Divine Ordinary

For some reason, lately I’ve had a need to declutter and organize my house, so last Saturday, I did my boys’ bedroom. When I tackled the closet, I found that for some reason I couldn’t fathom, we were storing textbooks from elementary school, along with all the worksheets that went along with that. As I was pulling out notebook after notebook, I was checking to see if they were used or could be saved. I opened an OSU notebook and my brother’s distinctive handwriting leaped out at me. For a moment, I froze. It felt like I had been sucker punched.

The notebook had been a birthday gift to my son Brock. My brother was a rather rabid Michigan fan, and my boys are rather rabid Ohio State fans, so he and the boys always had fun trash talking about each other’s teams.

It’s strange how you can be hit with a wave of grief in the midst of something as mundane as cleaning out a closet. I wasn’t expecting to have my brother’s words, his scrawling handwriting to appear that afternoon.

So, I sat on the floor of my kids’ bedroom and cried.

That’s the thing about grief – it hits you out of nowhere. I stopped at the Habitat for Humanity store the other day, and I had to leave because I started crying. (You wouldn’t believe how uncomfortable it makes people when you are dripping tears all over the used sewing machines).

Why, you might ask did a thrift store reduce me to a blubbering mess? See, my brother was a huge thrift store shopper, and we had talked about finding a sewing machine there and sharing it. I went in looking for a curtain rod, but what I found was painful reminder that my brother was irrevocably gone.

My grief has found me in the pet aisle at the grocery store. It’s hit me at Ollies (another store my brother loved). It’s felled me at odd, unplanned moments, reducing me to tears that I try to hide.

And I always find myself apologizing to anyone who happens to be around me. I feel badly for bringing their day down or making them feel uncomfortable. When my grief catches me out in public, it kind of feels like my I am trailing toilet paper stuck to my shoe. It feels awkward when others get uncomfortable in the light of my raw emotions.

I’m not sure why this is. After all, it wasn’t that long ago – probably in your grandparents’ generation – when there was a structure and a respect for the grieving process.

People didn’t expect someone to pick up the week after a loved one died and jump back on the merry-go-round of regular life.

Up until the 1950s, wearing dark colors for the first six months or so after a loss was pretty common. It wasn’t until the 70s and onward that these sorts of rituals started dropping away.

While I’m kind of glad I don’t have to wear black for a year (black makes me look an unflattering pasty white), that outward symbol was a sign to others that the person was grieving someone. It made things like tears at odd times understandable. Nobody expected you to have it all together – you were in the process of mourning.

Usually that process lasted for at least a year. Nowadays, people look at you funny when it’s been a few weeks since the funeral and you still seem sad.

Part of that is probably because our society is squirm-in-your-seat uncomfortable with death. We don’t really want to talk about it, and we certainly don’t want to see it when we are out buying our groceries or walking to our Sunday School class. Unlike our grandparents, death is something that is alien and foreign, something that happens in a hospital with professionals around. Gone are the days of funerals in the front living room and loved ones preparing the body. I suppose other people’s grief brings the reality of death a little too close for comfort.

We are actually pretty uncomfortable with most negative emotions – anger, fear, sadness. Want to bring the mood in the group down a few notches? Tell someone, when they ask you how your summer went, that your brother killed himself. Now that is a conversation killer. It’s like loudly passing gas in the middle of a cocktail party.

It’s why, when people say, “How are you?” I generally answer with, “Fine”  – even if I’m not because I feel guilty for making people uncomfortable.

It’s why, even in our Churches, people feel alone and isolated in their pain – we wear our positive, smiling mask when we are dying on the inside.

Because we have not learned to mourn with those who mourn, we force people to put on that plastic smile. We pressure them to say they are fine when they are anything but because their pain makes us uncomfortable – maybe for the simple reason that we don’t know how to fix it or what to say.

The thing is, you don’t have to fix it. You don’t have to have the perfect thing to say. Just giving someone a hug or squeezing their hand or simply saying, I’m sorry you are having a hard time is comforting. Your presence in the face of someone’s pain is often enough.

In fact, sometimes more words aren’t even helpful – especially when you try to talk someone out of their grief, like they shouldn’t feel it or that it somehow means they have a lack of faith.

Denying sorrow isn’t even Biblical. The shortest verse in the Bible is, “Jesus wept.” He was weeping before the tomb of Lazarus – you know, the guy He was going to raise from the dead in just a few minutes. Jesus wept because He saw the sorrow of those around Him. He was mourning with those who mourn – even though He knew they would be reunited with their loved one shortly.

The Bible says that Jesus was acquainted with sorrow and grief. Maybe we should all take a leaf out His book and acquaint ourselves with the pain and grief of others – even if it makes us uncomfortable.

Blessings, Rosanne

On August 5th, we memorialized my brother. I never really thought I’d say that, especially when I am only 42 and my brother not quite 46.

