On December 10th, I woke up to a phone call that changed my world. When I realized that my dad had been trying to call since 4:30 in the morning, I knew immediately that something was wrong, but I never imagined the magnitude of what he had to tell me that day. When he told me that my younger brother Ryan (age 24) had been killed in a car accident, I didn't fully understand what he was saying. I remember asking, "My brother, Ryan?" thinking surely I was mistaken. I remember asking to speak to my mom, but my brain seemed to kind of shut down. I started to hyperventilate, and I remember telling her I needed to go wake Jason up, that I needed to go breathe. Breathe. By the time I made it to Jason, I don't even know what I said. I know that he jumped up to hold me, and I know that I would have hit the floor had he not been there. The rest of the morning was a blur of trying to pack and get to the Upstate, and my brain simply seemed to be frozen. I couldn't remember what day of the week it was or what I needed to pack for the trip. It was as if everything inside of me just stopped, though I knew I had to keep moving, keep breathing.
Two weeks have passed since that early Saturday morning. I can't even begin to recount the number of times I've had to repeat to myself "Just breathe," over those two weeks. There are moments when I'm busy with Cale or watching a show or movie when I fall numb again, but the moments of numbness are becoming increasingly rare. The moments of the reality of the loss are becoming increasingly frequent. The shock is beginning to fade, and I'm left with the hole that seems completely overwhelming. A permanent hole in my family. A brother who adored my son, and my son will never even remember him. My 2nd child will never even meet him. A brother who still called me "Sissy." A brother who, from all human standpoints, should be here with us celebrating Christmas this year.
I'm learning a lot about grieving-- the process that takes much longer than any of us would like to believe. I'm learning that although my faith in the Lord has not been shaken (indeed, I have known His grace more fully than ever before over the last two weeks), it's still okay to cry. It's still okay to be broken. It's still okay to feel as though I might just fall apart. God's big enough to handle all of our brokenness combined. It's fully permissible to admit that none of this feels "okay" right now. Nothing about having a drunk driver (who, for the record, already had 2 DUIs this year) murder your baby brother is okay. It simply isn't.
And yet. There is a yet. I know, that with time, God will heal these wounds. I know that we won't ever feel like our family is whole again; I'm not that naive. I know that it's quite possible that next December 10th will be just as hard as this past one was. But I know that it's not hard for Ryan. He's no longer bound by time, no longer chained by human pain, sadness, or weakness of any type. Instead, he's kind of the lucky one among us, the one who will celebrate Christmas at Home this year. That's the only joy that keeps us going, that keeps us moving through each day-- even the days that pass so very slowly.
I'm falling apart.
I'm barely breathing.
With a broken heart
that's still beating.
In the pain,
there is healing.
In Your name,
I find meaning.
That's an excerpt from a Lifehouse song called "Broken." It seems to play on repeat in my mind these days. I'm pretty good at being tough on the outside, but the inside is pretty broken right now. I'm not afraid to admit that. I'm holding on, but sometimes my grip isn't all that great. The good news is that my Father's grip is unrelenting. He hasn't let us go.
I write all of this tonight, not to sadden anyone on Christmas Eve, but to simply share that even in the midst of deep, deep pain, there is Hope. We have hope because of what we celebrate each Christmas-- the birth of the One who gives us peace, who redeems our sin, who promises us a future. I have to be honest-- I wouldn't have chosen the way the last couple of months have panned out. I wouldn't have chosen for Jason to lose his job, to have a seriously difficult and complicated pregnancy, and to lose my brother. But, I do choose to continue to follow the Lord who knew every detail of all of this ahead of time and still allowed us to endure it. I know that His love is fierce; I know that I can trust Him to give us brighter days.
"I'm holding on another day, just to see what You will throw my way. I'm holding on to what You said. You said that I will be okay."
