"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.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
I went by my parents house yesterday, and noticed the tape of Evan's service at First Presbyterian sitting out. I considered it a moment, and decided to watch it. I am cautious to put it in the VCR, as I know that I can go from ok to hopeless in a matter of moments. Nevertheless, I opted to watch it. I am amazed at how little I remember from his funeral. I don't know how to describe it, except that I was not present that day. Very much an out of body type feeling. I will not attempt to instill any words of wisdom of my own(my futile attempts at them anyway). Rather, I will leave you with a few excerpts from Dr. Doak's meditation, as I think he answers questions that I have had, and delivers a beautiful message about Evan and about God's love for us.
"We are stunned in disbelief that we are here today. We know the what of what happened to Evan; but the why is harder to understand. I do know that the why was not the will of God. He does not will tragedy for you and me; he does not will that we leave the ones we love and that care for us to join him in the heavens.
God's will for us is happiness, life, and goodness. God would not have sent us the Christ if God had wanted us to be miserable and suffering people. But tragedies do happen all around us. A bomb explodes and people that you and I care for die. On days like these, days when our young people and children are taken from us, I believe there is sorrow in the heart of God.
The freedom God gives us does not allow God to protect us from these tragedies; but God does suffer along with us and loves us through them. Today we can thank God that he gave us Evan for a few brief years; one to share with us the warmth and love and friendship of life.
Teenage years can be a struggle; times where we try and figure out the purpose of life. Some struggle with those years more than others. Evan wrote about that struggle in a youth Sunday sermon that he gave from this pulpit four years ago, his senior year in high school: 'Throughout the recent years of my life, I have tried to change to make life better, but I've always failed. I wanted to be someone that I wasn't. But now I have learned the most important lesson of my life: I ain't what I ain't. I am what I am. I have finally accepted myself for who I am and have realized just how good life really is. I have a family that cares for me and friends that love me. I have found in a few days what I have been searching for; I have found peace.'
As a pastor, I often tell people that life is a gift from God, that life is a gift on loan to us for a passage of time. The psalmist wrote, 'deep calls to deep, all your ways and your billows have gone over me.' The deep in God touches the deep in us is what the psalmist is trying to say. Some catch that better than others.
Evan was a quiet man, and the quiet ones are the ones we need to pay the most attention to, because the waters often run deep. They keep their deep thoughts..
In the meantime, we can thank God for this young man, who was a good son, a good grandson, a good brother, a good nephew, a good cousin, a good army buddy, and a good friend. We can thank God for that and from there begin to put the pieces of our lives back together again.
Psalm 23 read earlier says, 'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.' We have to walk through the valley before we ascend the hill. So many get trapped in the valley, but we are beckoned through the valley by none other than the Christ our Lord.
We learn we can depend on Jesus a little more, and we're the better for it. These lines from Evan's sermon are a fitting closing to this meditation. The theme for that day was peace, and I think it is our theme for today as well. Evan wrote:
'Peace is accepting life as it is and not the way we think it should be or how you want it to be. It sounds simple, doesn't it? It is.
When life takes a turn for the worse, simply accepting the pain you feel instead of wishing it was different can bring you peace. God has a plan for each and every one of us, and although sometimes our lives seem to be filled with sadness, we can rest assured that God is waiting to pull us out from the darkness at the end of the tunnel.' "
As I sit in my parents living room, I cannot help but feel sadness, but feel that I am still in the valley, that I am still struggling and missing Evan more than I can even put into words. I am reminded that this isn't going away, that it is something we are all going to carry with us until we take our last breath on Earth.
I love the last prayer that Dr. Doak delivered at the service, which I heard for the first time today, and I think it is a good closing:
Oh God, we thank you for your promise that all of your children will live eternally with you. Especially we thank you for the life of Evan, for the goodness of his life. For all in him that was good and kind. We thank you for the ways he lifted his friends and family to higher ground, and what he taught all of us about life and its struggles.
In that place where peace and holiness will reign forevermore, from all our scattered memories, give us the courage and strength to live again. And though we look back over our shoulder from time to time, to wish again for more; for all the times which have been, direct us to the life we have to live. To the future, yet unborn. To others who now will lead our affirmation of what is good and pure and holy. Guard brave men and women who risk themselves in battle for their country. At moments like this oh Lord, it is difficult to know what to do next, but we know enough to trust in you. So we return to you the gift of life, which in love was given to us. Help us hold hard to our memories of Evan.
