brother, jackson, jacob, kids

Beautiful and heartbreaking

I feel compelled to describe a moment that has, at least momentarily, brought so much meaning to my life in this trying and tiresome time.

Jackson made something at school. It was in a brown paper bag, emblazoned with glittery stickers, and he was really excited about it. As soon as he climbed into the car, he told me that he had a present. For Jacob! He couldn’t wait to pick his brother up from school and have him open it up.

Inside, Jacob pulls out a clear ball ornament on which Jackson has made a white-painted handprint, and turned each finger into a snowman with markers. Jacob smiles sweetly and tells his brother how wonderful this ornament is. “I made the snowmans all by myself!” Jackson proclaims.

“Are you sure you don’t want to give this to mommy?” Jacob asks.

“No. I made it for you because you’re the best brother.”

My heart swelling with pride and affection I watch as this love-fest continues; Jacob praising Jackson’s artistic talent, and Jackson telling Jacob how much he deserves the gift. It’s really cute, and I am reflecting on the fact that I get to enjoy this ornament on my own Christmas tree, with its darling little finger-prints, as Jacob decides he will place it on said tree so we can al enjoy it.

He takes a couple of steps and something happens. The ornament slips from his hand and explodes on the brick floor, turning almost to dust in an instant. Jacob immediately starts wailing with sadness and anger. Jackson freezes, looks at the broken glass and his crying brother, and runs up the stairs in tears. I hear anguished sobs coming from the direction of his room. My heart breaks for each of them at the same time. Oh and the ornament. It’s destroyed. Three tiny pieces remain on which you can see the hand drawn faces of the “snowmans.”

I take Jacob into my arms, but he cannot be consoled. “I am the worst brother!” He yelps. “I don’t deserve to be given nice things! He made this for me! Out of love! And I BROKE IT!” He cries until his face is bright red, veins protruding from either side of his neck, so much like his father when he is angry. I call Jackson down and ask him why he is crying. Is it because the ornament is broken? “No!” He cries, followed by an unintelligible cluster of words. “What?” I ask.

“I’m. Sad. Because I. Have emotions. For other people!” He spits out, sad and frustrated. This is the big reveal. He’s not sad that the ornament is broken, his work gone and his kind gesture spread in pieces on the floor. He is simply sad because his brother is sad and cannot be consoled. His brother is sad and he can’t make him feel better, can’t do anything about it. All he wants from life right now is for Jacob not to be sad.

“I’ll stay at school as late as I have to and make you another one!” He promises.

I sit with Jacob. I explain to him that his brother isn’t disappointed in him, or angry that he dropped the gift, just experiencing empathy in a beautiful and pure way. His description of empathy is perfect for a five-year-old: he has emotions for other people, and right now, he feels the sadness and anger that Jacob is experiencing, and he wants to make it better. I tell him that the reason the ornament was special wasn’t because the object itself was special; it was made special by the love of the maker for him. The ornament is just a thing, just a symbol of the love that made you view it as precious. The love of a little boy for his big brother. And that little boy is crying quietly over there, so badly wanting you to be okay, and I think what he needs is for you to sit with him, and tell him that everything will be alright, whether or not you feel that way right now.

Because it will be, of course. Jackson is still here, he can still take his little hand and coat it in white paint and make another set of snowmans. And even if that one was to break, we have our memory of it, and the knowledge of that love and excitement, and that is what really matters. We still have that, and always will.

I would be lying if I said that I didn’t think wistfully of my own brother, or my sister-in-law, and the things I wish I had, from them, to hold on to. Sometimes things are all you have left that are tangible, and that makes them precious. You feel the need to touch and hold something to reassure yourself that it is real. As I swept up the tiny shards of glass I thought about that compulsion to hold something in one’s hand and feel reassured by the solid physicality of it. How unnecessary that is, when all that matters can be felt and remembered, even if no part of it can be seen or felt.

We have, inside of us all, the mementos and treasures of a million special moments. With this story, I have added one more.

The next day at school pickup, Jackson came to the car with another brown bag. This one had two ornaments he had made that day. I hung one on the tree and tucked the other away for safekeeping. Apparently I don’t trust the faulty computer hard drive of my memory. I just want to know that, if I need to, I can hold that ornament in my hand and remember the beauty of this moment in time. I don’t need the thing, but I want it just the same.

brother, death, faith, loss

So it turns out I’m not okay

I have stayed away from social media for so long, only dipping my toe into it to post pictures of my kids for my family to see. I was tired of the memories it brought up. The jealousy. Now, it’s mid-January, and I can feel it pulling at me. The date of your death is approaching, and I am powerless in the face of it. My brain tugs memories to the forefront that I try to stuff away. I see it in flashes; scenes that would be meaningless to anyone but me. The missed calls on my phone. A car cover slung hastily over the gate to hide the view behind it. The grass in front of the funeral home. I’ll be fine, for months. I will talk about it and I won’t cry. I’ll be rational and matter-of-fact until some little detail hits me. A sight might ping in some deep recess of my mind and shake loose that sense of foreboding. I know they are coming for me, the memories. Maybe I stuff it down harder and walk on, or maybe the dam breaks. It feels as fresh as though it happened yesterday. It is time travel and I am the unwilling passenger. I plead and bargain with my brain not to do it, not to make me look at this gallery of horror. Half open eyes, still and dull. Untied shoes I’ve never seen before. The card in his wallet that I gave him.

I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

‭‭Jeremiah‬ ‭29:11‬ ‭

“Well that’s just bullshit” my mom says. His plans were bullshit.”

They weren’t, but I am not going to argue with her. Not now.

The sound of your blood being scrubbed off of the concrete through the open bathroom window by the hands of my husband and your best friend. They loved you, and they love us, and now they are trying to protect us by taking away this last trace of your death.

I know this wasn’t what you wanted. You know how desperately I prayed for another outcome. But here we are, for better or for worse. You, in paradise, and me here on earth, missing you, trying to console our parents, attempting to experience joy that is not tied to guilt, and occasionally seeing slivers of hell open up and threaten to consume me. I don’t want this, but this is my life. This is what you left behind when you went on. The memories, of sights and sounds and experiences I never should have had. How did I survive them? Touching your neck, the feel of it, icy cold and disgusting; like nothing I could have imagined. The sound of our father wailing in pain and anger. The inhuman sounds that left our mother’s lips as the coroner told us that you had, in fact, died under their bedroom window. The decisions I never thought I would have to make. The wedding I will never attend. The babies I will never hold.

I am angry at no one and everyone. I am at peace one moment and full of rage the next. I am functioning, I am doing the best I can, I am not okay. Will I ever be?