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.

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.

"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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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."

The 4th of July came and went. It started with the Veteran's Memorial in Oconee County, which was stunning. I couldn't believe how many people were there showing their support. I didn't really realize we were going to be a part of the ceremony until I got there-I knew Dad was participating in the laying of the wreath, but didn't expect to be involved. Nevertheless, we were honored to participate.

It was harder than I thought it would be, I suppose because it reminded me so much of Evan's service. When they played TAPS at the end, I knew it was all over. I was especially emotional while reflecting on the simple words that I have heard so many times, but have so much of a greater meaning for me now-

Freedom isn't free.

Even as I heard the guest speaker talk about those families that have made the "ultimate sacrifice", I began to think again of the fact that we were one of those families, even if I still don't believe that. As I gazed off into the distance, I thought of the bravery that Evan and so many of his fellow soldiers demonstrate. I began to think of all the people that I don't perceive as "appreciating" the fact that these soldiers are risking their very LIVES in Operation:Iraqi Freedom, and in past wars, so that we can enjoy the freedoms we have here. Think about that for a moment.

I have to admit that I was not appreciative of that fact until Evan joined the military. I hate to admit it, but it is honest. I think many of us fall into this trap. It's just not something you think about. You get caught up in life and your responsibilities, and just fail to pause and consider it.

I can tell you that after Evan joined the Army, any time we ever went to the airport, Dad never failed to approach any soldier in uniform and thank him for his service. It's something I always wanted to do, but never quite had the courage. Now I consider-do I want to miss this opportunity? I want them to know that Americans appreciate them, especially when so many people seem so vocal about the war, and some that can't differentiate between supporting our troops and supporting this war. In fact, I have had to walk out of many a conversation, because I just couldn't listen to people bash the war.

I have to take this moment to tell you that no one was prouder of Evan than my Dad was, and we were all very proud of him. Dad wore his yellow "support our troops" pin every day: in court, in depositions, and anytime he was wearing anything other than a t-shirt. His pin has now changed to the gold star, the killed in action pin that we all wear, given to families of fallen soldiers by the Army. But there is one time that I will never forget, one time that we were at the airport to pick Evan up when he came home on leave.

He was in his uniform, and we had waited forever for him to come down that escalator at the Hartsfield airport. We were all there, just staring, waiting for him to come into view. All of the sudden, there he was, and Dad just burst into tears. This is questionably, if my memory serves me well, the only time I have ever seen my father cry, with the exception, of course, being when Evan was killed. This had a profound effect on me. I think Mom and I both joked, "Get it together, Dad!"

I'll never forget the day Evan came home after his first deployment. I was ELATED that he was back in the United States. I didn't care that he wasn't in Athens, I was just thankful to have him back in the States. I remember thanking God over and over, praying, thanking him for keeping him safe.

I looked back over some emails I had sent to Evan a few days ago while cleaning out my account. One of them struck me in particular. It had been sent on Evan's first deployment, after the two soldiers in his unit had been killed. I told him that I couldn't imagine how bad things were over there, but that I knew God was in control and that he would see him through. And I thought to myself...How I wished I could believe that now.

And I do, I really do, believe that God is in control, and I believe He will see me through. I suppose yesterday, and today, were just hard days and nights, and I will certainly have those.

And perhaps joy will come in the morning.

Remember who gives us independence

I wanted to share with you all who haven't read it, a piece that my father wrote for the Oconee Enterprise, which appeared in the paper today, in honor of Independence Day:

On the afternoon of January 28th, 2008, I was in my law office reviewing year-end financial information when my assistant came into the conference room and told me I was needed in the reception area. When I saw two uniformed Army officers, I knew that a military family's worst nightmare had come true: my 21 year-old son, Cpl. Evan A. Marshall, had been killed earlier that day by a roadside bomb in Mosul, Iraq.

Evan entered the Army within a week of his 18th birthday in June, 2004. His mother and I did not encourage him to volunteer for military service, but Evan wanted to do something that was difficult and challenging, and believed that the Army would allow him to serve his country and would be a benefit to him on a personal level.

He volunteered to serve in the Infantry, and was assigned to a mechanized infantry unit stationed in Ft. Carson, Colorado.

He was initially deployed to Iraq, in December 2005, where he served for approximately one year. At no time did he voice any complaints about hardships or dangers. He was certainly aware of the risks, and his unit suffered casualties during his first deployment. In fact, Evan's friend, Staff Sgt. Marion Flint, Jr., who was originally from Athens, was killed in an I.E.D. incident in May, 2006, along with another one of Evan's friends and comrades. This explosion occurred literally in front of the Bradley Fighting Vehicle which Evan was driving during a patrol.

Evan left Ft. Carson for his second deployment to Iraq in early December, 2007. His Battalion was assigned to Mosul.

He and four of his friends and comrades were in the lead Humvee on a combat reconnaissance patrol to capture al-Qaeda leaders when a massive bomb buried in the roadway exploded, killing all five soldiers instantly.

The other four Humvees involved in this operation were then fired upon by insurgents from Mosques and other locations in the vicinity using rocket-propelled grenades, machine guns, and mortars. Evan's fellow soldiers lived the Army value that day of never leaving a fallen comrade and instead of fleeing for safety, gave battle until help arrived and the insurgents could be driven away. We are in awe of their courage.

We attended a memorial service for Evan and his fallen comrades at Ft. Carson on Feb. 13, and met the families of other soldiers who were killed in this incident.

The soldiers with whom Evan served during his second deployment were continuing to fulfill their responsiblities in Iraq, but we heard indirectly from them and met with a number of soldiers who served with Evan during his first deployment.