"We are stunned in disbelief that we are here today. We know the what of what happened to Evan; but the why is harder to understand. I do know that the why was not the will of God. He does not will tragedy for you and me; he does not will that we leave the ones we love and that care for us to join him in the heavens.
God's will for us is happiness, life, and goodness. God would not have sent us the Christ if God had wanted us to be miserable and suffering people. But tragedies do happen all around us. A bomb explodes and people that you and I care for die. On days like these, days when our young people and children are taken from us, I believe there is sorrow in the heart of God.
The freedom God gives us does not allow God to protect us from these tragedies; but God does suffer along with us and loves us through them. Today we can thank God that he gave us Evan for a few brief years; one to share with us the warmth and love and friendship of life.
Teenage years can be a struggle; times where we try and figure out the purpose of life. Some struggle with those years more than others. Evan wrote about that struggle in a youth Sunday sermon that he gave from this pulpit four years ago, his senior year in high school: 'Throughout the recent years of my life, I have tried to change to make life better, but I've always failed. I wanted to be someone that I wasn't. But now I have learned the most important lesson of my life: I ain't what I ain't. I am what I am. I have finally accepted myself for who I am and have realized just how good life really is. I have a family that cares for me and friends that love me. I have found in a few days what I have been searching for; I have found peace.'
As a pastor, I often tell people that life is a gift from God, that life is a gift on loan to us for a passage of time. The psalmist wrote, 'deep calls to deep, all your ways and your billows have gone over me.' The deep in God touches the deep in us is what the psalmist is trying to say. Some catch that better than others.
Evan was a quiet man, and the quiet ones are the ones we need to pay the most attention to, because the waters often run deep. They keep their deep thoughts..
In the meantime, we can thank God for this young man, who was a good son, a good grandson, a good brother, a good nephew, a good cousin, a good army buddy, and a good friend. We can thank God for that and from there begin to put the pieces of our lives back together again.
Psalm 23 read earlier says, 'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.' We have to walk through the valley before we ascend the hill. So many get trapped in the valley, but we are beckoned through the valley by none other than the Christ our Lord.
We learn we can depend on Jesus a little more, and we're the better for it. These lines from Evan's sermon are a fitting closing to this meditation. The theme for that day was peace, and I think it is our theme for today as well. Evan wrote:
'Peace is accepting life as it is and not the way we think it should be or how you want it to be. It sounds simple, doesn't it? It is.
When life takes a turn for the worse, simply accepting the pain you feel instead of wishing it was different can bring you peace. God has a plan for each and every one of us, and although sometimes our lives seem to be filled with sadness, we can rest assured that God is waiting to pull us out from the darkness at the end of the tunnel.' "
As I sit in my parents living room, I cannot help but feel sadness, but feel that I am still in the valley, that I am still struggling and missing Evan more than I can even put into words. I am reminded that this isn't going away, that it is something we are all going to carry with us until we take our last breath on Earth.
I love the last prayer that Dr. Doak delivered at the service, which I heard for the first time today, and I think it is a good closing:
Oh God, we thank you for your promise that all of your children will live eternally with you. Especially we thank you for the life of Evan, for the goodness of his life. For all in him that was good and kind. We thank you for the ways he lifted his friends and family to higher ground, and what he taught all of us about life and its struggles.
In that place where peace and holiness will reign forevermore, from all our scattered memories, give us the courage and strength to live again. And though we look back over our shoulder from time to time, to wish again for more; for all the times which have been, direct us to the life we have to live. To the future, yet unborn. To others who now will lead our affirmation of what is good and pure and holy. Guard brave men and women who risk themselves in battle for their country. At moments like this oh Lord, it is difficult to know what to do next, but we know enough to trust in you. So we return to you the gift of life, which in love was given to us. Help us hold hard to our memories of Evan.
Monday, July 28, 2008
I often say that my mind is a battlefield: that it is by far, my biggest enemy. How often we think these horrible thoughts, that we know we shouldn't be thinking, that only add to our pain? How often I wish I could make them just go away, but they hang around, threatening to take over, to steal me away, to draw me closer to them and away from some of the pain that has seemingly been lifted. Often these come in the form of "what ifs." They make me crazy.
I recently received the third book on grief, sent to me by church. They are so good that I have wanted the next one after each that I have read; but they only send them out after a certain amount of time has elapsed. One of the chapters on the most recent book that I received relates to dealing with anger.
