The Weight of Absence

My big brother is gone.

I think the finality of his absence started to hit me at the cemetery, where I was sitting mere feet away from his casket. Immediately after the graveside service, I stood up, started sobbing, and tried to walk to an empty area just past the crowd. Before I could get there, one of my uncles reached me and held me as several friends and family drew close to comfort me. It was the most vulnerable I’ve been during this time and I was grateful to have had people who love me catch me as I fell apart. 

One of the most tender memories I have of the funeral is that of my brother’s oldest friend. He found me in the midst of my undoing, wrapped me in a bear hug, and spoke words of comfort. He gave me permission to let go, to know that I’d done my best to be strong and care for everyone else, but now it was time to tend to my own grief. Those words were exactly what I needed to hear in that moment, and I’m holding onto them now. While I’ve been making room for and feeling the weight of the grief of others, there hasn’t been time or space for me to figure out what is mine and what I’m holding for someone else. Until now.

The din of the days at Jason’s hospital bedside quickly transitioned to the bustle of planning a funeral, but now it’s starting to get quieter and thoughts of him are coming more frequently. In the short time that he’s been gone, I’ve already learned that the “what ifs” and “should haves” are dangerous. I found myself lured onto the path of what-might-have-been and quickly felt that I was dishonoring his memory, denying the importance of what was by wishing it had been different. I’ve decided that I will not rend thoughts of our time together in search of missed opportunities and alternate endings. I am choosing to be present in the now while honoring what was. I’ve been holding in tension the predictable sadness created by his absence with the peace of knowing he’s no longer suffering and that he’s finally free of everything this broken world threw at him. While those thoughts ease the pain, they don’t erase it.

I’m trying to wrap my head and heart around the reality of what my life is without him. No longer gifted with his presence, I’m left feeling the weight of his absence. I’m carrying his memory, which is hard and heavy. Maybe that’s because thoughts of him bring so much sadness right now. While I recall so many moments with him that are lovely and good, I think the heartbreak comes from knowing there is now a finite number of those moments. All of our memories together have been made. Heavy is the knowledge that there will never again be calls to remind me that the Cowboys are playing, nor will I experience the annual annoyance of sharing our birthdays. I’m sure that, when December calls this year, I’ll covet an opportunity to feel overshadowed by him once more. Hard is missing his sweet, gentle personality, his boundless confidence in me, and his unshakable faith. Add to that the loss of his endearing sense of humor and infectious laugh, and that pain becomes something of a feral beast, tearing away at the thin veil that is holding me together.

I’m well-acquainted with pain, which comes as no surprise given the things I’ve lived through. Through my extensive familiarity with pain, I have developed an unusual view: pain is sacred. It may not make sense at first blush, but it has been in my moments of deepest pain where God has met me most significantly and most intimately. A quick survey of the Bible proves this experience is not unique to me. People often see God at work most visibly in their deepest valleys rather than than on their highest mountaintops. Valleys are where we really get to know ourselves and God. Valleys are where we learn to trust, to lean in, to let go, and to dare to expect the extraordinary. Valleys are the place for miracles. The miracle in this valley is going through a loss like I’ve never experienced before and not having my heart and soul crushed, but instead, finding purpose in this pain.

Pain is transformative. It changes us to be sure, but we make the decision about which direction it takes us. We can let it make us harder, bitter, and more guarded. In some cases, people would even understand if we let it take us down that road. But, I think of my brother and I know that’s not what he would want for me. I know that Jason would want thoughts of his life and his death to remind me to be grateful for what once was and what remains rather than to be grief-stricken over what is now missing. He’d want me to choose the harder path of letting the pain do its work of refining me, making me more sensitive to the pain of others, making me more aware of the often-silent presence of God. This is the direction in which I choose to move forward with his memory. I can think of no greater way to honor my brother’s life and legacy than to carry well the weight of his absence and allow the pain to sculpt me into someone who lives and loves more like Jesus.

Until next time,