We heard stories of how Evan loved to give candy and dollar bills to Iraqi children, how he took pride in doing his full duty as a soldier, how he was fiercely competitive but a person who would seek out opportunities to welcome and assist newcomers to his unit, and how he contributed to the morale of his fellow soldiers with his smile and light-hearted comments, in his humble and modest way.

My family and I are very proud of Evan's service, and want this piece to honor him. Evan knew that he was deeply loved by his family and by many others, and that we considered him to be a hero.

As we pay tribute to him and honor his memory, we want readers to perhaps more fully understand that all of the persons who are serving us in this time of war are heroes.

As a nation, we ask a great deal of those who wear the uniform. We ask for their time, their talent, and their energy. We ask for their loyalty and their dedication. Although we do not like to think about it or talk about it, we also ask them to risk their lives in service to their country, and many do so unhesitatingly and willingly, just as many have done so throughout our nation's history.

As we look forward to another independence day, let us pause to reflect upon those to whom we owe so much for the freedoms we continue to enjoy in this country. Let us find ways to honor our veterans, passed and present, for their service and sacrifice.

On a personal note, we want to thank the Oconee County community, for the wonderful expressions of love, comfort, and support that we received when our hearts were broken. We will never forget your kindness.

In the process of moving back into my house, I came across the newspaper articles from Evan's death that I had put aside. Right there on top, the picture that I grew to dislike so much, the one of me that landed itself front and center of the Banner Herald, maybe because everyone kept calling it a "beautiful picture", and to me, there was nothing beautiful about it.

To me, it was just sad. A picture of me lying on the casket of my brother. I remember asking my roommate that night if it was "appropriate" that I went up to the casket. I think I even said something like, "watch that be on the front page tomorrow."

Some things never change. Here I was, worried about what others might deem appropriate or not, what others were thinking of me. I came to the conclusion that it was appropriate for me, and what I felt at the time, and that made it perfectly all right. I didn't know I was going up there until I did it, and all I wanted in that moment was to be close to my brother. I longed for that.

I was talking to a friend about that picture recently, and I told him that I disliked it and that I felt it was an invasion of privacy. I told him it was fine to have pictures of Evan and I together, but I didn't like the pictures of my family in mourning, broadcast for the world to see. As if we weren't in the spotlight already.

But he told me that because so many just can't imagine what it's like, having never been through it, that maybe it gave some glimpse into the effect that this war is having on families. I considered it a moment, and agreed. So many people seem detached from this war, and this certainly brings it home to all those who know our family, even those who don't.

I wonder if I'm ever going to wake up. I reread the article, and looked at that last name, "Marshall". I'm still in shock. Will it ever really feel like this has happened? I can't answer that, I simply don't know. Mom said something in the beginning that I still feel. She said my head knows that Evan's gone, but my heart just won't believe it. So true. It's easier to think he's away at war. He wasn't supposed to be here. I still think he's going to call one day, or maybe just show up and walk through my parent's door, and then this nightmare would finally be over.

I had a dream last night, only this time, Evan was a little boy. I don't remember much about it, just that he was playing among friends, but I do remember he was wearing a "Whit Davis" t-shirt (he went to school there). I always thought he was just the most precious little boy. All kids are pretty cute, but there was something special about him.

I watched "Walk the Line" a few days ago with my Mom, and a line that he said struck me-June Carter said something about dedicating a song to his brother, and Johnny said that actually his brother had passed. She said she was sorry, and he said that it was ok, and he actually hadn't talked about him in some time. He said that he talked about his brother a lot at first, but that he felt people were tired of hearing about it, and so he stopped.

This was so sad to me, I suppose because so often I feel people are tired of hearing me talk about Evan, so I've stopped for the most part. That may not be the case, perhaps it's just how I feel because I've talked about it so much. Of course sometimes it's easier not to talk about it, but often I need to. Getting it out here helps too.

I went out to the cemetary yesterday for the first time in a while. I took my new Coldplay CD and parked my car right there on the street, and played through the whole CD as I sat in my car. Sometimes I am comforted going out there, and other times I have trouble stopping the tears. Coldplay was one of his favorite bands, and it's one of mine too.

Tomorrow is July 4th, and as was the case with Memorial Day, it has a whole new meaning for me and for my family. We are going to the dedication of the Veteran's Memorial in Oconee tomorrow morning, which they have asked us to participate in. I had several options to spend time with friends that afternoon, but I want to be with my parents, and we're heading to the lake for the day after that, with some dear friends.

And as we do every day we remain on this earth, we honor him tomorrow, and the sacrifice that he made. And we recognize that this is a temporary separation, and that we will all be together again one joyous day. And we celebrate the 4th together too, and remember that Evan would want us to live our lives fully, and in his honor.

Here I am, in the quiet of my room at home, listening to music my Mom describes as "mournful". I moved back to my house with my roommates today. It was more difficult than I thought.

I step back into my room. This is the place that I got the phone call. The place that I stood, hysterically crying into the phone, desperately trying not to upset little Jack, but not able to control asking Dad over and over again, Is it Evan? Is it Evan? This is also the last time I slept peacefully as I rested with Jack that day. The last time that I put my head on my pillow and didn't think about the moment that I.E.D. detonated in Iraq, killing my brother, along with 4 other brave soldiers. How vividly that day replays in my mind-over and over again.

I feel guilty. But as my roommate reminds me, I feel guilty about a lot of things. Still, I feel that I have a responsibility to my parents, to be sure they are going to be ok, to take care of them, to be sure I am there in every moment of difficulty they may have. But I do have to live my life too, and eventually I was going to have to leave the comfort of my parent's house. I knew I was going to have a hard time with it, so I figured it was best to go ahead and do it. The more time I spend here, hopefully the more comfortable I will be here. But it's still very hard.

