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.