Have you ever trenched through the valley and thought, you know what, no! It is NOT well with my soul?
Sometimes (most times) I still find myself overcoming the anger that boils inside. I want so badly to reconcile the intensity of my emotions with peace and faith. Being totally transparent, I’ve struggled. Quietly, but so greatly with my faith in God the moment I learned my brother left this earth. The hell of surviving suicide tends to shake the ground you walk on. I questioned God’s goodness. I questioned God’s existence. I questioned heaven and hell and I questioned the significance of life. Suicide changed me.
I grieve EVERY SINGLE GOOD MEMORY. Because even those became tainted. I rethink every smile I saw, every laugh I heard. Doubts surrounding his happiness in any given moment present themselves as a new piece of the pottery laid broken at my feet.
Roman’s 8:28 God Promises to make something Good out of the storms that bring devastation to your life.
BUT HOW?? What good is born of loss?
In this very moment, there is nothing.
I wish I had faith so strong, that it withstood the shadows of death and still sent Satan trembling away.
Hell, I wish for a great many things.
I’m human. With human thoughts and human pain. The best my brain can understand is still within the scope of the human perspective. Currently, that perspective is dark. My memory is branded by the feel of my brothers cold hardened hands laying in the casket covered in white gloves from his uniform. I cannot erase the very present memory of his hair being the only thing that felt real. alive. HIM.
(After that sentence, I paused writing for nearly 4.5 months.)
My emotions were intense. They developed from a broken place hidden within the shadow of death. Today, I am brought back to the wreckage.
On this day, exactly one year ago, I talked to my brother for the last time. Around 3:30 (via text). He was helping his estranged wife pack the last few things she wanted to keep from their marriage. The finality of his family leaving became the last crushing stone his tender heart would ever endure. Late that night, alone, he returned home. . . to glory.
And what he left behind is nothing compared to what he inherited. Without the hope of heaven, there is surely no way to live in the shadow of death. I know my brother knew the Lord and The Lord knew my brother. For me, the single strand of joy that stretches itself between desparity and this life is a hope for more than what this life has to offer.