After all, it is just me now. I have the sole responsiblity, I feel, as my parent's only child, to take care of them. It's a very alone feeling, too. I long for someone else to walk with me on this path, and I walk alone. Of course, I have many friends, but there is no one else in the world that was Evan's sibling. Just me. A book someone gave me describes how it's different to lose a sibling and have others than to be the only one left. And it is different in a lot of ways.

I was at a wedding this weekend and ended up striking up a conversation with a man sitting next to me at the reception as I picked at my salad. Conversation was flowing, and I don't remember what we were saying, but I could tell it was coming. That get-to-know-you question that I dislike so much, that I don't know how to answer. What was once a simple question has now become so complicated. He asked me if I had any siblings.

I immediately said "No" and I immediately felt horribly guilty about it. It's just that at that moment, I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want to go through the awkwardness of telling them that yes, I did have a brother, but he was killed in Iraq.

I felt so guilty, in fact, that I later brought up in conversation that I did in fact have a brother, and explained the situation. People don't know what to say. I think I got the standard, "I'm sorry", or something along those lines. I will be certain that people remember Evan, his memory, and his sacrifice, and that people remember him. I will tell people about him, and I will go about answering that question differently the next time it is asked. I'm learning as I go along, I suppose.

I hope she doesn't mind that I quote her, but I recently read on a friend's blog, "We still celebrate, too. If you wait until life is perfect to do so, you’ll never get around to it. There’s always something to be stressed or sad about. But there’s usually something to celebrate as well". How true I find this to be. Grief and suffering comes, but joy comes too. I remember how guilty I felt the first time I laughed. All of the sudden, out of the blue, in the midst of hysterical tears, someone said something, and I just couldn't help but laugh out loud. I felt so horribly about it. But then I ask myself, how would Evan want me to react? Would he wish that I never laughed again, or want me to stop living?

I ask myself this often. I think about if I had been the one to die, and I think about how I would want Evan to live his life. And I would never want my death to destroy him. All I ever wanted was the absolute best for him, and I know how much he wanted the best for me. In fact, he was always concerned, afraid I was worrying too much.

So whenever I don't feel like picking myself up, or when I don't feel like getting out of bed, or when it just hurts to breathe, I think to myself: What would Evan want? How would he want me to live my life?

And the answer becomes strangely clear.

I had a dream last night. I wonder if I cried in my sleep, as I woke up with a splitting headache and wet pillow. I didn't even know that was possible.

Evan was stationed at a base somewhere, I guess in the U.S. because we were picking him up. We drove to the gate and back home several times to get him, unsure of what the problem was. Everyone else was picking up their loved ones, but Evan wasn't there. My parents finally went home, but I took off on foot to pick him up. I decided he was coming with me.

A very nice man greeted me at the gate, but this time he was walking towards me. I asked him if my brother was alive, and he told me yes, but he couldn't come home.

Evan finally came out. He told me he couldn't stay, that he had to go back, but he wanted me to know he was ok. I begged him not to go back, pleaded with him. I held onto him as tightly as I could, tugging and yanking his arm with all my strength, tears streaming down my face. And just like that, as quickly as he came, he was gone again.

I remember asking the man what was going on, and through my hysterical tears, I begged them not to hurt him. I don't know why I thought they would hurt him, but I was terrified something awful was happening. The gentle man put his hand on my back, and I collapsed in his arms.

Then I woke up. I was still tired, but I didn't want to go back to sleep for fear of another dream, so I forced myself up.

I woke up into reality. Just Mom, Dad, and I now, and a picture of Evan on the table in my parent's room at the beach. The waking is the hardest part- dreams about my brother are bittersweet. I love the feeling of being near him, and dreams are so real that I almost feel he's alive again, and then I wake up and feel like I just found out that my brother's gone again.

And I'm upset, and I'm mad- angry that my family has to go though this, jealous of the families that get their loved ones back from war, shocked all over again that an I.E.D. detonated in Iraq, and the person on the news this time was really my brother.

There's a saying that time heals all things. It isn't true. Time will never take this away. Time can heal many things, I am certain, but this is something time can neither heal or erase. I do believe that Christ can heal all things, and I am trusting him to do that.

But in that single moment on January 28th, my life forever changed.

Monday was 5 months.

Sunday was Father's Day. I tried to make it special for Dad, but I was never great at special days like that. Evan was. He was always good at remembering dates. I remember him asking what I wanted for my birthday last year. I replied with my usual "please don't get me anything." He always insisted anyway.

Maybe this is unrelated, but I'm all over the place these days. I was down at the beach earlier today, and took my shoes off so I could feel the sand beneath my feet. This reminded me of a moment in the first couple weeks.

I had stepped out of the side door at my house one day that I was just hysterical and didn't want to be around all the people anymore. My Aunt had been feeding me Xanax that day to keep me calm. I was barefoot and she told me to step outside, where she followed. She told me to feel the grass beneath my feet, and my response was that I didn't feel anything. I really couldn't. I didn't feel alive. Its like you are on the outside, looking in. A very surreal, out of body feeling.

A friend I have made since, who lost a brother in Iraq, said he has felt the same thing, in the sense that nothing affects him like it used to. Job changes, break ups, things that used to get him down seem so insignificant now. He doesn't feel things like he used to. A lot of times I don't feel things like I used to either. It scares me sometimes.

One thing I told Dad in his Father's Day card is that I can't imagine going through this without his love, support, and strength. I don't remember much about the prayer, as the day was a blur, but I do remember that right as we were about to walk out the door of our house, my Dad about to bury his son, we all joined hands, friends and family, and he said the most beautiful prayer.

I was in awe of his strength and faith in God, under the worst imaginable circumstances. One thing is certain- I couldn't have made it through the last few months without either of my parents. Mom and I promised each other the first day or two, we were going to get through this and take care of ourselves and each other. We have to remind each other of that sometimes.

