The very idea may seem ridiculous, even offensive to some people. However, prophets can be cited as examples of powerful spiritual personalities who have held a temporary resentment toward GOD for the judgments HE brought down because of the sins and evils committed by HIS chosen people. The punishments often seemed worse than the crime, in their eyes. Truly, forgiving GOD is never necessary, and yet…I have occasionally held some residue, deep inside, a secret resentment, even disappointment toward GOD for the situations I found myself in throughout my life.

The suffering of the innocent would grind my gears.

For example, I was so angry when I lost my Soror, lawyer to be, sister friend to AIDS. How could GOD not rescue her or prevent evil from happening to her? I was angry with GOD because in 1989 he allowed me to bare witness to a stranger’s suicide. I stood as he jumped from the bridge to his death because brain cancer destroyed his beautiful forensic mind.

I tried to stop him but couldn’t and held myself personally responsible for my inability to physically stop the jumper. I was angry with GOD for years because I thought I’ve been dealt a bad hand. I thought it unfair that I was childless and unmarried. I am after all a good daughter, sister, cousin, niece, friend, neighbor, and Godmother. I have no vices to speak of. I am not unlike those who live the fairytale and find happily ever after. I am no menace to society. I have played by the rules of a civilized society. I am educated because the principle goal of education is to create individuals who are capable of doing new things, not simply of repeating what other generations have done, people who are creative, inventive discoverers.

So why has GOD denied me? I was angry with GOD because why would HE allow me to meet and grow to love the wrong person for all the right reasons yet again. How could HE allow me to unwittingly discover the man who is undoubtedly my music from another room and not allow me to dance with him forever?

I resented GOD because HE not only took my Mother too soon but HE took her before I could apologize to her. Four years ago when I lost my Mother to lupus we were distant. Let me quantify that, being distant for us meant we spoke once a day instead of three to four times a day. My Mother & I were very close my entire life but there was distance at her time of death because the four months leading up to her death I got engaged to someone that she thought was no good for me.

I didn’t see it but as always she was right. Before she died I knew she was right but I was too proud to say I was wrong.

We argued that October 2011 and never spoke of it. Like it never happened. I still called. We talked for three hours the night before she died but I didn’t go home as often because I was mad. Not apologizing or making amends left me with tremendous guilt when she died, it’s my worst regret, my greatest shame. I blamed myself and I was angry with GOD for robbing me of the chance to fix it.

I bet we are absolutely pissed off with God far more than we would like to admit.

While it may seem irrational and illogical to blame GOD for choosing the wrong partner, accepting an unfulfilling career, or living financially beyond your means, many of us do just that. We blame GOD. I held GOD responsible for my Mother’s death, my Soror’s suffering, my poor choices, my stubbornness, my hardspots, and my singleness. Who am I to forgive GOD for not preventing all the horrible things that have happened to me and to the world?

I’m human. But in my humanness I’ve discovered that my deeper healing will only come when I admit to myself that I am angry and accept that it’s okay to be the same. Only then can I truly appreciate that GOD allowed me to witness the stranger’s suicide so I could appreciate life and know permanent solutions are not the answer to temporary problems. HE took my Soror and Mother because he needed them more and recognized the lessons I learned in the wake of their deaths were necessary for my continued growth.

I discovered that nothing is promised so you’ve got to fix things, tell people how you feel, let them know that they matter.

Everything I held a grudge against GOD for was just not and is not in HIS plan for me. I suspect GOD brings people to my life so that I can stand in the gap for them. When GOD has us unwittingly intercede for one another, our chief purpose is to fill in those gaps in one another’s spiritual armor and hold up that person so the enemy can’t gain an advantage over them.

Likewise, when we fail to intercede for one another, we’re virtually giving the key to that person’s spiritual house to his/her enemies for them to wreak havoc, to steal that person’s peace or joy. Just as we wouldn’t build a brick wall and intentionally leave gaping holes in the cement joints, I would go so far as to say it is malicious for me to not “go between”/ “stand in the gap” for my brother, my sister.

