October: A Time to Mourn
[Part 8]
I went to sleep early on the night of October 2nd. I had been working doubles that weekend, and running!
Photo credit: Maystreet Agency, for Harpoon Brewery
At Harpoon’s Octoberfest in the Seaport, I poured a few thousand beers, then sprinted to my car, and drove out to Salem. I had just finished the training for my new seasonal gig: leading spooky tours about ghosts.
When I got home, I found Grace and Dustin at couch and table. Grace drew my attention to the empty place on the armchair, and I cozied in. We talked about Salem, swing dancing, flights, and good food. It was a deeply contented night. I left them and fell into a sweet, dreamless sleep. While I slept, God gathered my brother up from this world.
“The sleep of a laboring man is sweet, Whether he eats little or much; ”
In the morning my screen was lit up with that vague yet terrible type of message from mom- the kind that says nothing, but in the way that you know is going to make you sick. I made the choice to brush my teeth and get dressed before I let the day get ruined. So I found out at 8:30 on October the third that my brother was dead.
You can only guess how you’re going to feel when the words hit your ears; when you have process and permanently catalog them into the category of “real” and "true”.
Muscle memory set my fingers tapping out SOS to my small group. I felt kind of spiritless- like I feel when I’m iron-deficient and about to faint. Someone had to pray- and it wasn’t going to be me! I put that responsibility into my friend’s hands, then let my consciousness fall down an elevator shaft.
I turned the key and drove out to the store, because George the rabbit was counting on me for his week’s ration of cilantro and green leaf. I noticed how strange I felt, playing out the ordinary errand of grocery shopping: like my motions were being automated- like I was waiting on more shoes to drop, although both the shoes had dropped- like a truck had hit me, but not left a mark for anyone else to see.
I still looked ordinary on the outside.
George the rabbit deviates from his usual salad diet
My mom had asked us kids to come home- though to her credit, she had specified that it did not have to be immediately. My Dad had chimed in to agree: “No rush”.
Tess and I decided we would take the day, keep our evening plans with friends, and let our familiar places and routines comfort us for a minute before driving to New York in the morning. But when we called Dylan to loop him in, he answered from the train station in our hometown. He was there already. It wasn’t even noon.
With a groan apiece, Tess and I typed out some more day-ruining texts to our friends, and hastily packed to leave our city.
I stole twenty minutes in a coffee house on the way to her apartment. (How badly I would have liked the whole day! But you take what you can get.)
I wanted luxurious coffee and indulgent cake- the kind that’s so beautiful it heals you. While I was looking through the pastry case for the one that could do it, the baristo asked if he could help. He had caught me in crisis, and my inner monologue spilled out like a mess:
“These cakes are way too tiny; how can this possibly be enough cake; I don’t understand!”
I asked him at last for a slice of the pistachio and paid the girl at the till- but when I opened the box at my table, I found two slices.
When that cake guy had asked “Can I help”, evidently he had meant it. I sobbed into my latte, thinking, this guy can’t possibly know how much this cake means to me right now; thinking, how often have I seen people with seemingly little power use their power, valiantly, to bandage up the world! And then I started typing.
Do you know what I love about writing?
That it’s always hard. Forty or fifty different jobs I’ve worked, and after a few weeks, most all will lose the acuteness of their challenge. But writing never stops insisting upon all your powers- perception, perspective, organization, blood. Writing is fueled by truth; it turns you inside out. It shape-shifts your burdens into beasts of burden, and crowns you the sleigh-master.
Plus, before it’s hard, it’s easy. It’s gentle, and soothing, and protected, like the covering over a wound.
No one but God is capable as the page, of carrying what would weigh on a mind.
I typed my questions- all the what ifs and what nows. I typed my bitterness. I typed my dread. And I typed every little thing I could remember about Andrew.
If we couldn’t keep him, I could at least pin down, and permanent mark all we had shared; all I had ever known of him.
What urgency I felt, to gather his story from the four winds; to form every scrap of his departed life into my treasure!
But twenty minutes was up.
It was time to go and live in the wreckage of a family death.
I’d never had my brother die before, so I didn’t know what to expect. I figured I would go home and cook for my family- some nice, vegetarian dinners, and some awesome crepe and pancake breakfasts. I did not know that the doorbell would ring twice an hour, or that two fridges would struggle to hold the arsenal of neighbors’ tin trays.
I didn’t know how jarring it would be to arrive, and sit down with my mom and brother at table, and start immediately on the topic of body and burial.
I didn’t know how twenty-three years worth of near-forgotten relationships in a small town could suddenly bound and clamor through a kitchen: the dark side of the moon that never left the sky.