I didn't sleep at all the first night. I was up and down. I tried to rest, but i didn't sleep 1 minute that night. At around 4:30, I went down to my parents room and sat in the chair, watching the sun come up, thinking about the day ahead, wondering how any of us would get through it. I could hear them breathing in their sleep, and I was so grateful and comforted by the fact that they were sleeping. I finally crawled between them.

Sometime later that morning we got a phone call, one of many, asking what they could do. I remember Dad saying just to pray for us, and for the other soldiers still deployed. All I could think of was that Evan was gone. I couldn't believe he had the strength to tell someone to pray for other soldiers in that moment.

I think back to those first few words I uttered- "I can't do this." I truly can't do it alone. But with help from God, my parents, my friends, I can do this. Even when it seems I can't, I am doing it.

Just when I think I'm over a hump, I feel like I'm back to square one.

I voiced my frustration to a friend of mine recently. That all I want is to get better. I want to get better, I want to make my parents better, I don't want us all to be sad anymore. He reminded me that this is a process, and it may take years for me to feel better and back to "normal"-rather, adjusted to this new normal. He told me to be patient and ask God for help.

It is difficult to be patient in this situation, but he's absolutely right. I am not going to feel better overnight, that's just not the way it works. As desperately as I want to, it just doesn't happen that way.

The last day we were on the cruise, I was laying out on the deck and ended up talking to one of the friends we made on the ship. Apparently I came off as having "only child syndrome"(imagine that!) and he asked me several times if I was an only child. I guess he could tell I was avoiding the question, but he was persistent so I finally told him the situation. I forget sometimes that there are people that out there that don't know (of course). I told him what happened very matter of factly, and he told me he was sorry. That's all I really need to hear-I thought if one more person told me it was God's will or to "snap out of it", I would go nuts. Just a simple, "I'm sorry" is sufficient-not rationalizing, or telling me "he's in a better place". (I'm really glad he's in a better place. It would be nice to have him for 60 more years first. Call me selfish, but I want him here). I kept it together, then had my meltdown later on the deck with Colleen. I think it's good that I'm getting it out though.

In the course of our conversation and through my tears (and me telling her for the 800th time that I just can't believe he is really gone), she asked me if I could feel Evan with me. As much as I desperately want to feel him with me, I told her no. Then I remembered a conversation I had with a friend of mine, Lori, after my wreck about a month and a half ago.

She told me that she didn't want to upset me, but that she knew Evan was with me in that wreck, keeping me safe. I believe that. Maybe it's crazy, but I don't really care. I believe that God was with me, and I believe that Evan was with me that night. So many what if's..If I had been in my Civic with no side airbags, I would certainly have been severely injured at least. She nailed me in my driver's side in an SUV. It's a very good thing I was in my Volvo.

It's hard to believe I walked away with a bump on my head. No, it's not-it's confirmation that I'm still here for a purpose, that God has me here for a PURPOSE. That he wants me to feel true happiness and joy and peace again, even when I don't believe that, even when it's hard to see through all the pain and suffering, even when profound sadness overtakes me, even though I may not see it now.

And if I have to remind myself of that every single day, so be it.

I overheard Mom on the phone the other day talking to her Mom, I believe. She has been talking about retiring early, a few years shy of her 30 years in teaching. But she was saying that nothing brought her more comfort than the feeling that she had helped another "gold star" family (that's what they call those of us who have lost a family member to war). She also said that maybe this was her mission, to help others through it. In that very moment, I felt so proud of her.

If you had asked me before how I thought Mom would have reacted to Evan's death, I would have told you she would be checked out for the rest of her life. I worried about it a lot before Evan died. How she would react if the unthinkable happened. She was always my main concern.

Ironically, she has done more living in the last four months than the last four years. She goes to sleepovers, she has lunch with my girlfriends and I, we have friends over for dinners almost every weekend, she helps other families. I asked her the other day if she wanted to go see Sex and the City with me after lunch(as I wanted to see it again), and was amused to learn that she already had plans to see it the next night with Dad and another couple.

I mentioned it to her the other day, that I felt she had been living a lot more lately. She agreed.

She assuredly has her moments. She cries, sometimes she cancels plans because she's down, sometimes she needs to talk about it, sometimes she needs a distraction too. But she's PRESENT too, for the first time in a very long time. I'm so grateful.

I've had my moments myself. One thing I have realized, through the tears and the suffering and the laughter, is how much fun I have hanging out with my girlfriends.

Sometimes you just have to laugh. I was moping around in the first week or so, sitting around my house one day that there were 200 people here. Mom called the center of our living room the "mosh pit". That whole first week, it was me sitting in front of the fireplace, surrounded my 10 of my closest friends. One day I was wearing a dress, and got up. Apparently I came close to flashing everyone, and one of my friends said, "I know you're grieving, but you're going to ruin your reputation, Alice". I couldn't help but laugh. Maybe someone looking on might have thought that was odd, given what was happening. But you have to have those moments of sanity-if I didn't, I would have gone crazy by now.

I just got back from a 5 day cruise to Mexico with three of my friends, and we had the best time. The beach there is incredibly beautiful(see above), and I actually got to practice some of my Spanish! We talked about life and relationships and enjoyed just spending time together.

I wouldn't have it any other way. Maybe I'm living again too.

