And You Leave

I pull up Google.  Type in "Jordan Lee Isenhour."  I see the search results.  The pictures of his face from the obit.  Trying to convince myself this is real, I let a tear or two fall out of my left eye.  But then they stop falling.  There is some wall--a dam that holds them back until they create real pressure behind my eyeballs, and my nose, and forehead.  My throat burns--with that frustration and anger at something unchangeable.  Is this denial?  It feels like it.  But then someone in denial can't know what denial feels like. 

This is shock. 

Feeling lost, I put a "tear-jerker" on Spotify.  Today it is "Cathedrals" by Jump the Little Children.  I don't even know what the words mean.  But that doesn't matter.

At least fingers can type words when tears won't flow.

This isn't much.  But in a way it's more than enough.

You know that grief that makes your body feel defeat?  Yeah, that kind.  It weighs down the whole person.

I miss you. 

For a while I thought I would be ok.  I thought I was ready to still hurt every now and then, but that I could go on with a level of normal.

How stupid.

I'm not normal. 

Where are you right now?  What are you doing?  Please come over so we can watch dumb TV shows.  You were supposed to come visit me.  Before Brooke.  Before we moved.  We were going to go to the beach and sit on towel and talk.  And I was going to take you to get a blue coconut raspa from that Mexican restaurant that only takes cash. 

This isn't like a break-up.  This isn't like when a best friend moves away.  It isn't like being ill in a crippling way.

This is like a soul painted in a coat of tar.

This doesn't make sense any more.

But I miss you.  That's all that comes out.  And tonight I don't want to go to bed.  I will lie awake in the dark feeling haunted by your memory.

Somehow I knew that you would cause me some kind of impossible pain.

You did.

I forgive you, I think.

The only real solution: come back.

Close my eyes and place a small flower on your grave.  Sit down on the grassy caved-in earth.  Fall over and take a nap there.

Goodnight, brother.

Happy Four Years, Love

I didn't get Austin Miller a card. We had *agreed* to not get each other ANYTHING, but someone broke our agreement and spent a lot of money, so I can't exactly go out and get a gift at this point.  This is the best I can do:

I love all your quirks, habits, and hobbies. You've taught yourself to knit, pick locks, wear a baby, and to do countless other things that I watch you do in amazement.

Even though messes make me crazy, I treasure seeing the piles of stuff you leave around the house because you're creative and smart and it means I'm not living alone.

You've held me while I cry--hundreds of times--and let me fall asleep on your chest while you stroked my hair during the worst week of my life.  You massaged me and soothed me during the horrific pains of labor and cried when our baby was born.

You're quiet to the world, but talk so much at home. I get to enjoy the "real you." Just me. No one else.

You traveled around the world and stored up special gifts for me before we even met.  You've (literally) washed my feet with water and forgiven me for things for which I don't deserve forgiveness.

You faithfully take out the trash, change diapers, clean the juicer after each use, and never complain when I ask you to clean the shower drain so that I won't barf.

You massage me at night and when anxiety sets in. You've saved me from so many panic attacks.

You've driven me to the hospital and doctor more times than I can count, and have stayed up all hours of the night to help find a cures for my ailments.  You made me feel beautiful when I had to walk with a cane and felt like a broken spectacle of a human.

You held my hand and didn't leave my side even once during Jordan's funeral and viewing.

You've never complained about going to the store for my "feminine" needs and will even bring home additional surprises to cheer me "just because."

You're patient with me and so gentle.  You never raise your voice and always build me up.

I like to hear you sing in the shower and even when you do it out in the condo hallways.

I love that you hate sports, but will still wear a Cubs cap (with a Marc Jacobs t-shirt, Luchese boots, a UTMB class ring, silver necklace, J Crew jeans, a Louis Vuitton wallet, and Terre de Hermes cologne).

I love your obsession with kombucha and the making of craft beer.

It used to drive me crazy that you had to research anything and everything before putting a plan into action.  But now I appreciate it and find your extra careful self to be super valuable.

Thank you for unclogging the kitchen sink and cleaning up the mess created by my stupidity, thus preventing me the further embarrassment of having to admit what I did to our landlord (yes, I poured bacon grease down the sink..)

Thank you for that in-love look I get to witness every day when you look at Brooke.

You honor the elderly and attract them everywhere.  I think they can sense your beautiful soul.

You've helped bring healing to children in Guatemala and Christ to people in Uruguay.

You're so kind and respectful to my family as well, and have often been a peace maker.

You have poured so much into medical school. You're persistent and faithful, and you provide for us well. I never fear going hungry or having a roof over my head.

I love you and admire you.  You are my best of best friends--mi alma gemela.

With the deepest love possible!

~Me ❤

Raw

This will be simple. I think.

It's been, what? Two years since my last post? Who knows!

So much has happened during this time. I don't know why I quit blogging when I did, but a nail was put in that coffin when my baby brother died. Yep. The mother of all train stoppers in my life.

The tone of my blogging might be different now. I'm not sure. You be the judge.

I've never been so good at keeping up a blog. But a Facebook page? Now THAT I can do. Ha.

The Lord is good. I guess that's all that really matters.  Simultaneously coexisting with that is my anger. I am angry. (And how did I not mention that I'm a mom now??).

Oh, but the anger. In July it will have been two years since the anger inducing occurrence that forever changed my family and  rattled my core beliefs. My faith. All of it.

I wasn't mad. Not for the whole first year or so. But now? Now I am livid. I can't explain it. And I have friends who tell me to trust The Lord. Well I've done that, people. And let me tell you..trusting Him does not mean painlessness. I know I am to trust Him. I know that's what he requires. But you..you who dole out advice to the grieving..have you grieved? I don't mean over your great Aunt Sally that you saw once every two years. I mean have you lost your mother, father, brother, sister, spouse, or (GOD FORBID) your child?

No. No, you haven't.

And I am not bitter at you for this. I mean for you telling me how to think and feel. You simply cannot know any better. You just can't.

And I must ask, was your loss sudden? Unexpected? Difficult to explain? Mine is.

I have lost so much more than my brother. I have lost my parents. They buried parts of themselves with their son. It is a fact that no parent can deny.

And I feel fear. My maternal grandmother buried her youngest (my mom's youngest sister) who was 21 (right, mom?). I was 7 at the time. I remember scenes of it. The news. The funeral. The crying. Her ashen body in the casket and silken blackish hair. And that scarf around her neck.

Fast forward about 20 years. My mom buries her only son at the age of 22.

Call me irrational, but I cling to my child. I look up at God with anger and fear--and RAGE--and beg him..sometimes TELL him.."DO NOT TAKE MINE!"

But she is His. And I am His.

Why do I fear?

Well..

So perhaps this post isn't so simple. Writing these thoughts to you, dear reader, is a therapy for me. Do not follow me if you are unprepared for raw. For REAL. I won't sugar coat. At least not always. Or not usually. You'll see for yourself.

This is real life. This is not your materialistic fluffy blog.

I will try to honor Christ. Yes, I will try.

Pray for me.

This anger. It permeates all parts of my otherwise beautiful, whole, poetic life. It is a blessed life. An abundant life. But the purging is necessary. Lord, purge my wrath.

Selah.