Hope.

I shouldn’t be surprised, really. It’s late, and as I was sitting in my chair attempting to wind down from a busy day—really, a busy week, I found my mind racing. As I rocked back in forth in my chair, eyes closed, breathing deeply—listening to the calming sounds of slight gusts of wind blowing outside of my open window and hearing the Archabbey bells toll in the distance—I couldn’t get my mind to slow down. I know why, but I don’t want to think about it.

So I thought that maybe if I write, it would help. I grabbed my journal, hoping to write about something else, of course being a fool—nothing will come unless I stop ignoring what I don’t want to think about. So I stopped ignoring it. And I began to write, and my thoughts were racing so much my hand couldn’t move the pen quickly enough while still producing legible text, so I grabbed my laptop and began to type.

I can’t believe it’s been nine years.

Recently, I was on YouTube, totally not procrastinating on my homework, and I discovered an organization called MyIntent. Their goal is simple, really—they want to start conversations and spread positivity. They make simple bracelets and necklaces, with the centerpiece being a small metal ring on which someone engraves a word of your choosing. When someone goes online to order one, they are posed with a question: “What’s your word?” The point is to come up with the one word that sums up where you are in your life, or where you want to be, or what you want to be reminded of, or what you want to work on. I started thinking about it, and a flood of words took over my mind. But, none of them were right. Eventually, I got frustrated and gave up trying to figure out what my word was.

It’s really been nine years. So much has happened, so much has changed.

A little while later, I decided to go to the chapel to pray, and while I was in there, I decided to ask God what my word should be, and while I was sitting before Him in prayer, it came to me.

Today (it’s already midnight, so technically, today) is a day that, every year for almost a decade now, I have dreaded. Yet, nine years ago today I had no idea that this was going to be a day that I would dread—I wouldn’t find that out until nine years ago tomorrow, with a strange phone call in the morning as I was getting ready to get on the school bus, and a day at school wondering what I would find out once I got home.

I had no clue.

I had no clue that something like this could happen. I had no clue that I was going to have the rare experience of seeing my parents cry. I had no clue that I was going to have to explain this to so many people. I had no clue of the nightmares that would come—or the anxiety—or the breakdowns—or the haunting feeling of seeing or hearing him. I had no clue that the devil was going to take full advantage of this situation, and that I was going to be stupid enough to let him do it.

“Son, your brother, Anthony, is…he’s dead. They found him this morning. He committed suicide.”

I had no clue that sentence was going to come out of my father’s mouth. I cannot imagine how hard it was for him to say those words.

My mother and my aunt were the ones that found him. From what I remember and understand, he hadn’t shown up for work in a couple of days, which was out of the norm for him. They got into his house and after walking through, found him. He had hung himself. It’s a scene that still haunts me, although it’s a scene I never even witnessed. I’ve had enough nightmares about it to get a pretty clear idea.

In an instant, life as I knew it changed. In an instant, the family that I knew shattered and would never be able to be completely put back together.

By the end of the week, we had the funeral. I had to miss a large portion of my confirmation retreat, and dreaded the thought of having to explain what happened once again, to an entirely new group of people. It was all so strange to me.

I couldn’t wrap my mind around what was happening—that just a couple of weeks before, the man that visited my house, the man who I had talked to on the phone just a week ago, was the same man whose ashes rested in an urn on a table at the front of the room. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that my relatives were telling me, a teenager, really, a child, to go comfort my mother. I sat next to her and held her hand. I tried to understand what was happening. I started to cry, and—she comforted me. She had just lost her child, and yet, it wasn’t going to stop her from being a good mother to another one of her children. Her resilience astounded me then, as it still does today.

As the years have gone by, each year, I am amazed. I am amazed that I think I am handling everything so well and that it’s not affecting me, and then this day comes. The nondenominational rent-a-preacher who had my brother’s funeral said that time heals all wounds. That’s a lie. The wound is still there, you just learn to not focus on it as much, I guess. This day comes, and I learn that I have a head that’s a bit too big, and that I’m not as strong as I think, because I’m still haunted.