After adding this song to my blog just now, I started thinking about some of the lyrics. It's from the movie Bucket List I believe, which is about two terminally ill men who escape from a cancer ward and head off on a road trip with a wish list of to-dos before they die:


Have no fear for giving in
Have no fear for giving over
You better know that in the end
It's better to say too much
Then never to say what you need to say again
Even if your hands are shaking
And your faith is broken
Even as the eyes are closing
Do it with a heart wide open
Say what you need to say -John Mayer

I find this part in particular to be so true. Maybe I'm still on my plug about how we often, myself included, fail to tell people how we feel when none of us are promised tomorrow. How we hold onto grudges, how we are quick to judge others, how we are slow to forgive, how we can't just LET IT GO. How we fail to tell other people how we feel, because we are scared. Because it makes us nervous. I've always believed that at the end of the day, it's better to say too much than not to say what we need to say, whatever type relationship it may be.

I'm so thankful that I told Evan how I felt, what I needed to say. He never specifically addressed my comments when he wrote me emails back. He was always humble, so I think it made him uncomfortable when I told him he was a hero. But he read them, and he knew. He knew how much I loved him, he knew that he was my hero, and he knew how much I missed him because I told him every chance I got.

For that I am grateful.

But this hasn't always been the case in my relationships. So I'm resolving not to let another moment pass by without saying what I need to say.

Dad has connected with several Dads that have also lost sons to the war in Iraq. It's that "club" that none of us want to be in. He has connected with one in particular, in Atlanta, who lost his son in Iraq several years ago. This man told him that one of his friends had asked him early on, if he had the choice to erase all memory of his son, thus the pain that went along with it, if he would choose to do that.

My initial thought was, of course not. How could anyone even ask this question? The point, of course, is that by erasing their memory and their existence, the accompanying pain from their loss would also be erased.

This reminded me of a movie many of you have probably seen, "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind". A couple undergo a procedure to erase each other from their memories when the relationship goes bad. It's very interesting.

I can't remember who it was, but someone said something in the beginning about how the closest thing they could compare this to was "grieving" over a divorce, over the loss of that relationship. I remember thinking this was really odd initially, and of course she included that it was totally different and couldn't compare, just the closest thing she could relate to. I remember thinking how bizarre it was for her to compare a death to a divorce, but when I thought about it, there are some parallels.

In both cases, someone is not in your life anymore. Someone that you love, someone that you've gotten used to having in your life. It's never easy. It's hard to lose someone that you care about, through death or just the loss of that relationship.

I've been pretty devastated over several breakups in my life, many times over situations that I've ended things too. At the time, it feels you will never "get over it". You have that void that it seems will never be filled. But I've found healing through other friendships and relationships. I think God puts people in our lives, in our path, that we need at just the right times.

Of course, breakups are nothing in comparison to death. But there's a saying, which I find a bit cheesy, but true. It relates to both:

It's better to have loved and lost than never loved at all.

I wouldn't choose to erase memories of anyone, for anything. I would never take back memories of friendships and relationships that didn't work out, because I have a lot of wonderful memories with great people, that still make me smile when I think about them.

And I would never, ever choose to erase my memories of Evan.

I will always have them, and that's something no bomb could ever destroy.

I made it a good while yesterday without crying. The entire day, in fact. I had a decent time at dinner and even laughed some. When I got back to my parents and walked in the door, my grandmother was on the phone. She was calling to tell us that Evan's picture and a thing about him was going to be on Nancy Grace, in the 10:00 hour.

I was going to a friend's but told him we would have to flip at around 10:45.

There I sat, staring at my brother's face on CNN. Evan Marshall, American Hero. Quiet, witty. Leaves behind parents, Drew and Sheila, and sister Alice. I think the media aspect of Evan's death adds to the whole dream-like feeling(I'm sure everyone is tired of hearing me talk about how this feels like a dream, but it's true).

I joked that I was "famous"(since my name had been on CNN). This may seem odd to some people, and of course, it's not really about my name being on TV. This is my defense mechanism. I joke so I don't cry.

They also had a video of a soldier getting the medal of honor. McGinnis, an American Soldier, was perched in the gunner's hatch of a Humvee when a grenade sailed past him and into the truck where four other soldiers sat. He shouted a warning to the others, then jumped on the grenade. The grenade, which was lodged near the vehicle's radio, blew up and killed him.

They said McGinnis easily could have jumped out of the truck and saved himself. In a split second decision, he jumped on the grenade and lost his life to save 4 others. At 19 years old.

I don't understand the kind of bravery these young soldiers exude because I don't have it.

I remember when the Army recruiter came to our house. Mom joked that I made a beeline up the stairs, because I sure wasn't being recruited for the Army. I don't have it in me. We got a letter from him shortly after Evan's death. I felt some anger towards him, but I've let it go. I think I just wanted someone to blame, and he seemed like an easy target. Of course, this hurts no one but myself.

To be an American soldier and put your life on the line day after day takes unexplainable courage. I feel certain Evan thought about his own death, as I'm sure all of the soldiers there do. I can't imagine watching people die, hearing of other fallen soldiers..and not thinking about it. Two from his own platoon were killed right in front of him on his first deployment. Someone I communicated with shortly after Evan died sent me a letter he had written to his parents if he didn't come home. I've heard of many soldiers doing this.

We never talked about anything he saw over there. He didn't tell us, and we didn't ask. I didn't really want to know to be honest. I still think about it sometimes, and wonder. But I think it's better that I don't know. My mind is a battlefield.

The tears finally came late last night. I couldn't stop them for the life of me. I don't know how I held it together as long as I did, as I can only hold it in for so long. Usually I cry when I'm alone, but I happened to be in the company of a friend. I found myself apologizing over and over again for crying, as I usually do when I cry in front of someone. I guess that's why I do it alone. I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable, and I KNOW they don't know what to say, so it's just easier and less complicated if I do it alone. A lot of times I don't need anyone to say anything. I think people mistakenly think they need to say something when sometimes there just aren't words. I guess it depends on the person. In this case, there was no awkwardness, and I was actually quite grateful to have their company in that moment.