Jesus said, “By this all shall know that you are my disciples, if you have love toward one another.” [John 13:35] How can I say I love anyone and not pray for them? It’s impossible! It’s a contradiction and a lie! “Confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another, that ye may be healed. The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.” [James 5:16]

Perhaps GOD disappoints me to incite empathy, it pushes me to feel the pain of others in my heart. HE makes me angry, calling me to stand. So I’m standing in the gap. It’s not easy, it’s frustrating, it’s even painful but I’m standing in the gap for others because it is on the side of righteousness and it is how I forgive myself and atone for questioning GOD.

Many will find my willingness to acknowledge my anger and disappointment with GOD blasphemous. Holding something against GOD, Kimberly? Really? I say to you GOD already knows my heart. What is it exactly that you think GOD doesn’t already know about you?

If I ever doubted articulating what I was angry with GOD about or that I forgive GOD, it was confirmed this morning as I took pen to paper.

Since my Mother’s death there have been days where I literally questioned my ability to go on, i.e. get dressed, face the world, and even interact with people. Then I am reminded of her humor, her spirit and the presence of GOD. What occurs most often is that I go downstairs to find the light or ceiling fan on in my den.

Surely any electrician will say there’s a wiring issue or the remote control for the ceiling fan needs tweaking but I believe it is the presence of my Mother and therefore GOD.  This morning at four o’clock GOD and my Mommy showed up again, offering their blessing for my desire to tell this tale. So with that confirmation I am reminded that what matters supremely is not the fact that I know GOD, but the larger fact which underlies it, is that HE knows me and is present.

I am graven on the palms of HIS hands. I am never out of HIS mind.

All my knowledge of HIM depends on HIM  and his never yielding interest in knowing me. I know HIM because HE first knew me, and continues to know me. HE knows me as HIS inquisitive child who constantly asks why and why not, who is stubborn, loving, kind, generous, proud, and who is also angered by what allows her to stumble and what manifests as suffering to others in the world. HE knows me as HIS and HE knows I forgive HIM  and trust Him without hesitation, or reservation; because I choose to die empty for HIM, again and again.

Her name was JuJu. A nickname from childhood that her dad had called her before he passed away. Juju was one of my campers in the Yellow unit of nine to eleven year olds and was a natural born leader.

She was only in elementary school, but carried herself as an outgoing young adult with a passion to create a brighter world through creativity and joy. I met Juju at Camp Kesem last summer. Camp Kesem is a place where kids can find solace, support, and love from others who truly understand losing a parent from cancer.

Losing a parent is difficult, and it is unimaginable to me to lose one when you are nine years old.

But Camp is about finding light in dark situations and creating incredible friendships. At Camp when the sun goes down and the campers are all in their pajamas, we have Cabin Chat. This is a time when counselors lead a discussion with a series of questions. The first couple questions are lighthearted, but eventually they become more serious throughout the week.

On one of the first days, we asked the girls in our cabin “What is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” I was expecting the girls to say something like “a rainbow!” or “my dog is beautiful,” but instead I was floored from the answers they provided. Juju’s answer is the most vivid in my memory.

Calmly she asked, “Does it have to be something I actually saw or can it be something I know?”

The other counselors and I were curious. We let her continue, “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen was when my dad passed away and he wasn’t hurting anymore. He was finally peaceful…I know he’s up in heaven now playing golf with my grandpa and catching up.” We were all speechless. What nine year old should be able to say that? I started thinking about how young she was and how mature I could never be at that age.

I mean nine years old and accepting that your life will go on knowing this? Feeling at peace that you know he’s safe and one with God? When I was nine, I was playing with Barbies and cried when butterflies accidentally hit our moving car. But here she was, this little girl with the biggest heart and a calm voice. I however, was not calm. Internally I was wrecked, bawling like a typical elementary schooler.

I teared up and looked around to the other counselors, only to see similar teary eyes looking back at me. As we nodded heads towards each other, it was like a wordless agreement between the counselors that we would not let our emotions interrupt this beautiful time and that our lives were forever changed. Juju was only one of the campers who became one of my role models and inspired me to become a bigger, better person.

It is incredible to be part of an organization that brings children and teens together to share this experience with and make each summer unforgettable. This summer, Camp Kesem is providing two weeks of camp so even more kids struggling with a parent’s cancer can finally be a kid again and college kids can find inspiration from 3rd graders. I joined Camp to change lives, but this summer, I can’t wait to see who will change mine.

(Written by Tess Renfro)

The two ran, hand-in-hand, as the lights began to fade behind them. Their backs glowed as their shadows cast among the reedgrass in front of them.