I can honestly say that July 30th was probably the worst day of my life. It was the day I found out my brother had died and how he had died – he had taken his own life.

My brother suffered from mental illness, and he had a lot of ups and downs. I had always known this was a possibility, but you never think something like this will really happen to someone you love – because you love them. You can see, even if they don’t, how much people care.

The thing about mental illness, though, is that it steals people from you because it lies to you. It makes you believe you are all alone and nobody cares.

As I stood and received hugs and condolences from a stream of people, I realized just how much mental illness had stolen from my brother.

Neighbors came through the line – people I had never met – that told me about how much they enjoyed talking to and knowing my brother. One gruff older man, with tears in his eyes, told me how much his grandchildren miss my brother because he would walk by with his dogs all the time, and he would take the time to interact with them.

I can’t tell you how many people, some I knew and some I didn’t, that said the words to me, “I just loved your brother,” or “he was such a special guy,” or “he had such a big heart.”

My brother had no idea the impact he made on those around him. On Wednesday, as we remembered how much my brother was loved, it became clear just how much mental illness had stolen from him and from my family.

I have lost other people I loved – all of my grandparents, a good friend – but there is something different about the grief that comes when someone takes their life.

There is the almost irresistible temptation to start asking “what if.” What if I had called him more? What if I had gone over to his house during that last week? What if I had reached out more or invited him to dinner more or to lunch more? What if I had made him get help?

What if and if only leave the bitter taste of regret in my heart.

At my brother’s memorial service it became very clear to me that no matter what I did or didn’t do, mental illness deceived my brother. It twisted his reality so he felt hopeless and helpless.

The saddest, yet also comforting thing to me is that as a believer, my brother was never truly alone – not even in his last, darkest moments because he was a believer. God promises that He will never, ever leave us. Even at the moment my brother took his life, God was right there. Even though my brother felt completely alone, he wasn’t.

I hope and pray that my brother’s death will have meaning and purpose. I hope that it will start a conversation that must be had in our churches – how can we support, encourage and help those with mental illness? How can we help their families?

We have to stop avoiding the topic and hoping it will go away. We have to stop guilting people into thinking if they were just more spiritual, they could overcome their mental illness.

No amount of Bible reading and prayer will cure manic depression. No number of church services will cancel out clinical depression. You can’t spiritualize your way out of being schizophrenic. And we need to stop making people feel guilty because they can’t overcome mental illness on their own.

Yes, God can certainly heal – just as He does in cases of cancer or other serious illnesses – but if He doesn’t, then we need to walk with those people who are suffering, just as we would if that person had a disease that affected his body instead of his mind.

At the memorial service, we remembered who my brother was and that he was so much more than his mental illness. I pray we can continue that conversation.

Blessings, Rosanne

Blessings, Rosanne

Today was my brother’s memorial service. In his honor, I thought I’d share the eulogy I read today.

Nobody ever wants to find themselves in the place my parents and I find ourselves in now. Anytime someone dies young, it is a tragedy. When that person takes their own life a whole new layer of grief is added.

However, I am, by nature an optimist and an idealist. God says in Romans 8:28 that He works all things for our good. I truly believe that through God’s grace and mercy, even in the tragedy of my brother Scott’s death we can find meaning and purpose.

The truth is, my brother suffered from mental illness, and if his death can open up a conversation about what it means to have mental illness, it is a start. In our society and even – maybe even especially – in our churches, mental illness is something nobody really talks about. It is associated with shame and the person suffering is often stigmatized.

If someone gets diagnosed with cancer or heart disease or another serious illness, we rally around them. We bring meals, send cards and offer our support and encouragement.

The person who suffers with mental illness too often suffers alone. Perhaps it is the fear of the unknown. Despite so many medical advancements, the human brain still remains mostly a mystery.

But if my brother’s death will cause one person to reach out to offer comfort, encouragement and support to a person with mental illness, or if will cause one person to realize they are not alone and their illness is nothing to be ashamed of, it is a start. If we can begin the conversation of what it means to have mental illness and how we can support and help people who deal with this on a daily basis, then my brother’s death will have purpose and it will have meaning.

The truth is living day to day with mental illness is difficult. You and I take for granted getting out of bed in the morning, going to work and all the myriad of daily tasks we do, almost without thinking. For the person with mental illness, those mundane things are a struggle. It is like strapping a 50 pound weight on your back and trying to go through your daily routine. It can be overwhelming and exhausting. Most days are a battle. Winston Churchill called the depression that plagued him much of his life, the black dog, always on his heels.

Mental illness is also a liar and a thief. It twists the person’s thoughts so they are overwhelmed by fear and despair and helplessness. It steals a person’s potential, his dreams, his relationships and in some cases, like my brother, his very life.

Just like someone suffering from cancer or diabetes, though, a person with mental illness is so much more than their illness. The biggest tragedy to me today is if you left this place and only remembered the end of Scott’s life.

