sense of wonder, hope, companionship, home, you. It really IS, from my vantage point, all about the small things in life.
I will conclude with an excerpt from the chapter on Hope, which says:
"So why are we so afraid to hope sometimes? Maybe it's because over the years, life's disappointments can turn us to disillusionment. How many times have you heard someone say: 'Hope for the best, expect the worst?' That's not really hope at all.
Hope is being able to look at our world with all of the joy and wonder of a child."
I'm with my family in Columbia for a few days, and there's something about being with my Aunt that grounds me. There's nothing like family-or maybe just those members of your family that you let into the depths of your soul, that know you like many don't. And also, family that have met tragedy themselves, maybe of a different kind, but that know that feeling all too well, having been to the pits of despair and back, and who can honestly say that they have emerged stronger people because of it. Sadly, our family is no stranger to sudden tragedy.
I remember in the beginning, asking my Aunt how she got through it when her husband was killed in a car accident. Not believing I would EVER survive my brother's death, I kept telling her she was so much stronger of a person than I am. Her response? "Alice, you were TEN when Bob died. You are speaking of the person you know now, not the person I was back then. The person I am today is a result of what happened when I lost my husband, who was my rock. I can honestly say I am a stronger, better person today than I was before I lost Bob, a person that I would not be had it not happened to me."
And she is right. I didn't really remember the person she was back then. At the young age of ten, I had my first experience with death and grief, and a tragic one at that. Not a grandparent, but my Uncle in his 30's, my amazingly cool uncle in fact, who would sit with Evan and I for hours upon hours and play our kid games while the adults played scrabble in the kitchen. Who would take Evan out on the wave runner and give into his constant demands to do 360's as my Grandmother nervously watched from the house. Evan was always a risk-taker, completely contrary to my personality. I remember waiting up at the lakehouse for Claire and Bob to get back from USC games, and we are talking late at night, prepared to run towards the car and jump into his arms. I remember bits and pieces from the funeral, and I don't particularly remember this, but Aunt Claire tells me I never left her side the whole time.
I am sitting in my Aunt's office in Columbia, looking at a picture of Bob in fact. It's been almost 15 years, and it took many of those for me to accept that he was gone. I think often about how nice it would be to be able to go to him and ask him for advice whenever I am having a probem, particularly with my "boy troubles", which are actually not even close to the great matters of my life!
And I wonder how long it will take me to accept the fact that Evan is gone. As Mom came out of twilight sleep yesterday at the hospital, she reached out to hold my hand(as she told me how beautiful, intelligent, compassionate of a person I am. Give this woman drugs more often!) I asked her the question: Do you still find it hard to believe that Evan's gone? She replied, "You can't even imagine how hard it is to believe."
Even so, even though it doesn't even make sense to feel this way right now, I sit here with that hope, close to joy, wedged in my heart, and I reflect on those things that really matter in life. As I waited on my prescription yesterday at the drug store, I picked up a book that caught my eye, called "50 things that really matter".
The introduction begins, "Big homes, luxury cars, diamond bracelets. These days we're surrounded by such symbols of wealth. And if we aren't among the lucky few to enjoy these prizes, we feel left out, stressed, perhaps even unworthy or depressed. Why? Those aren't the things that really matter in life. Not by a long shot."
It goes on to describe these 50 things, and I will not list all of them, but my notable favorites include memories, faith, bubble baths, passion, the sounds of music, seashells, candlelight, flowers, kindness, thunderstorms, family, gratitude, quiet time, contentment, hugs, sunrise, a child's art, romance, holidays, trust, holding hands, summer nights, a good cup of coffee, a sense of wonder, hope, companionship, home, you. It really IS, from my vantage point, all about the small things in life.
I will conclude with an excerpt from the chapter on Hope, which says:
"So why are we so afraid to hope sometimes? Maybe it's because over the years, life's disappointments can turn us to disillusionment. How many times have you heard someone say: 'Hope for the best, expect the worst?' That's not really hope at all.
Hope is being able to look at our world with all of the joy and wonder of a child."
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