Silence. The groans of the town had faded. The blaring car horns were lost in the sound of the dry grass grazing their legs as they ran. For miles, all that could be seen was reedgrass as tall as their hips or shoulders, stretching across the hills.

The familiar tree stood proudly on the edge of a hill; its branches sprawled in every direction, twisting and intertwining together.

Ava and Anna bounded towards the trunk with the beat of their footsteps cheering and motivating as drums. As they finally reached the roots of the tree, they collapsed to the ground. There, they lay panting; chests rising and falling, until their breath evened out and matched the serenity of the beautiful world around them.

“Let’s keep going!” Ava’s eyes beamed up at her older sister in expectation and hope. She was far too young to understand that life had so little to bring; her mind was just too full of hope and adventure.

Ava often dreamt of holding Anna’s hand as they ran through the hills. But instead of stopping at their tree, they continued to run. Past the dunes and the signs that lead them back home, through the fence that had entrapped them for so long, and to the edge of the world, wherever their feet would allow them to go.

Sometimes Ava would dream of a huge lake, with fish and lily pads, and the promise of change.

In darker times, she would dream of a long road, cracked and battered, and no matter how far the two of them walked, the road always led them back home.

“We can’t.” Anna said, running her fingers through Ava’s curly red hair. She began to hum Ava’s favorite lullaby, the same one their mother would rock them to sleep with.

“If I ran, would you come with me?”

“Don’t be stupid” Anna mumbled. Tears began to pool under her eyes as she spoke. “You need to understand that there’s nothing out there for us, Ava. If you ran, I wouldn’t follow you. I know you’re curious, but when you grow up you’ll understand. All we have left is each other. There’s nothing out there.”

The silence became unbearably deafening, and Ava decided to run. However it was no longer in spite of what had restricted her, it was the security of knowing that Anna would indeed be running behind her as she went. She heard Anna screaming her name as she chased her up and down the valleys, and to the wooden fence they had never dared to cross.

Ava waited for Anna to come, and by the time she caught up, she was sobbing. Her ragged green dress was stained with dirt and splattered in tears.

“If you go, I’m not following you Ava.”

“Come on!” Ava bent over and climbed through the space between the wooden planks. She didn’t turn around as she kept walking, in hopes that Anna had jumped the fence and would soon clench her hand as they walked together.

She could hear Anna’s sobs as she continued down the hill, but Ava never looked back.

She had walked about a mile until she saw the edge of the trees. They seemed to call her name as the occasional breeze came and went, and ruffled the branches in a dance of expectation.

She had never seen woods like these. When she began to immerse herself in the trees, for the first time ever she felt scared. The leaves and branches beneath her cracked as she stepped, while she watched many more leaves fall from the towering trees above.

The darkness of dusk crept, and began to fill the woods with dim moonlight. Ava started to hear more; a frog croaking, a twig breaking, an owl calling. She saw a deer grazing by a dogwood tree in front of her, and as she took another step forward, the deer cocked it’s head and stared at her.

The sound of the shot was deafening. Her ears rang as the woods spun around her, and she watched the deer dash away; dancing between the trees as if on stage.
She hadn’t seen the hunter, he had been aiming for the doe that escaped death.

She collapsed to the ground and watched the stars and trees that hovered above her twist and spin like a merry-go-round. She clasped her hands to her stomach and felt her blood begin to pool around her.

She closed her eyes and pictured herself floating in the lake she so often dreamed of. She imagined Anna floating next to her, humming their mother’s lullaby and reaching for her hand.
“Let’s keep going” Ava whispered, and the world fell silent.

(Written by Matt Gillick)

Crooner, fashion icon, writer, actor, poet, alien. David Bowie’s passing at 69 comes as not only a shock to me but to millions of fans.

I remember being a high school freshman, a friend was driving me home after a particularly rough day. Some guys repeatedly called me ‘faggot’ throughout the afternoon. No reason, they just started calling me that. I didn’t retaliate, I just took the verbal blows ‘like a bitch,’ using their words. Petty high school bullshit, it still hurt though. I’m thankful it only lasted a week.

