Wednesday, July 5th, 2017

Wednesday morning.

I didn't want to get out of bed. I didn't want to see him like that again. Once was enough. Everyone kept telling me that he wasn't really there. And I know that is true. But, those were the arms that hugged me, the giant feet that stepped on my toes, the mouth that told me, "I love you." I kept looking into his face, expecting his eyes to pop open and break into a smile. But it didn't.

I didn't want to leave the house. I wanted to hide away and pretend that my heart wasn't shattered into a million pieces. I wanted to be with people, but also wanted to be alone. I wanted to eat, but nothing sounded good. I wanted to cry, laugh; scream. I felt every emotion, and no emotion at all.

Many told me that I could do whatever I wanted to do, grieve in whatever way I needed. The problem was (and still is) that I didn't know how to answer the question, "What do I want?" The only thing I knew I wanted I also knew I could not have. Not until I meet Jesus face to face.

I didn’t want to pray. I don’t get mad easily, but I have been mad plenty over the past week. On the flight and drive home, I prayed and prayed and prayed. I have never prayed so hard for anything in my entire life. I prayed for a miracle, and the miracle didn’t come. I had to sit in an ambulance with my parents and say goodbye to my baby brother.

This past Wednesday morning, I pulled away from someone praying for me for the first time in my life. I looked at my family and, through tear stained eyes, told them that I wasn’t sure my faith was going to last the week. I confessed my fear that my faith would become a charade, believing God exists, but never being able to trust Him ever again. Everyone kept telling me to lean on the Lord, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t think He could be trusted to hold me anymore.

Wednesday morning, I had to leave for the viewing of my 15-year-old brother. I knew I would have to watch my entire family grieve for the boy we would never see again on earth. I knew I would have to watch his friends say goodbye to the guy who loved them and laughed with them. I knew all this. But what I didn’t know was how I was going to do it. The Lord had always been my strength, ever since Jr. High, but I didn’t trust Him. I was mad at Him.

But, oh, how I needed Him.

So, I looked up into the sky, and with clenched fists, prayed for the first time in days.

Jesus, I am mad at You. I asked You to do a miracle, but You didn’t. I don’t like You right now, I don’t even want to talk to You. But I need You to hold me anyway. Because I can’t do this alone.

Wednesday Afternoon.

My family and I arrive at North Knox High School, greeted by a beautiful tribute to Jacob set up by some amazing people. There were pictures, jerseys, favorite candy, sneakers, Bibles, and crosses. We made our way around the gym, all the way to the casket at the front. And I didn’t think I could stand. I cried, for around the 100th time in 4 days. A small laugh escaped my lips because the funeral people didn’t do his hair right. I held onto my family. And I felt heavier than I have ever felt in my life.

They let the rest in, my extended family, Jacob’s best friends. And I almost ran to my cousins, to Jacob’s oldest friend. I threw my arms around them, and walked, with arms around shoulders, up to that casket, time and again. As the viewing began, my amazing mother looked at me and said that I looked lighter. And I did. I felt lighter. I felt peace for one of the first times in days.

If there was ever a time in my life when I did not deserve to have God answer a prayer, it was Wednesday. I had yelled at Him, ran away from Him; ignored Him. In my deepest pain, I told Him that I didn’t trust Him anymore. And, audaciously, I asked Him to hold me anyway. Because I knew I couldn’t stand on my own. I told Him I didn’t like Him, and my Jesus, He held me anyway. I didn’t deserve it, but He did.

He carried my family through a 12-hour viewing, showing us how much our son and brother meant to so many. He gifted us with stories about Jacob that made us laugh, and cry. And those friends of his who thought they wouldn’t even be able to walk up to the casket, my Jesus gave them the strength to walk every classmate to the front, arms around shoulders, repeating the words my dad shared with them the night before, “It’s not him; it’s just an empty vessel.” And my Jesus held me like He had never held me before. A miracle happened Wednesday. Not the miracle I prayed for, but a miracle nonetheless.

Friday Morning.

I didn’t want to get out of bed. I have cried at least three times, and it is barely noon. The funeral director brought by all the gifts from those who love us. With every breath, I want to hear his voice; feel his arms around me. My family had to start learning to be four instead of five.

And I read letters. So many letters from people who love me and my family. So many letters from people who I know are praying for us every minute. And I hugged my family, even though there are one less set of arms to hug, one less voice saying, “I love you.” And my Jesus is still holding me. Even though I’m still mad at times, even though there are still times I can’t pray. Because His love for me doesn’t stop. It truly is wider and longer and higher and deeper than I could ever know on earth. But my brother, he knows that love now. In its fullness. And one day, I will know too. And on that day, I will be in my brother’s arms again. I will see his beautiful smile and know no more pain. Until then, I am learning to trust again. I am learning to grieve. I am standing on the prayers of others when I can’t make my own words rise to Jesus. And a song is repeating in my head, one that will bring me hope in the darkest days, one that reminds me that my Jesus is the light of the world. His light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

The very same God that spins things in orbit

Runs to the weary, the worn, and the weak

And the same gentle hands that hold me when I’m broken

Conquered death to bring me victory

And I know my Redeemer lives