It talks about how most people say they expected to feel sad about their loss, but the emotion many people say surprised them was anger. I am thankful to say that for the most part, my anger has subsided. But I was very surprised by this emotion, particularly from a girl that really doesn't have an angry bone in her body. Even when someone does something that should, I suppose, make me angry, I get upset-not mad. And that's just the way I have always been.
The book says that the three most common targets of our anger are: God, our loved one who has died, and ourselves. I don't think this could be more true, and I have, in fact, experienced this in every realm that the book discusses.
I have undoubtedly had spurts of anger over the past few months. Particularly, I was angry at God for a long time. I remember a friend telling me that I should tell him I was mad at him, because he already knew. The book talks about how many people hold that inward, or are ashamed to tell anyone that, but it goes on to say that it is perfectly ok to be angry at God. It even says that you should scream at God if you like. That's what many of the writers of the Psalms in Bible did.
I was also angry at the people who told me it was God's will that Evan was killed. Kim Arnold, whose daughter recently suffered a traumatic brain injury, responded to her daughter, who asked her why this had happened to her: “I don’t know why. But I do know that God didn’t cause it to happen." Everyone is entitled to their opinions and beliefs, but I choose to believe that God is not the author of suffering, and he does not will that evil things happen like this. There is, however, evil in the world, and I believe that he did NOT will this to happen to my brother. I do believe he can use it for good, because it has happened. But he didn't will this to happen to Evan, and he didn't want this for our family.
My friends never knew when I would snap right there in the beginning. It really scared me, in fact, because I didn't even recognize myself, or the anger that I felt. I snapped at those friends who would call incessantly in the beginning, then show up when I ignored the phone calls, because I just wanted to be alone. One time I practically threw the water at one of my friends for shoving anti-depressants at me that I didn't want to take (Mom coaxed her into the job, it wasn't really her fault). I screamed a few times in my car, alone of course, for fear of people thinking I was crazy. Of course, everyone was just trying to help. I was just mad at the world.
I have also at times, and I am a bit scared to admit this to the world, but I have been mad at my brother. This is when those "what ifs" take over in my head. I cannot HELP but have the thought that if Evan had not chose to join the Army; if he had, in fact, just made a different decision, decided to go to college, or go to work; anything but join the military-that he would still be here. When he was in basic four years ago, I remember one of the parents asking how many would be deployed; the response? Everyone. I remember my heart sinking in that very moment.
On the other hand, Evan had become a totally different person since joining the Army, and I cannot deny that fact. Whose to say what may or may not have happened, had Evan made a different decision? My mind plays games with me sometimes.
Lastly, I have been mad at myself on numerous occasions. Things from the past; that sibling rivalry that most kids have, but many don't really give much thought to because they still have their brother or sister in their life. But how profound they seem after the loss of someone so close.
In the final paragraph, it goes on to say that recognizing, accepting, and expressing anger can be a very healing experience. I believe that-I believe that letting go of it can be healing.
I believe that all the emotions that surface when we lose someone so close to us are healthy, and normal, and that we have to find ways of getting them out, of expressing them, or they will inevitably come back later in life, in a variety of different ways. It's interesting how all these things that I thought were "crazy", that I didn't want anyone to know, are actually perfectly normal. I just didn't know much about grief.
Finally, I am so very thankful to have friends and family that have, and continue to, stick by me, through every emotion that I have experienced since this new journey began. From people who have been friends since I was a child, to acquaintances that I never in a million years expected to be such strong sources of comfort, each and every one of you have helped me to keep breathing, and I am grateful.
I recently received the third book on grief, sent to me by church. They are so good that I have wanted the next one after each that I have read; but they only send them out after a certain amount of time has elapsed. One of the chapters on the most recent book that I received relates to dealing with anger.
It talks about how most people say they expected to feel sad about their loss, but the emotion many people say surprised them was anger. I am thankful to say that for the most part, my anger has subsided. But I was very surprised by this emotion, particularly from a girl that really doesn't have an angry bone in her body. Even when someone does something that should, I suppose, make me angry, I get upset-not mad. And that's just the way I have always been.
The book says that the three most common targets of our anger are: God, our loved one who has died, and ourselves. I don't think this could be more true, and I have, in fact, experienced this in every realm that the book discusses.
I have undoubtedly had spurts of anger over the past few months. Particularly, I was angry at God for a long time. I remember a friend telling me that I should tell him I was mad at him, because he already knew. The book talks about how many people hold that inward, or are ashamed to tell anyone that, but it goes on to say that it is perfectly ok to be angry at God. It even says that you should scream at God if you like. That's what many of the writers of the Psalms in Bible did.