I was feeling sorry for myself, dejected, nearly crying until I heard on the stereo: ‘Ground control to Major Tom’ amidst an echoing acoustic guitar and a space-age chord providing a drawn out moan. That moment, that song, melted away my sadness and transported my mind to serenity.

I was hooked. I became a disciple of Bowie.

I guess you could say he got me through high school, along with The Sex Pistols, The Doors, and The Who.

Being so hard to put into words, Bowie’s legacy looking from the outside in seems like a hundred different lifetimes confusedly rolled into one. His reckless abandon in going against the norm whether it was appearing as the androgynous Ziggy Stardust: challenging the constraints of sexuality and gender roles, as 1980s pop-star performing alongside the likes of Mick Jagger and Freddie Mercury, or portraying an alien in the now-iconic cult-film The Man Who Fell to Earth; Bowie never faltered from what he wanted his own artistic vision to be.

In other words, he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought.

He challenged the common conventions and never played safe. If you don’t believe me then check out his role in Jim Henson’s odd-ball classic Labyrinth. It’s funny, awkward, creepy…and it’s fantastic.

Not only were his personas rightfully memorable his music was unlike anything we have ever heard before or since. Sure, there are some adequate emulators like Kanye and Gaga but never quite at the level of Bowie. Just listen to the operatic poppy jazz riffs all combined within the classic ‘Young Americans’ or the odd, voice-bending masterpiece single that is ‘Fame.’

Many of Bowie’s songs were so ahead of their time genres hadn’t yet been conceived to categorize them.

If you listen to ‘Suffragette City’ the aggressive chord-play and that angst-ridden, manic chorus was punk at its core years prior to the Sex Pistols, arguably the first punk-rock band, getting together.

Another great quality of Bowie was that he never stopped working in whatever medium caught his fancy. Even at the end of his life he released his latest studio album Blackstar that will surely go down as a work of art. I have yet to give it a listen but most definitely will, peppering the playlist with other classics; reliving the Golden Years of my former (kind of) conflicted, confused, rebellious adolescence.

What Bowie did for so many people like myself was to see the possibility of self-expression, the impact that one voice can have on others if they choose to not be afraid. He took the power of his voice, the flare in his mannerisms, and started a cultural revolution that was constantly reinventing itself. If any of us could live up to a fraction of what he was able to do with his viewpoints, his expression, and his vision, then we could shine brighter than any star Ziggy dared to wander.

On a more personal level, his music did not make me feel like I was a boy sitting in a tin can, far above the earth. He made me feel as if I was connected to a possibility of reaching a point within myself. Where I could connect with others, showing them that oddities are not flaws but qualities. I am sad he is gone but what a life he lived. I wish you Godspeed, Mr. Bowie.

(Written by Nicole Hammett)

My grandmother was there the day I was born.

She kept me multiple days of the week before I began school and many afternoons once I had started. She taught me stories, rhymes, songs, and lessons.

I have nothing but precious memories from my childhood visits at my grandmother’s house, and because she lived alone, I know she cherished my company as well. Part of who I am today is because of her.

However, as much as I hate to admit it, things changed as I grew older. As I entered my teens, I began to dread the boredom that I associated with my grandmother’s basic cable, internet-free house.

Although she lived next door to me, I began visiting less and less, and once I had my drivers license, I had stopped going almost altogether. I only made the trip next door on holidays or when my mother made me. I had no idea at the time what a mistake I was making.

It was my senior year of high school when my mother noticed my grandmother’s memory beginning to fade.

It began with her short-term memory, and you had to retell her things multiple times. However, she could still tell you in perfect detail stories of her childhood. She soon began to forget names, and her doctors explained that she was suffering from dementia.

We knew it would get worse, we just had no idea how fast. Within a couple months, she began telling elaborate stories of conversations she had had that day with deceased relatives, talking to voices in her head, hiding from people she believed to be in her house trying to hurt her, and her “trips to heaven” she had made that day in order to talk to her sister.

She once called 9-1-1 on my father at two in the morning for beating me and mom, when my dad was out of state at the time (and he’s never harmed a hair on our heads). The most hurtful moment to my family, however, was the night she did not know who her own daughter, my mother, was. The child she raised and who now had taken care of her every day for years was only a stranger standing in her bedroom.

I began to visit her more often, but I felt extremely guilty for how I dreaded seeing her and the state she was in. Seeing my grandmother, who used to be so strong and independent, now unable to walk and not in her right mind broke my heart.

