I walked through the city with a heavy heart today. Sipping on a cup of steamed soymilk, I noticed the expressions of the people that walked passed me. A smile, a nod, a giggle from a 5-year-old girl.
None of those people knew what their expressed kindness meant to me.
None of those people were aware I had just lost someone in my life... yet again.
Many of you already know that my brother-in-law, Mike Brown, passed away on Monday afternoon.
After learning his wife (my sister) and his youngest son did not survive a car accident that he barely walked away from last March, life became unbearably hard.
Mike took his own life on Monday afternoon.
Two years after we lost Ryan's dad to suicide.
Both times with a gun.
I'm sure many of you wonder why I share this intensely private manner. Why I'm so willing to put these words (suicide) on a virtual page.
I pondered the same questions as I wandered through downtown Austin.
Why do I feel this need to share?
As I picked through a barrel of oranges, I thought of my nephew, who now must walk forward without a mother, a brother, or a father.
As I ran my finger across a book binding, I thought of my husband, who misses his dad everyday and often wonders if he could have done something more.
And as I watched a young father feeding a jar of baby food to his child, I thought of Mike, who wasn't just Pam's husband or my brother-in-law or Joshua's father.
Mike was a beautifully broken human being--just like all of us. And when one of us dies, the whole world feels it. We all mourn.
Within a few hours of initially sharing the news, I received phone calls, messages, emails, and hugs. Humans, we join together to mourn, just as we join together to celebrate.
The sight of a baby can bring strangers to a place of laughter, can evoke the memory of a soft cheek and a gentle lullaby.
Just as the word of an untimely death can prick our hearts and stir our souls, no matter how distant that person might be from our daily lives.
Tonight, I know that hundreds, maybe thousands, hold Joshua close to their hearts. I know they mourn the death of a man who lost so much and felt so painfully alone.
Tonight, I remember Mike, who I've known as long as I've been alive. I remember his laughter, his hugs, the way he rolled his eyes, and how he could always make all my sisters laugh. I can hear him call me, "sweetie", and I catalog how endearing it was, and how endearing it still is.
I thank God for the kindness of friends and strangers. I thank God that despite what some might feel we are never truly alone, that we are all connected on levels deeper than we understand.
In the smiles of the people who walked the same congested street today, I saw hope. I felt swallowed in the pulsing and enveloping blanket of life.
So I write to give hope to those who are hurting, to those who have lost someone, and to all of us (no exception) who will lose someone soon.
Amidst sorrow, there is always life. We are intimately connected--the whole human race--and there is a comfort in that. I know.
Always,
Monet
Anecdotes and Apple Cores
