Tag: #loss

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Grief is a gift

Jen Sinclair
Tim Lynch

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.

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Father’s Day is hard

Jen Sinclair

I dread Father’s Day. Not because I don’t like showering my amazing husband with love and attention and gifts (although I am by far the inferior gift-giver in our relationship). Celebrating him is the easy part. It’s the other father stuff that creeps in and makes it suck.

My father died seven years ago, but our relationship ended long before that. It had become a difficult one, marked by a final shouting match many years before his death in which I went low and he went lower. We hadn’t talked in a very long time due to those big emotions that often rule in relationships like ours, namely pride and anger. Pride kept him from accepting any apology I attempted, because how dare I say that thing to him. Anger came to my rescue because how could I not say it after what he said.

It wasn’t until I was sitting by his hospice bed, the bubbling of his breath the only indication that there was still life in him, that I realized all that anger was grief in disguise. The years I spent resenting him because he let me down. The time I wasted wondering what I ever did to make him not love me. The memories I swallowed because I didn’t understand why there weren’t more. I finally understood what they all meant. My father gave me what he could. He simply wasn’t capable of being what I wanted or needed or deserved. And while it wasn’t my fault, or maybe even his, it was the truth.

So in the hours before his rattling breath stopped, I put down some of that heavy baggage, took his hand, and told him I understood. In those moments alone with him, I turned away from anger and leaned into gratitude. I thanked him for being my dad and for giving me so many gifts:

My brothers and sisters who are some of my best friends;

My mom whose unconditional love more than made up for the absence of his; and

My life.

The tender bruise etched in my heart will always burst with fresh pain whenever I wonder what it might have been like if things were different and if he was different. But the lessons I learned from him, both the good and especially the bad, have helped make me the person and the parent I am today.

So thanks, Dad, for always having quarters so I could play Pacman. Thanks for taking me to get my driver’s license and teaching me about baseball, football, over-medium eggs, and French toast. And thanks for giving me life. Happy Father’s Day.

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The hardest thing I’ve ever written

Jen Sinclair

No assignment or submission has ever been as hard to write as my brother’s obituary. As with any death, the loss has left a gaping hole. I am both relieved that Timmy did not suffer and angered that his sudden loss has made it impossible to say goodbye. All the moments we’ll never share and all the things we’ll never do have taken center stage in my heart and mind. I won’t be able to wish him a happy birthday in two days (and remind him of our 15-year age difference, as only a little sister can.) I can’t tell him about the last concert I attended or sit at my window seat and swap wildlife pictures across the miles.

Instead of doing the things I can’t, I did the one thing I can: write. And while he’ll never see it, or anything else I write from here on out, I know he appreciates the sentiment, the tears I typed through to get the words out, and the message of love and loss and hope I’ve tried to honor him with.

LITTLE EGG HARBOR, N.J. — Timothy P. Lynch passed away on May 8, 2023, at the age of 60. Tim will be remembered as an avid outdoorsman, who preferred the woods and waterways of the Pinelands to anywhere else. He was an artist in his career as a stonemason and in his photographs of nature. Tim’s pictures will serve as a constant reminder of his enduring love and appreciation for the wildlife that calls New Jersey home.

Tim was an eternal prankster. He smiled brightly. He laughed fully. He loved with his whole heart. He was a giver with no expectation of getting anything in return. He went out of his way to help anyone who needed it. Tim loved his dog, his garden, his kayak, his iPod full of music, and above all else, his family.

Tim was welcomed into heaven by his brother, Tommy, his uncles Bill and Jack Bergen, and his father, Thomas P. Lynch, Sr. He leaves behind his mother, Marilyn Lynch, sisters, Kathy Elliott, Laura Lynch, and Jen Sinclair, as well as numerous nieces, nephews, cousins, and friends.

Timmy will be missed, and his loss is not easy to accept. But we take comfort in knowing that he is shining his light down upon us and blessing us with his protection and presence every day until we meet again.

“Life without you…all the love you passed my way. The angels have waited for so long…now they have their way. Take your place.” Stevie Ray Vaughan

Rest in peace, Timmy.