So, I did another horrible thing that I would regret: I avoided the visits so I would not have to experience the sadness and hurt.

My family, as well as myself, soon realized that we were dealing with my grandmother’s dementia and our pain in a completely wrong way. I now understood that I needed to face my grandmother and cherish the time I had left with her instead of living with the fear of what I might witness.

So, I began to accompany my mother on visits more often. The way we interacted with her changed, as well.

Before, we fought her and the stories she came up with in her head. We told her she was wrong, and that the people she saw and voices she heard were only in her mind. We tried to force the fact that the stories she invented were not true.

However, this did not bring peace, only anger.

It hurt her to think that we did not believe what she said and that we thought she was crazy, and she was beginning to resent us for it. And the times she started to accept that we might be right and what she believes is false, it only filled her with fear.

She did not deserve an emotional roller coaster such as this in her last few years.

So, my family decided to deal with the situation in a lighter way. Instead of disagreeing and fighting with my grandmother, we acted as if her stories were true, laughed about them with her, and asked her for more details.

If she said that she had been running around town with her father all day, we ignored the facts that she couldn’t leave her bed and that he had passed away decades ago, and instead asked them where all they’d been and if they had a good time.

Although it was bittersweet, seeing my grandmother not so frustrated made everything easier to deal with both for us and her.

That next fall, I left for college and only saw my grandmother every few months when I visited home. One night, while sitting in my dorm, I received the call from my mother that I had been dreading but expecting for the past few months.

She told me that my grandmother had taken a turn for the worse, and that this was more than likely going to be her last night.

It was in that moment that my past regrets overwhelmed me. Every day that I dreaded going to see her. Every moment that I ignored her and sat playing on my phone. Every visit that I avoided for fear of what I might see.

I only had a few moments with the woman who raised my mother and helped to raise me, and I had taken them for granted. I had not been around enough when she needed love and family the most.

And now at the end of her life, I had no way to get home from college in time.

I still thank God that this was a false alarm. She lived not only until the next morning, but even though the doctors only gave her a few weeks, she is still alive today. I believe the Lord wanted to teach me a lesson in love, family, strength, and courage.

He wanted to teach me to cherish the moments I’m blessed to live, and the moments I’m given with my friends and family. And most importantly, He wanted to give me more time with my grandmother, which shows what a gracious, giving, and amazing God He is.

Soon after this incident, my family decided to place my grandmother in a nursing home. Although it was incredibly difficult to hear how much she wanted to go home, this turned out to be a wonderful decision.

Her mind still goes in and out, but the care and steady routine has greatly increased her health. While she once was too weak to lift even her hand, today she is more alert and has more energy to interact and talk with us.

I enjoy every moment I am given to listen to her tell me stories of everywhere she has been “running around to” all day.

Sadly, the doctors decided a few months ago to take my grandmother off her medicine for dementia. Her days are now categorized as “good days” and “bad days.”

Some days she will remember us all, while on others it is a struggle. Some she can be angry and yelling, and other times she is sweet and says she loves us.

Some days she claims she’s been running up and down the halls, and others she’ll admit she’s been laying in her bed all day.

The holidays were definitely different with her in the nursing home for the first time. There was a felt absence at our annual family get-togethers.

Still, I could not be more thankful to still have been able to visit her on Christmas Day. She was in high spirits, talkative, and it was altogether a “good day.” My mother said that her mom having a good day was all she needed for this to be a great Christmas, and I couldn’t agree more. Even if we did have to remind Granny a few times what day it was.

Having a loved one suffer from dementia has been one of the most difficult things my family has had to deal with.

Every moment is cherished, both the good and the bad, with the good moments being priceless gifts from God.

Although it has made me regret my past and the time I could have spent with her and chose not to, as well as all the days I am away at college, I have come to peace with the fact that I cannot change it. Dwelling on mistakes and making myself miserable will do nothing for me, my family, or my grandmother, and I know that all I need to focus on is my time with her now and in the future.

I won’t make the same mistakes again, and I won’t take advantage of the gift of more time with her that God has given us.

I don’t mind if she doesn’t remember me now. I don’t mind listening to her stories and going along with them. Sitting in the nursing home with her and being in her presence, 100 percent, not engulfed in technology, is all it takes to make the most out of our time.