I'm frustrated. I'm struggling. All I want to do is "get better", and not be sad anymore, but that's not how it works. I guess I just have to pick myself up and keep surviving until I feel like living again.

I wanted to share a few of my favorite pictures today, and add a few things about the Memorial Fund for those who don't know about it. Our dear friends, Lori and Ross Brown, have established a fund in Evan's name. 100% of the proceeds will be used for educational scholarships for the kids of fallen servicemen and women. Benefit concert, golf tournament, BBQ to follow. I will keep everyone posted. The website is evanmarshallmemorial.org.

Today is Evan's birthday. He would have been 22.

I will be 25 this year, and I have already outlived my little brother. That's hard to believe.

I had a restless night's sleep last night. I kept waking up and thinking about Evan. I'm on my 3rd cup of coffee for the morning, and I still feel like I'm walking around in a daze.

I struggled with what to do today. Sometimes I think the anticipation can be worse than the reality of it. I got up early and went out to the cemetary. Sometimes it makes me more upset, and sometimes its mildly comforting. I don't know how much I should go out there, I just felt like I should today, and I wanted to.

My friend Matt lost a brother, a good while ago. He came over the first week or so. He happened to come one of the days we had gone to the funeral home, so he came back later. He told me that the first year is the worst- the birthday, Christmas, Thanksgiving. But that it gets better, slowly, after that. He wasn't just there for me in the beginning though- he has consistently followed up with me, along with countless others. He told me the other day that he would do anything he could for me, at any time. I could go on and on about how wonderful my friends have been.

They spoon fed me when I could not physically eat. They did my hair. My roommate went and bought 3 options of black dresses for the funeral. They took turns sleeping in the bed with me every single night, because I didn't want to sleep alone. My close friends are willing to talk about Evan when I want to talk about it, and distract me when I needed a distraction. They get me out of the house on days when I can't seem to move. Everyone kept commenting on what amazing friends I have, and I absolutely do. There's no question.

I'm supposed to go to dinner tonight at Depalma's, with three friends that I haven't caught up with in a while. I knew it was Evan's birthday when we scheduled it, but I thought it would be good for me to get out, especially today. Here I am thinking of how to get out of dinner. I feel bad for going out and having "fun" on his birthday.

My mom went to a "girls only" sleepover on Friday night. The invitation was a cute little paper dress-in fact, I was certain it was for me. It said to bring your favorite chick flick and sleeping bag. I thought this was absolutely adorable, and I hope my girlfriends and I do stuff like that when I'm that age!

She was having a bad day Friday afternoon. She didn't want to go. She just wanted to stay here and mope around, which I completely understand. I can't tell you how many days I have wanted to cancel on friends, only to have them show up and drag me out of the house. We joked about that in the first few weeks-if I didn't answer my phone, they just showed up. This didn't always make me happy. But Mom went, and I'm proud of her for that. And she said she had the best time and is so glad she went. In fact, she made the comment it was the best time she has had in the last 4 months. She said it was the first time that she laughed without feeling guilty. She needs to be with friends and she needs to laugh.

If I stay here, I have every guarantee that I will mope around and be sad. If I go to dinner and run the errands that I really need to (I do leave for a cruise in 5 days!), then I have every guarantee that I will have a good time. I know because I always do, when I finally force myself out of the house.

Even on days I don't want to, I have to live my life.

No, it was not my choice to live without my brother. This is one of those "unwanted journeys" that Dr. Doak talked about yesterday at church.

But I am still here. And I remember and honor him today, as I do every day. I've thought about him all morning. It would be hard not to. Especially about his age, 22-about everything he had left to accomplish.

He didn't get to go to college, or have a career that he always wanted. He didn't get married. He didn't get to have a family. So many missed opportunities. I think about these things a lot. I'm not sure that I should though. I try not to. It brings more pain, and there's nothing anyone in the world can do, because no one can bring him back.

It did happen. Even on days I think I'm still dreaming, it did happen to me and it happened to our family.

And I need to be with friends, and I need to laugh. If anyone loved making people laugh, it was Evan. He had that dry, witty sense of humor about him. A lot like Dad's. There were some funny stories they relayed at his memorial service that I'll have to share at a later date.

I'm off to start the day.

If we discovered that we had only five minutes left to say all that we wanted to say, every telephone booth would be occupied by people calling other people to stammer that they loved them. - Christopher Morley

Oh how true I find this quote. There are many kinds of love: God's love, love of friends, love between parent and child, romantic love, love of the beach. I've thought about love a lot lately.

I've thought about how so many times, I have failed to be grateful for the blessings in my life.
I've thought about how I have judged others too quickly.
I've thought about how consumed I have become before about stupid, petty, superficial things.

And how none of that seemed to matter the afternoon of January 28th.

I've thought recently about how fragile life is. How anyone's next moment could be their last. But we often just don't think about the fact that none of us are promised tomorrow.

Of course, I am only human. I wish I could say I had stopped all these negative behaviors since then. It certainly brings things back into perspective though, and makes me determined to work on them as best I can.

One of my friends told me a story about a friend of hers that lost one of her best friends in college I believe, in a car accident. Ever since then, she tells everyone on the phone before she hangs up that she loves them. This has become quite complicated with her dating relationships! But losing someone you love does make you realize what's important and what's not, and how important it is to love.

I think it's a category many of us have fallen into. You get comfortable. Of course you hear of horrible tragedies, and your heart breaks.
But it's not something that will happen to MY family or MY friends. Even with Evan being in a war zone, even with my constant worry and fear, I am still in total and utter shock that it happened. Not to my family.

I am also somewhat of a stranger to the idea of being "positive". Of course, I think we would all say we would LIKE to be positive, in theory. But sometimes it's not that easy, especially when it's become a habit. I have a horrible habit of always fearing and thinking the worst. They say most of the things that we worry about never happen. I can't remember the exact percentage.

