- a shout out to bobby -

I think it's cruel that I have lost two siblings at such young ages. They always say, "Lightning doesn't strike the same place twice." I could debate that to high heaven...but I won't waste energy on things I can't change about the past. So let's stick to the present. What I have learned is that grieving for a recently deceased sibling inevitably stirs up repressed grief for others who have passed on. It's almost as if grief, ANY grief, doesn't ever truly go away - it only sits and marinates in the depths of our souls. We never forget or completely heal. A month before Robyn's death, I wrote a short piece about our brother, Bobby, who passed away when I was eleven years old. Before starting this blog, it was the last thing I wrote creatively. It was such a painful story to write but something I felt I needed to do. I don't recall really grieving for my brother as a child. I was young, confused and didn't know exactly what grieving entailed. His death was something that always tormented me throughout my teenage years. In honesty, it still does. I remember finally finishing the piece and being so excited to share it with Robyn as I shared all my writing with her. But I never got the chance to. I'm a perfectionist, and I just couldn't send it to her until I knew it was flawless. She passed away while it was still in the revision stage. I should have sent it, as raw and imperfect as it was. I'm compelled to share it now. Better late than never.

Peace

I wasn’t there the night of the accident. I never knew exactly where it happened or what caused it.  I guess as a ten year old kid, logistics and hard facts didn’t matter to me. I do remember eating cereal at the kitchen table when the phone rang too early that Saturday morning. Dad lifted the receiver to his ear and said “hello” with a sort of hesitance, almost as if he knew there was going to be bad news on the other end of the line. He listened silently, all color drained from his face; he closed his eyes and lowered his head, then with a rage I could not comprehend at the time, my gentle father who never so much as raised his voice slammed his fist down on the countertop so hard that the entire house shook with fear.

What he heard: My oldest brother had been in an accident. About 3 in the morning, they suspected. His car ran off the highway and into a field somewhere in Leavenworth County. The car flipped at least 4 times. He wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. He was ejected through the rear windshield. He had extensive head injuries and was on life support. Come quickly.

What I heard: My heart pounding in my ears. The deafening BOOM of my dad’s fist striking wood. Dad saying in a hurried whisper ,“Stay here and wait for your mom to pick you up.” The door latching behind him. The slow sputtering then frantic roar of the engine on his old ’67 Impala. The screeching of tires as he peeled out of the driveway. The ticking of the clock.

Silence…

I sat on the swing for several hours waiting for my mom to arrive. I was unaware of the gravity of the situation, but instinctively, I felt compelled to hold vigil. With eyes closed, I said decades upon decades of the Rosary. I recited every prayer I knew, with precision, in hopes that if I said them perfectly, God might listen. I whispered “please, please, please, please” as my swing went forward, back, forward, back. Like a bird, I sang my favorite hymn into the air as an offering…

“You who dwell in the shelter of the Lord, who abide in His shadow for life, say to the Lord: ‘My refuge, my rock in whom I trust’. And He will raise you up on eagle’s wings, bear you on the breath of dawn, make you to shine like the sun, and hold you in the palm of his hand.”

As a young girl raised in the Catholic church, I had extreme faith in the power of prayer…
But sometimes, no matter how hard we pray, God just doesn’t answer.
My brother was in a vegetative coma for eight months.
We watched as he slowly withered away.
He died in December, 1987.
He was 20 years young.

It broke my heart.

I’ve always avoided driving down K-7 Highway. Growing up, the very thought of that particular stretch of road where my brother met his demise sent chills down my spine. Last fall, I was assigned a student teaching position at Leavenworth High School. I mapped out my route to school, desperately looking for back roads off the beaten path. They existed, but I couldn’t justify turning a 20 minute commute into an hour long venture through the country. It was time to quit hiding under the covers, to throw open the closet door and finally face the monster I had been hiding from for twenty-four years; the monster that had taken my brother’s life.

On the first day of school, I was up before dawn so that I could get an early start. I stopped at the little gas station down the street from my house for a cup of coffee. My radio was blaring. The window was down. I nervously smoked a cigarette as I headed west down Parallel Pkwy to the K-7 junction. I took a right and started making my way north toward Leavenworth County. There were no streetlights, which made the expanse of road ahead of me look extremely dark. There were trees scattered here and there, a few farmhouses, and acres upon acres of fields. In the distance I could make out the shapes of several old barns and a water tower. I started counting fence posts to occupy myself…but the battle in my mind had already begun.

My mind seemed fixated. My eyes couldn’t help but dart back and forth, searching for the site where my brother wrecked. Was it this field? Was it that embankment? Or was it here, where this tree is dead and mangled and a section of fence is missing? Where, where, where did it happen? Would I, through some divine insight, be shown the path his car took as it crashed repeatedly against the earth? Would I sense his spirit, still lingering there in the spot where his broken body had landed? I felt anxious, like something was crouching in the darkness preparing to pounce on me. A rush of panic came over me and I became increasingly scared. And then, to the east, the sun started to rise.

I pulled my car over to embrace the dawn unfolding before me. Beyond a stretch of tall grass was a pond, heavy with early morning fog. The fog seemed to dance in the air, dissipating as it rose into the sky. With each moment, the sun appeared larger and more magnificent as it peaked over the horizon. A small flock of birds glided up gracefully from the grassy field. I watched in awe as they skimmed over the pond and into the sky until they disappeared beyond the trees. All was silent and hushed. I suddenly felt at ease. It was as if God planned this moment just for me because He knew how desperately I needed it. I felt His hand on my shoulder and His love fill my heart. There was nothing lurking in the darkness for me to be afraid of. There was never anything there but peace. God showed me that.

I wasn’t there the night of the accident. I never knew exactly where it happened or what caused it. I guess as a 34 year old woman who found peace with God and trusts in His divine order, logistics and hard facts don’t matter to me.

I wasn’t there…but God was.
I find great comfort in knowing that.

 “He will raise you up on eagle’s wings, bear you on the breath of dawn, make you to shine like the sun, and hold you in the palm of His hand.”

SCW April2011