The simple act of being there for our family shows a powerful amount of love in itself, and I now realize the importance of something as simple as time.

(Written by Nkenna Njoku)

Whoever said “Time heals all wounds” had obviously never met my brother.

It’s been over a year and I’m still learning how to do this crazy life thing without my best friend and little brother. Whenever something good or bad happens I always want to run next door to his room, text or call call him just to hear some uplifting words or hear his reaction.

The best way to summarize this whole situation is with 3 words, “It takes time.”

There are five stages of grief. In the last 19 months I’ve fluctuated constantly, sometimes on a daily basis between all five.

Denial

This stage seems to come most frequently. When I first got the news I refused to believe it. I was confused and tried to block out all the things I was being told. At one point I called his phone multiple times just to try and prove everyone wrong when he answered.

And the weeks passed. Denial would come in the form of waking up and forgetting that anything had ever happened and having to relive the situation all over.

More recently denial has been simple; whenever I feel myself getting sad I tell myself that my brother is on a long beautiful vacation, and I’ll see him someday soon.

Anger

Anger was simple. I felt an anger that I had never felt before. I was angry with anybody and anything involved.

“Why did this have to happen to my brother when there are terrible people committing heinous crimes and walking around freely??” “Why didn’t they help him?” “ How can they claim to be his ‘friends’ but nobody can seem to explain what really happened?” “Why did they invite him to such a place? “What if he had been somewhere else with other people?” “WHY, God?”

It was the type of anger where all you can do is cry and feel defeated because you know that there is nothing that you can do within your power to change the outcome of the situation. Anger because you don’t have answers.

For months I felt like a time bomb that could explode at any moment. People around me would use certain trigger words and phrases like “drown”, or “I’m dead” and it took everything in me to refrain from 1) bursting into tears and 2) giving them a verbal tongue lashing about their poor selection of words.

Bargaining

Bargaining came in the form of me constantly begging during my morning and nightly prayers. “Please God, I will never sin again, I will always be kind, I will never stray from you again, if you just let this all be a dream.”

But every morning following those evening prayers I would wake up and the outcome would still be the same. I was stuck with this new reality and there was nothing I could do about it. Even when I saw my brother for the last time I thought, “well maybe if I just hug him or hold his hand he’ll wake up and make a joke.”

Depression

I got to a point in my depression where I selfishly thought that dying would be much better than living because at least then I would be able to hang out with my brother. Dying was the perfect option. Feeling nothing was better than hurting every minute of every day.

If I died I wouldn’t have to be in constant pain. There would be no bills to worry about, no people to deal with, and most importantly, I wouldn’t struggle with telling myself every morning “just make it through the day.”

It was then that I also got to a point where I questioned my faith. There were many days where I would just be sitting in my room for hours crying and wanting to feel something other than pain and crying out to God, “If you are a merciful and good God why would you allow me to feel this kind of pain? why would you kill my brother?”

3 weeks after my brother’s accident I went back to school and resumed my adult responsibilities the best I knew how. The same week that I resumed class and work, I also celebrated my 21st birthday.

The morning of my birthday I rummaged through some old letters on my desk and found the birthday card my brother had sent me for my 20th birthday. I sat there staring at it, rereading it, and just pictured him singing “Happy Birthday” and a warm hug from him. It wasn’t right. I told myself that I wasn’t allowed to enjoy that day or any other holiday for that matter.

Initially I didn’t make any plans and had no expectations for my birthday, but with the help of an amazing teammate, Tunya, and even better friend I had the best birthday given the circumstances. Although I found myself doing what some would consider enjoyable I still found myself wanting to cry and thinking “I wish my brother was here so I could be happy again, I shouldn’t be having fun without him.”

During summer session I would sit in class struggling to take notes because I could barely see through my tears. Many days I just wanted to be left alone, in the darkness, to just grieve in peace without being asked ‘when are you going to go back to “normal?’” or being interrogated about the whole situation and having to relive the emotions from when I first found out.

I often found myself laying wide awake at night pacing up and down in my room. And when I was fortunate enough to get a few minutes of sleep I found myself quickly woken by a nightmare.

The hardest days were the ones when I woke up unable to discern between reality and dreams and found myself reliving the horror midway through dialing his phone number, sending a text, or logging on to any social media outlet and seeing the numerous “I’m sorry for your loss” posts.