But I can't continue to live my life in fear.

I believe that by worrying, I do not gain a single benefit, and it does me no good. It actually is harmful to my mental and emotional well-being. Worry gets me absolutely nowhere. Do I want to look back on my life in 10, 20, 30 years and realize that I spent the majority of it worrying about things that didn't happen? This is something I am determined to work on.

There are many things that hold us back. Fear of failure, fear of rejection. Focusing so much on the past, past relationships, failures, mistakes-and not on the present and moving into the future. I think all of us have been guilty of this at one point or another. There's a saying called "Be Present". It's pretty self-explanatory what that means. If we continually focus on the past, and what we don't have...then we are going to miss out on what we do have.

I will close with a Rob Bell quote, one of my favorites, from the Nooma series, "Matthew". It's on you tube, if anyone is interested in looking it up.

"I do know that you and I have choices about the kinds of people we are and the kind of people we're becoming. We have a choice whether or not we're going to become bitter. A man named Job in the scriptures loses everything, children, houses, possessions, and his wife says, 'Are you still holding onto your integrity? Curse God and die.' She becomes consumed with her bitterness. If we don't acknowledge this choice, if we let a little bitterness in, it will take over. It seeps in and becomes part of us, and we're not even aware of it. Don't let it happen. There's this ancient psalm where the writer says to God, 'You've made me see troubles, many and bitter, but you will restore me again.'

It's easy when we suffer loss for whatever it is we lost to become the center of our life. We had them and now they're gone, and so there's this giant hole where they once were and it becomes all we can think about. And what happens in the process is our whole life becomes what we don't have and we miss out on what we do have. Your heart-my heart-it will recover. It will never be the same again, but we will recover. The first Christians spoke about a day in the future when God would restore everything-you, me, everything in heaven and on Earth. I find great hope in that.

So may you make the choice not to become bitter and closed, but open. And may you realize that God is sitting with you, fully present, grieving your loss, but also restoring. And in that, may we find HOPE."

I got an email in the middle of the night last night, around 1 AM. Last night was one of those nights that my body was so exhausted, but as is the case many nights, I couldn't turn my mind off. I get my emails on my phone, so I looked at it. It was one of these random prayer chains that I really don't know anyone that is a member.

Nevertheless, I typically read them and pray for whoever is asking for prayer. This was for a girl that had bacterial meningitis and had passed out, unresponsive. They said there would be a 5% chance of death under the circumstances and a 95% chance that she would have permanent damage. He had sent a prior email with details of the initial problem, and asked for prayer. The doctors were amazed and calling it a miracle. Thankfully, preliminary tests showed that no indication that any permanent damage was done. He thanked us profusely for the prayers.

This got me thinking again about prayer. Of course, this is not the first time since Evan's death that I have thought about prayer. It's a big question I have, and one that Dad has grappled with too. I remember picking up a book downstairs one day, maybe one Dad has bought recently, by Phillip Yancey, called "Prayer: Does it make any difference?" I was having a bad day, and when I read the title, I snapped back, "Well obviously not or Evan would still be here" as I walked out the front door.

This is hard for me. My family, along with countless others, prayed for Evan's safety daily. I remember Dad telling me about someone at church that had told him she prayed for Evan every day, and that she wasn't just one of those people that said it-he absolutely believed that she really did. I still have written on my dry erase board in my room at my house, where I wrote my prayers down, "Evan-safety". I prayed often, not only for his physical safety, but his mental health as well. I always worried about what he was seeing over there, especially when they lost two soldiers from his company on his first deployment. The bradley right behind him, about 500 ft away. Evan was one of the first on the scene, and it had a profound effect on him, as it would on any of us. He always visited Flint's grave when he was home on leave. I'm getting sidetracked..

Back to prayer. Some of the questions the book addresses are, "Is God listening? Why do so many prayers go unanswered? Why does God let the world go on as it does and not intervene?"Some difficult questions. One of our friends, in an email to my Dad, wrote this:"I, like so many others, prayed for Evan constantly as he served as a soldier. I could never comprehend the anxiety you must have dealt with on a daily basis, being the parent of someone who is constantly in harm's way, hoping for the best and fearing the worst. God did something extraordinary for these past couple of years by keeping him safe and strong each day, answering our prayers and granting him safe returns on each of his visits home.

It's so hard to understand why God granted our prayers for his safety all these months, then changed it all. For some reason it became God's will for Evan to give more than just his time and strength. He gave everything he possibly could, and though it hurts us all here, I know that he gave it proudly and willingly. God has a purpose for everyone in the world and Evan has fulfilled his.I wish for your sake God could have let me make this sacrifice instead of Evan. God has a reason for each day he grants us. Let us all honor him by making each day we live a gift to God and to each other."

It is SO hard to understand why some people have prayers answered, and ours became unanswered. I have never prayed so much in my life as when Evan was deployed, because that's all I could do. I hated that out of control feeling of being over here, while he was over there in harm's way. Another one of dad's friends wrote that he had gone to war, and also had a son that went to Iraq. That Dad was living his worst nightmare, and that it was so much easier for him to go away to war than to have a son over there that he worried about all the time. It's a helpless feeling.

I don't understand why God granted Evan safety on his first deployment, answering our prayers, then changed it all in a second. One moment in time.

I don't know if I ever will.

However, I do believe that when we pray, God hears us. And I believe that there is no possible way I could have made it this far in my new "normal" had God not been carrying me every step of the way.

