Twenty-Four Hours Later

What is wrong with you?  How can you say that you feel peace less than twenty-four hours after your brother shot himself?

I know where my brother is, and it’s a much better place than he was in before.  He is free—free from worry, free from stress, free from an un-healthy relationship, free from the physical pain that he felt pretty much daily.  God has given me peace.  It’s certainly not something I would find on my own right now.  I’m having trouble finding my way out of bed each morning.  If breathing were not involuntary, I’d be having trouble breathing right now.  As it is, it physically hurts to breathe.

Having found peace does not mean that I don’t miss my brother unbearably.  It just means that I accept what happened.  I don’t agree with his choice, and I never will.  I am angered that he chose his course of actions despite knowing how I feel about suicide.  He’s experienced suicide from the survivor perspective, so I would have thought he’d remember the pain well enough not to choose to put others through it—especially the young man his heart called son, the young man whose heart called him dad.  I, too, have experienced suicide from the survivor perspective—twice before, and a third time now.  I’ve felt the anger and the guilt.  What could I have done to stop it?!  Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  I think in some ways, the guilt is even worse this time.   I’m the big sister.  I’m supposed to take care of my little brother and sister.  What difference does it make if they are in their forties?!  But I understand, too, the desperation of feeling trapped in a situation that is bigger than you can handle, something that seems to have no way out.  I understand what it feels like to have that demon sitting on your shoulder, whispering that it’s never going to get any better, so you might as well kill yourself.  I know what it feels like to be so desperate that you pray to God to just let you die.  I’ve felt that anger at God for not listening and letting me die.  I hate that he felt his only way out was death.  I wish I had known it was that bad for him.  I wish he had asked for help, a place to stay, anything.  I wish he was here—for me, for my parents, for my sister, for my children, for the son of his heart—but he’s not, and as much as that tears me up inside, I have peace regarding his decision.  I know that Heaven is beyond anything I can fathom, and I could never ask him to give that up and come back to his desperate situation.  My heart rejoices that he is free.  But my heart is also shattered—like a cheap, glass Christmas ornament—the kind that has such tiny shards that there’s no way it could ever be glued back together.  (It’s a good thing God doesn’t work at repairing hearts.  He’s in the business of regenerating hearts).  I am devastated, but I am held together, knowing that his loving Father in Heaven has gathered him into His arms and collected his tears in an alabaster jar, recognizing them as the jewels that they are, adding the tears that I cry now—even the ones that I cannot cry—to them.  I can see him smile as he rests in the arms of God, his heart once again made whole.

I love him enough to let go.  It hurts like Hell, but I release my pain, so that God can make it into something beautiful.  I know that God will work good out of this.  Maybe my brother’s death can stop someone else who is on the verge of suicide.  Maybe my students who have attempted suicide or are considering it will see how it has hurt my family and choose to wait it out.  Maybe my own children will see how painful this was and decide to keep on just one more day.  Maybe all this will do is make me stronger, so that I can survive the next tragedy—although at this point in time, I can’t imagine going through anything worse than this.  Whatever it is, I know that God will carry me through it.

I hurt more than I ever knew was possible, but my brother is free.  Knowing this, brings me great comfort.