As always, time went on and I adapted to school and this new life. Just when I thought I was making small progress, I was inundated with thoughts of the future. I realized that my brother would not be there for many milestones.

-My brother will never see me graduate from college

-My brother will never see me get married.

-I won’t be able to celebrate any more birthdays with my brother

-My children will never get to meet their Uncle Vince

Graduation seemed to be the hardest to come to terms with because it was the most meaningful and was happening in the very near future. Graduation was also just 4 days shy of Vince’s accident, so I knew my emotions would be running high.

The afternoon before graduation I found myself sitting in Rooker Hall with 2 of my teammates reflecting on the last few years and our plans for the future. I expressed to them my disappointment that my brother would not be there the following evening witnessing my commencement ceremony. My teammate Sarah said to me “Just because he’s not here doesn’t mean he didn’t get the invite. He’s going to have the best seat in the stadium.”

It was then that I knew that it was ok to move on with my life and no longer feel guilty for having fun or achieving wonderful things without my brother because he was always there with me, in my heart.

Acceptance

There were and still are so many unanswered questions. The lack of closure is what kept me up at night or kept me from focusing in class.

For a long time I thought that having an answer or just having someone to blame would make me feel better. It came to a point where I had to silence my thoughts and say, “ok Lord, I don’t understand at all what you’re doing but I trust you.”

I also had to tell myself two things:

that all those questions didn’t matter

even if I had the answers to all my questions would it put my heart and mind at ease? Honestly, probably not.

We live in a death fearing society. I think it is foolish for any of us to deny death or think that we are immune from death.

One thing that I have learned in the last 19 months, although cliche, is that life is short and anything can happen at any time, whether you are ready or not. I have learned to take things at face value and always embrace people with constant, unconditional, and selfless love. I had no desire to learn how to live without my brother, but I had to because life continues whether you’re ready or not.

You can learn how to live without someone, even your best friend. It won’t be easy, and it’s going to take some time, a long time honestly, but you can do it. Just remember that small progress is still progress. Never let anyone tell you how long you should grieve for, it’s a process and it takes time.

One thing that settles my heart is knowing that however many remaining years I have to spend on this Earth without my brother pales in comparison to an eternity in God’s kingdom. Until then I just have to remind myself he is on a beautiful long vacation.

I can’t wait for the day we can pretend we have our own cooking show again, or he can jump out from behind the tree in the front yard and spray me with his water gun when I’m running, or Saturday morning cleaning and taking breaks to have a sing or dance off. But most importantly I can’t wait for the day Vince can give me a long hug.

A wise man told me this year “Quality of life is not measured by quantity of life.” Vince taught me so much and did so much in just 19 years. He was the kid that loved to run drills in the backyard and put in the extra work even in the off season. He was also the kid that loved to volunteer with Hands on Atlanta on the weekends to build homes for families in need.

God gave me 19 years with my best friend and I will cherish them until I take my last breath on this earth because they were the best. We used to do EVERYTHING together. We had so many jokes we basically spoke a different language. Some nights we would stay up all night just being goofy and talking about the most random things.

This whole situation is so surreal. The only thing Vince hated more than tomatoes and brussel sprouts was seeing me cry and wallow in sadness.

I still don’t understand why this all happened but I do know that God has used this situation to soften my heart. I am learning to love and serve the Lord the way my brother did.

My brother would not only want me to be happy but he would want to be helping others and spreading Christ’s love. Time doesn’t heal all wounds, but with time you learn how to cope and be at peace, not in pieces.

My brother was my best friend, and he will always and forever be my best friend.

(Written by Denna Babul)

My mother-in-law’s name is Joan. She is sixty-three years old and dying prematurely from ALS.

She is in the final stages of this relentless disease which has taken away, among many other things, the usage of her loving arms and kind hands, the ability to voice her love for us beyond a labored whisper on her rare “good” days, her ferocious dignity to live out her days mothering us instead of us taking care of her, and my time to tell her how I feel.

Her final months are upon us, and although I am a Registered Nurse and have counseled many people through grief, I am finding it nearly impossible to begin my own grieving process. As a nurse, I learned how to put on a tough exterior to make it through the difficult days. I find myself using the same tactics to make it through the process of losing my mother-in-law.