I was also angry at the people who told me it was God's will that Evan was killed. Kim Arnold, whose daughter recently suffered a traumatic brain injury, responded to her daughter, who asked her why this had happened to her: “I don’t know why. But I do know that God didn’t cause it to happen." Everyone is entitled to their opinions and beliefs, but I choose to believe that God is not the author of suffering, and he does not will that evil things happen like this. There is, however, evil in the world, and I believe that he did NOT will this to happen to my brother. I do believe he can use it for good, because it has happened. But he didn't will this to happen to Evan, and he didn't want this for our family.
My friends never knew when I would snap right there in the beginning. It really scared me, in fact, because I didn't even recognize myself, or the anger that I felt. I snapped at those friends who would call incessantly in the beginning, then show up when I ignored the phone calls, because I just wanted to be alone. One time I practically threw the water at one of my friends for shoving anti-depressants at me that I didn't want to take (Mom coaxed her into the job, it wasn't really her fault). I screamed a few times in my car, alone of course, for fear of people thinking I was crazy. Of course, everyone was just trying to help. I was just mad at the world.
I have also at times, and I am a bit scared to admit this to the world, but I have been mad at my brother. This is when those "what ifs" take over in my head. I cannot HELP but have the thought that if Evan had not chose to join the Army; if he had, in fact, just made a different decision, decided to go to college, or go to work; anything but join the military-that he would still be here. When he was in basic four years ago, I remember one of the parents asking how many would be deployed; the response? Everyone. I remember my heart sinking in that very moment.
On the other hand, Evan had become a totally different person since joining the Army, and I cannot deny that fact. Whose to say what may or may not have happened, had Evan made a different decision? My mind plays games with me sometimes.
Lastly, I have been mad at myself on numerous occasions. Things from the past; that sibling rivalry that most kids have, but many don't really give much thought to because they still have their brother or sister in their life. But how profound they seem after the loss of someone so close.
In the final paragraph, it goes on to say that recognizing, accepting, and expressing anger can be a very healing experience. I believe that-I believe that letting go of it can be healing.
I believe that all the emotions that surface when we lose someone so close to us are healthy, and normal, and that we have to find ways of getting them out, of expressing them, or they will inevitably come back later in life, in a variety of different ways. It's interesting how all these things that I thought were "crazy", that I didn't want anyone to know, are actually perfectly normal. I just didn't know much about grief.
Finally, I am so very thankful to have friends and family that have, and continue to, stick by me, through every emotion that I have experienced since this new journey began. From people who have been friends since I was a child, to acquaintances that I never in a million years expected to be such strong sources of comfort, each and every one of you have helped me to keep breathing, and I am grateful.
Monday, July 14, 2008
I woke up this morning after an amazingly restful night to pick up the paper and a cup of coffee this morning. After reading the headline, I immediately wished I hadn't.
9 American soldiers killed in Afghanistan on Sunday. It goes on to say that this is the deadliest attack in Afghanistan in 3 years. Instantly, my heart felt broken all over again for these 9 families. My mind replayed the day we found out about Evan, and I imagined what these families are going through in this very moment.
I also thought about how many would read that headline, and what would go through their mind. I think many have gotten used to reading about these fatalities in the paper-I believe most have even gotten to the point where they are detached from it, and that's a hard pill to swallow.
..And then I remember hearing about fatalities on the news while Evan was deployed. I certainly payed more attention to them before, and my heart broke for these families, but of course, it just didn't affect me as if it were my family. I said a quiet prayer for the family, and thanked God that it wasn't Evan.
And then it was us and it was me, one horrible day.
I was in Starbucks this morning, and they had bags of coffee you could buy to write a short message on and they would ship them oversees to the troops. I really wanted to consider what to say, so I decided to go back tomorrow morning when I would really have time to think about it.
And it would be easy to just let it go, and to not go back and not do it. I've never seen those in any Starbucks (And I've been in a lot of Starbucks). It seems like such a small thing, but I believe that every little bit counts, and I believe that every time a soldier in Iraq or Afghanistan receive anything that shows that Americans are in support of them, it makes a difference to them in that moment.