I’ve now heard it said, that in the wake of loss, there’s this shock, and numbness, so that everything happens in a blur. One of my mom’s friends suggested that the whole circus of the death ritual is designed to exhaust.
Maybe it’s helpful- so we can give the tempest of our thoughts some place practical to go. It certainly seems to be a buffer against the full and jolting impact of grief.
As for me, I’m not interested in haze, or having the edge taken from my pain. It’s mine- I’d like to feel it all.
I figure, the same torrents that come carving depths of sorrow, desire also to make way for heights of joy.
Alert, and keeping watch, I saw consistently how the good and the beautiful strode with quiet confidence, through, and over the wickedness of death.
“Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of His saints.”
“I’m striding in the presence of GOD, alive in the land of the living! I stayed faithful, though overwhelmed, and despite a ton of bad luck, Despite giving up on the human race, saying, “They’re all liars and cheats.”
I learned to believe more in the courage of people all around, as our neighbors halted from regularly scheduled programs, and lent us their lives. I saw superhero power blast through phone lines and doors into our frazzled fray.
On balance, I also heard, every once in a while, the clunking, cringey sounds of someone saying the absolute wrong thing!- the kind of careless hurtfulness you’re not sure if you’re still required to respond politely to. And, I know I lack grace, but I’ve never been one to pretend when someone is not helping.
There were those that came to my mom, for whatever reason, acting like they were sadder than she was- talk talk talking- trying to simplify and explain where they had no business presuming at all.
(No need to entertain, or give audience to ignorance, that’s my view. Of all the times not to suffer fools!)
“Do not answer fools according to their folly, lest you too become like them. Answer a fool as his foolishness deserves, So that he will not be wise in his own eyes.”
But, then again, isn’t there something almost revitalizing about a common enemy, and a shared outrage? Certainly the topic of bad manners is lighter than actual life and death. So maybe that was a gift, too!
I kept a running list of what people brought and what they did for us. That notepad filled up, top to bottom, with every ring of the bell. It was amazing. The gifts filled our tummies, and brought color and warmth and flavor and intrigue into our difficult moment. I relished all of them for that reason.
Some of my favorites were the floral arrangements from Kim and Svetlana, my college roommates. They had not coordinated with each other but had coincidentally sent my parents the exact same flowers. Everyone laughed over those- the amusement being a bonus present. My best-friend-forever’s dad called my phone- he wanted to offer cars, beds, food, beer- whatever my family could use. Tess walked down the hill with me to see him. I pillaged the fridge, sinking the deep pockets of my flannel full with beer cans. (I could have bought my own, sure, but beer from John’s kitchen has always tasted better than any other.) I sipped and let them go flat for days while I cleared out Andrew’s drawers and closet- no other drink could have been a sufficiently comforting companion for the work.
Lauren and her toddler, Jack drove up from Pittsburgh. Granny Linda and Papa John babysat so I could take Lauren to the gym with me. We climbed & pedaled & power-walked, side-by-side, talking out all the big feelings, and sweating out some of our angst. She knew I needed her without me asking. You don’t find a friend like this every lifetime.
Our cousins from California got to New York in record time. All of them. Talk about reinforcements. They were the best- sharing all the weight with us- not needing to talk or perform- just being our people, and being with us.
Andrew’s college asked if they could host a memorial service for him. What a gift. Faculty, friends, family- Andrew’s people from everywhere filled the beautiful chapel. Angels’ songs carried our heartache to God in heaven. God’s presence came down.
My Dad said, of all the places Andrew’s winding roads took him- how lucky we are, that he should have ended up here. God’s mercy was brilliant.
We didn’t have a funeral. But the homies from here to the ends of America gathered for what may as well be called Andrew’s funeral: three hours in a cold room, where rows of chairs and 8000 flowers stood before a coffin with Andrew’s body inside. I sat next to Linda and Lauren and Joe and asked them to pray for the room- it was sickly sad in there.
We greeted so many people- many that I’d never met… many that I knew from one time, or always. There were school teachers and student athletes and park rangers.. everyone and their mother… literally. Some that were there were a huge surprise.
At the end of a forever of nerves and waiting, finally I spoke, and Dylan spoke, and Tess spoke, each in turn. By rights, we were the ones who got to tell the story of our brother. We told it tearful, and beautiful and true.
And then it was over.
I snatched the wreath of flowers from its stand (the one from Tess’ best friends, our neighbors), and we went home- to eat chicken piccata and a dozen thanksgiving dishes. I hung the flower wreath on our front door, so the neighborhood would see it in the light of tomorrow. Taylor opened a beer for me, and we all ate: till every chair in every room in the house had an empty paper plate, mug or wine glass beside it.