On the outside, I act like, “I got this,” yet on the inside, I am petrified of losing her. In the past two years I have tried to avoid what is inevitably going to happen by carrying on as though she had not been diagnosed with a terminal disease.

I don’t want to imagine a life without her.

I want my children to be influenced by the person she is and not the person she was . . . and I don’t want my husband to lose his mother.

When we were told of her advanced directive wishes, I caught myself going, yet again, into nurse mode. I was too busy making sure everyone else understood what her wishes meant to really absorb my own feelings. Riddled with frustration, I have watched on the sidelines as her body has wilted away knowing there’s nothing I can do to stop the disease’s progression.

I have held my husband during the night as he is consumed with grief and put on a smile during the day, so our sensitive daughter does not pick up on our pain and try to carry it on her little back. I have tried to do my best as a nurse, a wife and a mother, but I wonder; how have I done as her daughter–in-law? Does she know how much I love her? Have I made her as proud of me as I am of her?

As her time with us is dwindling, I feel in writing this eulogy and seeing it in print, it will in some way imprint my feelings into her heart. I hope my words can do her justice.

Eulogy for my Mother-In-Law, Joan

My first assessment of Joan was that she was a simple, sweet woman who was happy . . . but I couldn’t help but think she must want more out of life. Boy was I wrong! She knew exactly what she wanted!

It was hard for me to understand a woman who seemed to live her life for everyone else but herself. It seemed like a life that still focused on being a mother to her adult children could be a life of missed opportunities.

I could not fathom how watching sports with her boys day in and day out could be enjoyable. I did not understand how tending to her husband’s every need could fulfill her own needs. I couldn’t grasp how coming to her son’s aid anytime he asked – even if this meant driving nine hours to cook his favorite meal – did not make her feel taken advantage of every once in awhile.

It took me longer than I want to admit to understand just how special Joan was. The turning point was when I realized that I, too, was special to her.

As soon as I married her son, Joan became everything to me that I never knew I needed.

She was there after my first miscarriage as well as the two that followed. She was there to nurse me after my spine surgery when both my mom and husband needed to go back to work. She was there after the birth of my daughter, pulling her bassinet into her room, so I could get the sleep I needed to heal.

In some ways I regressed when she was around, defaulting to her also mothering me and taking care of my family when life had gotten too hard or too busy. She never once complained. I have never met a more selfless person.

Joan was my angel on Earth. All she wanted to do was give and never receive. For her, the gift of truly giving to others is what fed her beautiful soul. In time, I realized Joan’s reason for living was to be a mother and a grandmother. It was her true calling, and all she ever really wanted.

I was the one who needed to learn from her. I was the one going ninety miles an hour through life never really stopping to enjoy what was right in front of me: my family.

Joan has made me a better mother, a more conscientious wife and friend. Through her I have learned to give more freely and more often with ease. It is because of her example that I will pass on to my children just how special it is to be a mother.

(Poem written by Christian Bowman)

Yet little can

Tomorrow’s sunshine give

To one who will not live. –Langston Hughes

How did your body look in the sunshine
when your room was bombed with stinking dope?
I imagine you lifeless, floating in a perfect high-
a thin line between passing, and peace.
I really wish you fell from that dream,
But what do I know? We are only friends.

I went to your funeral with all of our friends.
Our black contrasted with the yellow sun,
illuminating death like a life-like dream
and the casket they buried you in was dope,
but I still don’t think your father has found peace-
He speaks of the dangers of getting high,

and how you struggled with addiction in high-school
when he writes posts to your Facebook friends.
I think he sees fragments of you in pieces
of us. Like Jesus on that Sunday,
you rose from us with clouds of dope
crowning your head with blue, blissful dream.

The night after your service, I dreamt
of our mischief when we were high.
It never occurred to us to try dope.
We would, instead, drink with our friends
until we passed out or until sunrise.
High-school had never seemed that peaceful.

But here I am, stoned and writing. A piece
of you lingers here like a lucid dream,
and there is still a father missing his son.
Yet, even as you watch us at your height
from which you smile down toward your friends,
some still look down toward their arms for dope.

You left your friends like memories of dreams,
but I hope the dope at least gave you some peace.
Still, they get high, higher than a summer sunrise.