When my older brother Tim died on Ascension Day 2010, the numbness of loss eventually gave way to deep turmoil and pain; I knew my choice was to become “A Quartz contentment, like a stone” (as Emily Dickinson described) or to lean into the grief and into my faith: trusting no matter this darkest depth, God was still my dwelling place.
May 13, 2010 was the darkest of days, but I knew one day the grief would be redeemed, even if I never saw the light of that redemption on this side of heaven.
“Costly in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints” (Psalm 116:15). I believed Tim’s life mattered, he made an impact on his family and friends, but I came to realize, “the righteous perish and no one ponders it in his heart; devout men are taken away, and no one understands…” (Isaiah 57:1).
I always stopped there, not finishing the verse, knowing those who loved Tim also grieved his loss. I lost friends who abandoned me, and told me to “move on”.
Move on to what? The depth of pain allowed me to find a seat on the global bench of suffering at the young age of 32. I had already walked my best friend through profound loss when we were 20 — but then facing it as a sister who was now a mama with 3 very young girls unraveled me.
The rest of the verse in Isaiah reads — “…to be spared from evil. Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death” (vs 2). I was relieved my brother was no longer suffering… and yet losing him has never settled into a sense of fair exchange. It never will, and the longer I live, the more questions I hold — but I am unafraid to ask. I am bolder in everyday life and extend more quickly in friendship now.
There’s something about the passage of time which affords more clarity and more of a vision for life now versus how I imagined it. Over the last 16 years, my heart has softened. I’ve learned to lean into the pain of this loss as a catalyst for loving others. There is no hidden understanding on my part, years after this event, but a deepened faith, a closer kinship trusting God.
“How can you love a God who allowed your brother to die?” a number of friends – and even strangers – have asked.
My reply: Why should I expect my life to be at the center of the world? Or Tim’s? Plenty of young, good people find death earlier than anticipated. I realized that holding value in the time we are here, today, is vital, in pursuing friendships and loved ones in meaningful ways.
Tim’s death at 34 felt unfair, he’d been cheated a full life, opportunity, milestones, and reward.
However, four months prior to his death, Tim lost a good friend, David, in the Jan 2010 Haitian earthquake. We processed together, especially how David was there serving others when he died, so that felt unfair, and he told me what he knew David wanted for his young family – to care for them, help them find emotional healing, and navigate what life looked like now. How to keep his memory alive.
So then four months later when Tim died, I found a safe community of others who were grieving, and connections in that group brought sources of healing. The emotional devastation I faced following Tim’s death opened avenues in my life to mature in profound ways. Tim had lived for seven years after his first heart surgery and defied the odds, and he and Jeni had 3 children… that felt like a miracle.
Anderson Cooper and Stephen Colbert discussed grief and suffering, after each experienced tremendous loss at a young age. Colbert commented, “It’s a gift to exist, and with existence comes suffering. There’s no escape in that. But if you are grateful for your life, then you have to be grateful for all of it.” I think this is an apt reminder that life is a gift, and we would be wise to cherish and value time with loved ones each day.
A wise family member reminded me that when we lose those who lived in faith, who trusted God with their lives, they are now face-to-face with Jesus. Our loved one holds no burdens of our world. The pain they carried is gone. Tim was healed through death. Those are all difficult realities to accept.
I’ve leaned into the Lord, into asking questions which have no answers, and am still learning to journey in faith. To use my pain for his glory.
Over the years, I’ve also learned to not waste the pain of grief, but to hopefully be a source of comfort and peace for others who suffer similarly. I developed better habits like grieving in healthier ways; writing stories and poetry through grief delivers much emotion surrounding my struggles, and can be an incredible balm for my soul. Tim encouraged me to write our grandmother’s story of growing up in Indonesia, then the Netherlands, and immigrating to Los Angeles.
I also try to remember Tim through demonstrating some positive attributes he embodied. Tim was witty and full of life. He was gracious and giving, and random acts of kindness and generosity were important to him. He volunteered in the community, met with young fathers in accountability groups, and so forth.
Tim loved and cared for others with a bright wisdom, compassionate soul, humorous approach, and generous spirit. Our brother Daryl helped me realize that when I pursue moments of kindness, grace, or generosity, especially hidden acts of kindness, I can remember Tim as I love and serve others.
I see Tim’s legacy thrive through his children — in Blake’s humble kindness, Logan’s gentle compassion, and Dekker’s spunky humor. Tim would be delighted at the three incredible kids Jeni raised. Grief can be a catalyst for caring for others when they are facing similar loss, and for sitting on the bench of suffering beside another, knowing words are inadequate, but someone’s presence can be an act of love.
I know Tim would be proud of his family and the lives we are living. Living intentionally, and with meaning, has been something of incredible value as well, and a way to honor the friendship I held with my brother.
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