People keep telling me how strong I've been. Interesting that I haven't felt strong. I've felt incredibly weak, in fact. But when I look back and think of the progress even so far, something within me tells me that I have been strong. One of our dear friends that was around the house the first few weeks told me later that she didn't think I was going to make it. One interesting thing she pointed out was that I wouldn't make eye contact with anyone. I honestly could not even lift my head. I couldn't function as a normal person.
But somehow, eventually, I just kicked into survival mode. I believe all of us have it, even if we don't know it. I sure didn't know I had it in me, of all people. I hear people say all the time that they couldn't go on if one of their parents, or their kids, or their husbands or wives or siblings were taken from them. I can't tell you how many times someone has said to me, "I can't even imagine."
But then in the time it takes to receive phone call, all of the sudden they are faced with it and the only choice they have is to survive, and so they do. And all of the sudden the strength that they didn't know they had, that has been in there all along, surfaces.
I can't tell you how many stories I have heard since Evan's death, of people losing loved ones: a friend that lost a child to suicide, another that lost a child to homicide, my aunt who lost her husband in a car accident, many others that have lost loved ones in this war, we are all, in fact, survivors of these unthinkable tragedies.
So maybe as I look back, I have been strong. I have certainly tried to be, especially for my parents, even when I feel as though I have failed miserably. I was telling a friend the other day that I couldn't believe I was sitting there in front of him, that I had even made it to this point, after being dealt this shocking blow.
And all of the sudden, I realized that just that very fact makes me strong, and makes me a survivor.
9 American soldiers killed in Afghanistan on Sunday. It goes on to say that this is the deadliest attack in Afghanistan in 3 years. Instantly, my heart felt broken all over again for these 9 families. My mind replayed the day we found out about Evan, and I imagined what these families are going through in this very moment.
I also thought about how many would read that headline, and what would go through their mind. I think many have gotten used to reading about these fatalities in the paper-I believe most have even gotten to the point where they are detached from it, and that's a hard pill to swallow.
..And then I remember hearing about fatalities on the news while Evan was deployed. I certainly payed more attention to them before, and my heart broke for these families, but of course, it just didn't affect me as if it were my family. I said a quiet prayer for the family, and thanked God that it wasn't Evan.
And then it was us and it was me, one horrible day.
I was in Starbucks this morning, and they had bags of coffee you could buy to write a short message on and they would ship them oversees to the troops. I really wanted to consider what to say, so I decided to go back tomorrow morning when I would really have time to think about it.
And it would be easy to just let it go, and to not go back and not do it. I've never seen those in any Starbucks (And I've been in a lot of Starbucks). It seems like such a small thing, but I believe that every little bit counts, and I believe that every time a soldier in Iraq or Afghanistan receive anything that shows that Americans are in support of them, it makes a difference to them in that moment.
People keep telling me how strong I've been. Interesting that I haven't felt strong. I've felt incredibly weak, in fact. But when I look back and think of the progress even so far, something within me tells me that I have been strong. One of our dear friends that was around the house the first few weeks told me later that she didn't think I was going to make it. One interesting thing she pointed out was that I wouldn't make eye contact with anyone. I honestly could not even lift my head. I couldn't function as a normal person.
But somehow, eventually, I just kicked into survival mode. I believe all of us have it, even if we don't know it. I sure didn't know I had it in me, of all people. I hear people say all the time that they couldn't go on if one of their parents, or their kids, or their husbands or wives or siblings were taken from them. I can't tell you how many times someone has said to me, "I can't even imagine."
But then in the time it takes to receive phone call, all of the sudden they are faced with it and the only choice they have is to survive, and so they do. And all of the sudden the strength that they didn't know they had, that has been in there all along, surfaces.
I can't tell you how many stories I have heard since Evan's death, of people losing loved ones: a friend that lost a child to suicide, another that lost a child to homicide, my aunt who lost her husband in a car accident, many others that have lost loved ones in this war, we are all, in fact, survivors of these unthinkable tragedies.
So maybe as I look back, I have been strong. I have certainly tried to be, especially for my parents, even when I feel as though I have failed miserably. I was telling a friend the other day that I couldn't believe I was sitting there in front of him, that I had even made it to this point, after being dealt this shocking blow.
And all of the sudden, I realized that just that very fact makes me strong, and makes me a survivor.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
I'm struggling, and I'm tired of pretending I'm not. It is these moments that I'm alone that it seems to hit me the hardest.
