Right after Blake died, someone gave me a book on grief. It said that there would come a time when I would go 24 hours without thinking of him. I'm convinced that the author had never lost a loved one. I might have gone 24 minutes a few times, but even that is rare.
If it's after dark and the home phone rings, I panic and usually make Adam answer it.
A young boy at HEB yesterday looked at Luke, who was hanging out in the Baby Bjorn while I picked out avocados, and told me he was a handsome little guy. I said thanks and looked at his name tag. It said BLAKE. I cried, right there in the produce.
I get so angry when I hear people complain about their siblings. I work with a girl who complains about her sister all the time. I want to yell and scream and tell her to be thankful. Because that's the one person in this world who came from the same stuff you came from. And if she were gone, you'd feel pretty damn lonely.
I look at Luke and wonder how a person survives after losing a child. I'm not sure that I would. And it gives me a whole new sadness for my parents.
Adam has always fixed everything. When I'm in trouble, he comes to my rescue. If I'm overwhelmed, he takes care of me. But he cannot even understand this, much less fix it. And that's been a hard lesson to learn.
Luke looks like my brother did when he was a baby. I hate to say that out loud because I'm afraid people will think I'm crazy or weird or super nostalgic or something. I'm not. I'm just telling the truth. If Blake were here, no one would think that was weird, but I feel like I have to be hush hush about it because Blake is not here. And all of that makes me a little cranky.
When I hear the word suicide, I think I need to throw up. No matter what the context.
Who coined the term good grief? It's stupid.
I love the Lord. I declare that God is good. I know that He is sovereign and holy and mighty and here. I stand on the promise that in quietness and trust I will find my strength (Isaiah 30:15). But I really really miss my little brother.