And what was left to do now?
The pans got emptied, the people trickled out, and my mom’s friends attacked the counters for cleanup. In the morning, I had a chicken piccata breakfast, and sat in the yard, listening for a long time to the sound of God being near.
“The LORD is close to the brokenhearted; he rescues those whose spirits are crushed.”
Days and days ago, on the night of October the third, I had gone to sleep in Andrew’s bed. (His room used to be my room, after all- and even after dad painted over my watermelon walls, he still called it ‘Emily’s room’.) I remember I was too tired to pray, and felt more than welcome not to!- I felt the prayers of my friends literally surrounding the house- they were doing the heavy lifting. I was meant to just receive God’s peace.
“Peace I leave with you, My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”
The next day, I would write to Kim,
“Grief is so different.
It’s like hahah ok well I’m alive let’s eat something. Ahh GUT PUNCH, my brother’s dead and will be dead the whole rest of my life.
…just like cycling every ten minutes like that.”
The weight of trying to account for and hold those maybe unlimited tomorrows without my friend in the world… that was some weight.
But Jesus has specifically instructed us not to carry the weight of tomorrow inside of today. He said, “Don’t you worry about tomorrow- let tomorrow worry about itself. Today has enough trouble of its own”, (Matthew 6:34)
With anticipation, I started to wonder if there might even be fewer tomorrows without Andrew then I was tempted to think… who knew that Jesus would not come back breathtakingly soon?
Soon is his exact promise, after all! (Revelation 22:7)
Back in Boston, Tess and I could start the next edition of our grieving- the part where we had space, and independence, and our support networks around us. The part where we could stretch out, and be our fuller selves again. We breathed some big sighs of relief.
And now, how to process all this?
I hadn’t even got partway through processing what had gone wrong with my ex-ship! But WOW was I extra glad not to be on that ship now! - to have time and space to be wrecked.
Haley and Marcy had given me the gift of their wisdom, to help me navigate the unfamiliar waters of grief.
Haley had prepared me: “It starts with shock. Lots of different feelings will wave over you. Take them all in as they are and digest later.”
And Marcy permitted me: “Feel the feels. When triggers come, don’t try to stop the tears- let yourself cry. Trust that eventually, God will lift you back up, and you’ll go on living.”
(I obeyed Marcy’s instruction religiously of course. And do you know what I found made me cry a lot? Eating breakfast. And lunch. And dinner! Andrew loved breakfast, lunch and dinner! Every time I had something delicious I thought, Andrew would think this was delicious, too! Do you know, that if you cry alone out over your meals, you might not get charged for your drinks?! Sometimes, people are the best.)
At church on Sundays, I’d go to stand by myself, and just cry silently through the worship. My friends would quietly pick up their things, and shift over, till I felt myself surrounded by their faithful presence.
At social events, and even just hanging out, I felt myself operating on low-battery. But it was just wonderful the way my friends knew how to look after me, and fill in the gaps.
Like when Jason invited me to his birthday- a hike in New Hampshire. I went without bothering to get dressed. And when I realized I needed to bow out early, Xindi and Jason held up the whole party, so that everyone together could pray over me. They sent me on my way, full of blessing.
In September, when I had come limping from the ship, Elijah asked,
“What has God shown you through this?”
One of the things I told him was how God doesn't let things get wasted.
In my haste to clear out of my cabin, it seems that I left behind a whole shelf’s worth of cargo: contact lenses, hair product, and even my electric toothbrush- expensive things!
I felt so awful and so foolish for letting those precious commodities be lost. I mentioned them in prayers to God, again and again, for weeks. While He comforted me with reminders of my identity, and of His purpose that would always stand, I could not let those contact lenses go. I kept crying for them.
“What about those things? What about that waste?”
But God said,
“The way you can’t forget about those pieces of plastic? That is how I care about my treasured people, and my beautiful creation. I care so much more! You can only guess.”
The Lord showed me that He cares; that He is faithful and able.
He is not one to let good things go to waste.
So among a thousand comforts he provided in my grieving for my brother’s life, one of them was this.
God had not overlooked Andrew’s struggles, nor his joys, nor our prayers, nor our efforts to love him with all we had! His beautiful life had not, by any means or measure, been wasted. God counted it all. God had made up all the difference.
His beloved Andrew was with him now: whole, well, redeemed and glorious!
And the love that had marked all his life? Well that is still rippling out into this world, at this very hour.
“Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.”