There's no one in the world that likes to laugh and be happy like me, but I'm just not. I'm haunted by constant images of my wedding day without Evan. Of feeling so helplessly alone as my parents age. Of never being an Aunt. Most importantly though, the comfort and support of my only sibling, this only other person in the world that has my DNA, to go through life beside me. All these things that were snatched from me that moment that Evan's life ended.
I know this pit becase I've been in it many times in my life, and many before my family went through this. My closest friends are certainly aware of this, but I struggled with depression long before Evan was killed. This is why I constantly ask myself the question of why ME, of all people that could survive and be strong and get through this, I'm not one of them. I'm just not cut out for this kind of stuff.
And it just wasn't supposed to happen. Period.
I hate feeling so dependent on others, and I hate that I've felt so needy the last few months. That I needed someone to sleep in the bed with me for so long because I didn't want to be alone. That I've been emotionally needy with all my friends, who never know if I'm going to be my cheery self or in a puddle of despair. And every time I go back to Athens, all I want to do is be anywhere else.
All I feel, right now, is lost.
Then something within reminds me that I can be strong, and I will be strong, for the sole reason that I have to be. I don't have a choice.
There's no one in the world that likes to laugh and be happy like me, but I'm just not. I'm haunted by constant images of my wedding day without Evan. Of feeling so helplessly alone as my parents age. Of never being an Aunt. Most importantly though, the comfort and support of my only sibling, this only other person in the world that has my DNA, to go through life beside me. All these things that were snatched from me that moment that Evan's life ended.
I know this pit becase I've been in it many times in my life, and many before my family went through this. My closest friends are certainly aware of this, but I struggled with depression long before Evan was killed. This is why I constantly ask myself the question of why ME, of all people that could survive and be strong and get through this, I'm not one of them. I'm just not cut out for this kind of stuff.
And it just wasn't supposed to happen. Period.
I hate feeling so dependent on others, and I hate that I've felt so needy the last few months. That I needed someone to sleep in the bed with me for so long because I didn't want to be alone. That I've been emotionally needy with all my friends, who never know if I'm going to be my cheery self or in a puddle of despair. And every time I go back to Athens, all I want to do is be anywhere else.
All I feel, right now, is lost.
Then something within reminds me that I can be strong, and I will be strong, for the sole reason that I have to be. I don't have a choice.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Love
I was just reflecting, here again in this office, on Evan, but also on everyone that I have ever loved and lost. I am surrounded by pictures: of my Grandfather who I loved dearly, who I watched suffer in the hospital for months before he died; pictures of my Uncle Bob; many of Evan and I together, as kids. I love Evan's baby pictures, particularly the ones of Evan as a toddler, because he just always has this smirk on his face, like he was up to no good.
I remember a book I was looking over not too long ago, called "Don't Cry Past Tuesday". It's a collection of sermons written by Chuck Poole. Anyway, one of the sermons is called "The Strange Gift of Grief". It talks about what a risk love is-that if we didn't love, than we would never have anything to lose. Would we choose not to take that risk, not to love others with all we have, to avoid the grief we feel if we lost that person? Of course not.
I was talking to my Grandmother yesterday, and she was telling me that she probably thinks too much(runs in the family), but we were talking about how Evan came to visit her when my other Grandmother passed away last September. He drove over to Columbia to see her one day because the three of us were working, just to spend some time with her. She said she thinks about it a lot, and wonders if maybe it was because my other Grandmother had passed away, and he was afraid of how much time she had left, or maybe Evan had some sort of premonition, and wanted to see her before he went back.
The point being, appreciate the time you have with someone, and love them with all you have. Myself first, people so often say it, but don't live it.
I am working on being more "present" in life. In all seriousness, I am working more on detaching myself from my cell phone-in fact, I've been leaving it places on purpose so I don't have it with me all the time and so I won't be constantly checking it. It can wait. No, I don't typically answer my phone when I am with someone, unless it is a short conversation or pressing matter, but I want to be fully present in conversation with whoever I happen to be with. I want them to know that they have my full attention. This is part of loving people and showing them that I care.
A friend apologized to me last night for venting, and I told her I may not always be the best at giving advice, but I was always willing to listen. Isn't it true that many times, that's all we need? Just someone to listen to us? And being present...
I suppose we are all works in progress.
I remember a book I was looking over not too long ago, called "Don't Cry Past Tuesday". It's a collection of sermons written by Chuck Poole. Anyway, one of the sermons is called "The Strange Gift of Grief". It talks about what a risk love is-that if we didn't love, than we would never have anything to lose. Would we choose not to take that risk, not to love others with all we have, to avoid the grief we feel if we lost that person? Of course not.