My brother was so much more than his illness. He was and always will be my cool older brother. When I was a little girl, my brother seemed to me to be this shining light. He had all this energy and he was so much fun.

If you knew him at all, you will remember how he sort of came into a room like a mini-tornado. His energy and enthusiasm was infectious. If it was Christmas, he had on his Santa hat – usually the one with leopard fur trim. When we were kids, he was definitely the risk taker out of the two of us. He spent a whole year in a cast because he broke the same arm three times. He’d get one cast off, and something else would happen. I was beginning to think his graduation pictures would feature that cast!

I remember one day, he was doing wheelies on his bike and the tire got caught in the drain, flipping him over the handle bars. My Grandma McColm happened to be visiting at the time and she put baking soda on his arm, which was skinned from wrist to elbow. I could hear him hollering all the way up in my room.

I remember another time, when Brock was turning 4, Scott – who lived in Michigan at the time – came swooping in on his birthday with this giant blue bear. The kids loved it. Well, Brody loved it after he realized it wasn’t going to eat him or anything. Hanging out with Scott was always an adventure.

He did everything with enthusiasm and with his whole self. When he came to the boys’ basketball games, you better believe he was decked out from head to toe in Temple gear. He was their most loyal (and loudest) fan. When he went to Brody’s free throw competition, he started to clap and whistle. I had to tell him you couldn’t do that until it was over. He was somewhat disgruntled that he couldn’t show Brody his support from the stands.

Scott was a people person. I have never met someone – with maybe the exception of my friend Amber – who knew everyone everywhere you went. He even met the guy who owned the Animal Planet channel and house sat for him. I’ve lived here for 28 years. My brother didn’t really start living here until 2011 but he knew way more people than I did.

He was also crazy smart. I think he probably had a photographic memory – at least he’s one of the few people I know who could ace a test he never studied for! He could take apart something mechanical, fix it and put it back together. I remember we were having trouble with this recliner and he came over, took it apart and fixed it.

Scott was also very compassionate. His voice mail encouraged callers not just to leave a message, but to make a difference by serving at a homeless shelter, adopting a pet in need or donating to a cause. You could find him on Thanksgiving and during the holidays serving meals to the homeless or needy. My brother and I shared a love of animals. He volunteered at the Humane Society often and he couldn’t pass up an abandoned animal. He always had a pack of dogs and cats that he rescued. He specialized in the hopeless cases, the dogs or cats that nobody else wanted. Scott had a real heart for rescuing the abandoned. Sometimes, I think by rescuing those four-legged friends, he was rescuing himself a little bit at the same time. Despite his own struggles – or maybe because of them – he wanted so much to help others.

Scott could also be amazingly thoughtful. He loved to buy gifts for people and really made it into an art form. From the gift itself to the wrapping and even the tissue paper, he worked hard to give not just a gift but something meaningful to the recipient.

He noticed what you liked and what your interests were. He found this vintage book about sheepherding collies for me once. I still have that book. He would buy OSU things – despite being a rather rabid Michigan fan – for my son and my husband. He haunted Hobby Lobby for art supplies for Brody.

One time, he even put in newspaper that had an Ohio State football game story on it in one of my husband’s gifts because he knew Bruce was a big Buckeye fan. Now, sometimes, he didn’t quite hit the mark, but even the misses were meaningful because he put so much thought into those gifts.

Scott had the ability to not just look at someone but to really see them. So many times, we are so busy and we rush from one thing to another, not taking the time to really see the people around us, but not Scott.

I remember one time I had to have this surgery on my ear. Now, you need to know I used to be deathly afraid of needles. I still don’t like them, but at least I don’t pass out anymore at the sight of one. But at the time, the thing I was dreading the most was the IV they would have to put in my hand. The nurse came in with all of her equipment. Everyone was kind of chattering away, but my brother saw the petrified look on my face. He came over and squeezed my hand hard. “Look at me, Rosi,” I remember him saying.

Yes, my brother was like a shining light, and now that he is gone, my world is a darker place, as I think it probably is for many of you here today. Although he didn’t really realize it, Scott made a difference in a lot of people’s lives. I will always miss him – his compassion, his energy and his enthusiasm. It will always make me sad that he lost his battle with mental illness. But even though his battle here didn’t end in victory, he still won the war. In I Thessalonians 4:13, Paul tells the Thessalonians that they don’t grieve as people who have no hope. And the thing is, I have that hope. I know my brother was saved and that today, he is at peace in the presence of his Savior. His struggle, his daily battle – it’s over.

The same God that my brother is with now is the same God that has shown up for myself and my family in so many big and small ways since last Thursday – from how the officer told my parents, to reconciled relationships, to encouraging phone calls and messages. It’s because of that hope I can say today that God IS good. He IS faithful and He IS kind. Quite frankly, I don’t know how anybody can get through something like this without that hope. It’s because of that hope that I know, even though I didn’t get to say goodbye to him in this life, I will say hello to him in the next.