Grief is a gift

It’s been a year since I woke up to missed calls and texts from my sister and mom, asking me to call as soon as I got up. Yes, mom was okay. Yes, my nephews were fine. This was about my brother, Tim.

I remember my brain interpreting, “…the police are there, and Tim’s gone,” as he was missing, and we needed to find him. Until the words, “he passed away in his sleep,” sunk in and gave way to the shock, disbelief, and denial that ushered in my old friend, grief.

I’m no stranger to it. Is anyone? Loss and grief are universal, touching every person at some point. Whether it’s the end of a relationship or a life, grief slides into the picture when someone we love leaves it.

Life changes in the shadow of death. The grief descends, darkening everything else. It’s all-encompassing and inescapable. And yet, even in the darkest of times, I’ve found comfort. Grief didn’t make me darker: it blurred out the things that were no longer important so I could see the things that were. It framed my life with the perspective that time is uncertain and that I needed to change what I could to live the life I always wanted.

So that’s what I started to do.

One year later, his death remains a bruise embedded in my heart, and the pain of his absence throbs with every beat. But in that pain is a call to action to love harder, appreciate more, and live with a greater purpose, and to share this message:

Grief is a gift.
It moves me to feel.
It pushes me to breathe.
It wants me to live.
It reminds me I’m strong.
It grants me courage.
It fills me with hope.
It wipes away doubt.
It encourages my dreams.
It slows my anger.
It renews my faith.
It inspires me to live.

The best way I can honor my brother is to embrace the life that comes with grief. As long as I talk about him, write about him, paddle his kayak, crank up good music, dance at concerts, and live—Tim is still here. And he always will be.