I was talking to my Grandmother yesterday, and she was telling me that she probably thinks too much(runs in the family), but we were talking about how Evan came to visit her when my other Grandmother passed away last September. He drove over to Columbia to see her one day because the three of us were working, just to spend some time with her. She said she thinks about it a lot, and wonders if maybe it was because my other Grandmother had passed away, and he was afraid of how much time she had left, or maybe Evan had some sort of premonition, and wanted to see her before he went back.
The point being, appreciate the time you have with someone, and love them with all you have. Myself first, people so often say it, but don't live it.
I am working on being more "present" in life. In all seriousness, I am working more on detaching myself from my cell phone-in fact, I've been leaving it places on purpose so I don't have it with me all the time and so I won't be constantly checking it. It can wait. No, I don't typically answer my phone when I am with someone, unless it is a short conversation or pressing matter, but I want to be fully present in conversation with whoever I happen to be with. I want them to know that they have my full attention. This is part of loving people and showing them that I care.
A friend apologized to me last night for venting, and I told her I may not always be the best at giving advice, but I was always willing to listen. Isn't it true that many times, that's all we need? Just someone to listen to us? And being present...
I suppose we are all works in progress.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Hope
This morning, I woke up with a small ray of hope invading my heart. I don't know why, or where this hope came from, but I am so grateful. Even if it doesn't last long, even if it is just for this very moment, I feel hopeful that I'm going to survive and join the world of the living again. Or maybe just KEEP living.
I'm with my family in Columbia for a few days, and there's something about being with my Aunt that grounds me. There's nothing like family-or maybe just those members of your family that you let into the depths of your soul, that know you like many don't. And also, family that have met tragedy themselves, maybe of a different kind, but that know that feeling all too well, having been to the pits of despair and back, and who can honestly say that they have emerged stronger people because of it. Sadly, our family is no stranger to sudden tragedy.
I remember in the beginning, asking my Aunt how she got through it when her husband was killed in a car accident. Not believing I would EVER survive my brother's death, I kept telling her she was so much stronger of a person than I am. Her response? "Alice, you were TEN when Bob died. You are speaking of the person you know now, not the person I was back then. The person I am today is a result of what happened when I lost my husband, who was my rock. I can honestly say I am a stronger, better person today than I was before I lost Bob, a person that I would not be had it not happened to me."
And she is right. I didn't really remember the person she was back then. At the young age of ten, I had my first experience with death and grief, and a tragic one at that. Not a grandparent, but my Uncle in his 30's, my amazingly cool uncle in fact, who would sit with Evan and I for hours upon hours and play our kid games while the adults played scrabble in the kitchen. Who would take Evan out on the wave runner and give into his constant demands to do 360's as my Grandmother nervously watched from the house. Evan was always a risk-taker, completely contrary to my personality. I remember waiting up at the lakehouse for Claire and Bob to get back from USC games, and we are talking late at night, prepared to run towards the car and jump into his arms. I remember bits and pieces from the funeral, and I don't particularly remember this, but Aunt Claire tells me I never left her side the whole time.
I am sitting in my Aunt's office in Columbia, looking at a picture of Bob in fact. It's been almost 15 years, and it took many of those for me to accept that he was gone. I think often about how nice it would be to be able to go to him and ask him for advice whenever I am having a probem, particularly with my "boy troubles", which are actually not even close to the great matters of my life!
And I wonder how long it will take me to accept the fact that Evan is gone. As Mom came out of twilight sleep yesterday at the hospital, she reached out to hold my hand(as she told me how beautiful, intelligent, compassionate of a person I am. Give this woman drugs more often!) I asked her the question: Do you still find it hard to believe that Evan's gone? She replied, "You can't even imagine how hard it is to believe."
Even so, even though it doesn't even make sense to feel this way right now, I sit here with that hope, close to joy, wedged in my heart, and I reflect on those things that really matter in life. As I waited on my prescription yesterday at the drug store, I picked up a book that caught my eye, called "50 things that really matter".
The introduction begins, "Big homes, luxury cars, diamond bracelets. These days we're surrounded by such symbols of wealth. And if we aren't among the lucky few to enjoy these prizes, we feel left out, stressed, perhaps even unworthy or depressed. Why? Those aren't the things that really matter in life. Not by a long shot."