I couldn't sleep last night, and picked up one of the many books now in our "grief library". We've had countless people give us books on grief, and some we have bought on our own. This is the first in a series sent to me by my church. I happened to turn to a chapter that talks about shock, and how this is why some people seem so calm and composed at funerals. That the shock serves as an emotional anesthetic during a time of unimaginable pain. One mother in the book describes that she found herself comforting other people at her son's funeral. She explains, "It was almost as if the funeral was for someone else's son, not my own."

This is such an interesting concept to me, I guess because I didn't know much about the whole grief process before. It's like our bodies kick into survival mode. We are in shock, so we detach ourselves.

My parents and I were a thousand miles away at the funeral. We stood downstairs in the fellowship hall and greeted more than 800 people that came to the funeral (According to the paper). Ask me if I remember a single one of them.

I don't remember crying much at the service. I think I shed most of my tears that day trying to somehow drag myself out of the house to go. Mom and Dad seemed relatively calm too.

Again, I asked my Aunt Claire if this was "normal", because it didn't feel normal. We couldn't be any more devasted over Evan's death. But she said when Bob died, she had many days like that. You just cry until you can't cry anymore. It's impossible to feel all the pain at once, so you feel it in waves. It's a process. She said she was thankful for the days she could be numb.

Those first few weeks, it was like an out of body experience. It's like everything is moving, yet perfectly still. Everything is a blur. It is the most unnatural thing I have ever experienced.

I feel the need to explain something with a little more clarity, so let me give it my best shot.
As I said before, grief is an up and down thing. It comes and it goes.
Without a doubt, there are days that drag on, that seem impossible to get through.
That I miss my brother desperately, so much that it physically hurts.
But I do have hope.
I have hope that I will choose not to be a bitter and sad person because of this, when the smoke clears, but to be an open, loving, more compassionate person.
That I will be restored.
I believe that I will make the right choice.
That I will choose not to let this destroy my life, but to live my life in honor of my brother.
I have hope that I will also choose to be thankful for the blessings I do still have in my life.
And I believe that I will emerge a stronger person with a deeper faith.
I also trust that on those bad days, which I will inevitably have, I can rely on God to give me strength, and the huge network of support that I have from my amazing family and friends.

Signing off for the last time today.

I guess I've had a lot to "vent" about today. Maybe it's just that I had the day off, which has granted me more time to think than usual.

One sentiment that I've noticed, and others who have been through sudden loss have confirmed, is that people don't want you to grieve. They don't understand. They think there is a certain timetable that you are allowed to grieve, and then it should be "over". It makes them uncomfortable. I can't tell you how many times I have brought Evan up in conversation, just because something reminded me of him, or it related to whatever was being talked about, only to have people change the subject as quickly as possible.

This is frustrating. Evan is a part of me, of who I am. I need to talk about it. This is one reason I have created this blog, at the urging of some of my friends, because I NEED to talk about it, and because I want to try to help people understand to the extent they can, without going through it.

As I look back, I see how the Lord placed people that I would need in my life at just the right time. Last year, I just happened to be working with TWO women who had both lost brothers, and both of which were their only siblings. I don't think that's any coincidence. When I went back to work, they were my biggest source of support. Because unlike those fortunate enough to have never been through this type of thing, they DO know. They do understand. One of them told me that it has been 15 years since she lost her brother, and she still cries sometimes. It's not something that's going away. I will most definitely miss Evan until the day that I die. I do continually remind myself that this is temporary, and I believe with all my heart that he is the first one that I will see when my last day here on Earth is complete.

And I think of what Evan would want for me a lot too. I know without a shadow of a doubt that he would not want this to destroy me or my life. He would want me to pick myself up on those days that I can't seem to go on, and live my life in honor of him. And that's what keeps me going on days that seem hopeless.

I think often of whether I will go out to Colorado Springs when Evan's unit redeploys back to the United States. I always said that I would go-and there may be no way out of it, as I have already told several soldiers from his unit that I would be there. But I wonder how I will bear that day. I lose it completely when I see pictures of homecomings on the internet or facebook-happy pictures of fiancees, husbands, sons, brothers, finally reunited with their loved ones. That day I dreamed about on his first deployment, and his second. I feel physically ill when I see these pictures, because that moment will never come for me or my parents.

I wonder how I will be able to sit there, alone, and watch those reunions. I fantasize that Evan will be there all the time, at that homecoming. I still think sometimes, in my totally nutty moments, that I will go out to Colorado Springs, thinking he won't be there, and he will get off that plane. Mom and I kept asking the two officers at our house, are you sure there's no mistake? Are you sure it's Evan? It has to be a mistake...

I told my Aunt this one day, when I was feeling crazy, because I wasn't used to this grief stuff. She knows all about grief-she lost her husband suddenly, in a car accident. I told her that it was weird, because we were used to Evan not being here for the last 4 years he was in the military. He wasn't supposed to be here, which made it that much harder to accept. I wonder if I go out there, and he's not there, and he doesn't come home-if that's when it will finally hit me with full force. Aunt Claire told me that I was far from crazy. She expected Bob, her husband, to walk in the door every day for years. And he never did.

Evan was coming back to go to college. They said in his memorial service in Colorado Springs that he talked all the time about how he was ready to be done with the Army, and go to college, but he was fulfilling what he committed to do. This makes me crazy too, especially when I think about the people that go AWOL. That don't complete their commitment. Evan was ready to do something else, but he was determined to complete what he had signed up to do. This says volumes about his character. But he sure had a whole lot of living left to do.

I still have plenty of time to decide, as Evan's unit isn't scheduled to redeploy until December. Of course everything in the Army is subject to change, which we realized when he joined. Maybe by then I will just know whether it's good for me or not. Sometimes I think it would help, to be with people that were with him, to talk to them, to answer questions that I need for closure. But as I said before, the thought of watching others reunite happily with their loved ones is sometimes more than I can bear to even think about.