It goes on to describe these 50 things, and I will not list all of them, but my notable favorites include memories, faith, bubble baths, passion, the sounds of music, seashells, candlelight, flowers, kindness, thunderstorms, family, gratitude, quiet time, contentment, hugs, sunrise, a child's art, romance, holidays, trust, holding hands, summer nights, a good cup of coffee, a sense of wonder, hope, companionship, home, you. It really IS, from my vantage point, all about the small things in life.
I will conclude with an excerpt from the chapter on Hope, which says:
"So why are we so afraid to hope sometimes? Maybe it's because over the years, life's disappointments can turn us to disillusionment. How many times have you heard someone say: 'Hope for the best, expect the worst?' That's not really hope at all.
Hope is being able to look at our world with all of the joy and wonder of a child."
I'm with my family in Columbia for a few days, and there's something about being with my Aunt that grounds me. There's nothing like family-or maybe just those members of your family that you let into the depths of your soul, that know you like many don't. And also, family that have met tragedy themselves, maybe of a different kind, but that know that feeling all too well, having been to the pits of despair and back, and who can honestly say that they have emerged stronger people because of it. Sadly, our family is no stranger to sudden tragedy.
I remember in the beginning, asking my Aunt how she got through it when her husband was killed in a car accident. Not believing I would EVER survive my brother's death, I kept telling her she was so much stronger of a person than I am. Her response? "Alice, you were TEN when Bob died. You are speaking of the person you know now, not the person I was back then. The person I am today is a result of what happened when I lost my husband, who was my rock. I can honestly say I am a stronger, better person today than I was before I lost Bob, a person that I would not be had it not happened to me."
And she is right. I didn't really remember the person she was back then. At the young age of ten, I had my first experience with death and grief, and a tragic one at that. Not a grandparent, but my Uncle in his 30's, my amazingly cool uncle in fact, who would sit with Evan and I for hours upon hours and play our kid games while the adults played scrabble in the kitchen. Who would take Evan out on the wave runner and give into his constant demands to do 360's as my Grandmother nervously watched from the house. Evan was always a risk-taker, completely contrary to my personality. I remember waiting up at the lakehouse for Claire and Bob to get back from USC games, and we are talking late at night, prepared to run towards the car and jump into his arms. I remember bits and pieces from the funeral, and I don't particularly remember this, but Aunt Claire tells me I never left her side the whole time.
I am sitting in my Aunt's office in Columbia, looking at a picture of Bob in fact. It's been almost 15 years, and it took many of those for me to accept that he was gone. I think often about how nice it would be to be able to go to him and ask him for advice whenever I am having a probem, particularly with my "boy troubles", which are actually not even close to the great matters of my life!
And I wonder how long it will take me to accept the fact that Evan is gone. As Mom came out of twilight sleep yesterday at the hospital, she reached out to hold my hand(as she told me how beautiful, intelligent, compassionate of a person I am. Give this woman drugs more often!) I asked her the question: Do you still find it hard to believe that Evan's gone? She replied, "You can't even imagine how hard it is to believe."
Even so, even though it doesn't even make sense to feel this way right now, I sit here with that hope, close to joy, wedged in my heart, and I reflect on those things that really matter in life. As I waited on my prescription yesterday at the drug store, I picked up a book that caught my eye, called "50 things that really matter".
The introduction begins, "Big homes, luxury cars, diamond bracelets. These days we're surrounded by such symbols of wealth. And if we aren't among the lucky few to enjoy these prizes, we feel left out, stressed, perhaps even unworthy or depressed. Why? Those aren't the things that really matter in life. Not by a long shot."
It goes on to describe these 50 things, and I will not list all of them, but my notable favorites include memories, faith, bubble baths, passion, the sounds of music, seashells, candlelight, flowers, kindness, thunderstorms, family, gratitude, quiet time, contentment, hugs, sunrise, a child's art, romance, holidays, trust, holding hands, summer nights, a good cup of coffee, a sense of wonder, hope, companionship, home, you. It really IS, from my vantage point, all about the small things in life.
I will conclude with an excerpt from the chapter on Hope, which says:
"So why are we so afraid to hope sometimes? Maybe it's because over the years, life's disappointments can turn us to disillusionment. How many times have you heard someone say: 'Hope for the best, expect the worst?' That's not really hope at all.
Hope is being able to look at our world with all of the joy and wonder of a child."
Saturday, July 5, 2008
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.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Monday, June 30, 2008
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 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.
Friday, June 20, 2008
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