I’m haunted by the nightmares that I still have—they are very rare, but that doesn’t mean they don’t completely de-rail whatever is going on when they happen. I’m haunted when I’m walking down the street and I swear that I see his face in the crowd. I’m haunted when I’m in a crowd and suddenly, I hear someone that sounds like him. It’s kind of embarrassing to stop in your tracks and look around for someone that you know won’t be there. The disappointment makes you feel foolish for even looking.

It is hard to think of what in all of this saddens me the most—seeing my mom struggle knowing that she won’t see her son again on this side of eternity—wondering if I could have made an impact by simply say I loved him an extra time or two—but maybe, the lost opportunity. People are often surprised at how much my brother’s death saddens me and affects me when they find out that my brother and I weren’t particularly close. But that’s what hurts the most. Although we may not have been the closest of siblings in the world, he’s the only one of my siblings I can remember being in the house when I was young.

Many who know the story know this part, but I’ve intentionally left it out until now—my brother had a record. In fact, he spent a few years in prison. I left out that fact because I know how people are. You most likely would have written my entire experience off because you know, he was a “bad person” anyway. Go ahead, lie to yourself and say you wouldn’t have done it. I’ve had too many people do it to my face to live in that fool’s paradise. And I know you’re wondering and will probably ask, because people have. No, I don’t know what he did. In fact, I’ve asked not to know. People have often told me, and in many cases nearly demanded, that I find out—but I’m not going to. I would rather remember my brother the way I remember him and not risk affecting that in a negative way, and besides, knowing what my brother did to end up behind bars will not change the fact that he’s dead.

Why does this detail matter? Well, although my brother had a record and did some time behind bars, he used that time productively—to grow and to change and to become a better person. He got an education. He built a relationship with God. He built up motivation to work and to make a better life for himself and for the world around him. He was sorry for whatever it was that he did. After he got out, our family was going to have the chance to reconnect, and I was going to have the chance to actually build a relationship with a brother whom I didn’t really know all that well. On March 4, 2007, that opportunity was ripped out of my hands, and there’s no way I can get it back.

When I was sitting in the chapel and my word came to me, I really didn’t understand it. I thought it sounded too simple. Yet, the more I thought about it, the more it makes sense. When I look back on so many different experiences in my life, this word is what carried me through the most difficult times. It’s something that an experience caused me to lose, but I was able to find again once I realized that I needed God to help me—that He was going to be the One to carry me through.

Some time after my brother died…I don’t really recall the exact length of time, but I think it was a few months…something amazing happened. You see, for a time, my brother’s death made me angry, probably because I didn’t understand everything that was going on. I was angry that it was all happening. I was angry that he reached out for help from healthcare professionals and was turned down. Honestly, I was pretty angry with God, and don’t worry, I let Him know it. One day, I was cleaning my room, and when I opened my closet, I noticed a box on the back of a shelf. I didn’t remember putting it there, so I took it out, sat on my bed and opened it up. Inside that box were letters—from my dead brother. While he was in jail, since making phone calls was expensive, he would write letters to members of the family. I felt haunted again. But, I started to read them, it hit me—I was learning from him. I didn’t really get it at the time I initially received those letters, but my brother was writing to me encouraging me to be a good person—essentially encouraging me to not end up like him. Here I was, sitting in my room with a box containing a few letters, learning lessons from my big brother, months after he died. He always signed them the same—“Your big brother, Anthony.” (If you haven’t figured it out by now, yes, I have a brother with the same first name—it’s complicated, don’t ask.) It astounded me. He cared so much, and I was too young and took too many things for granted to realize it.

Finding those letters finally helped me begin to deal with what happened in a healthy way. After my brother died, I remember the counselor and some other staff at my school not helping at all—they simply said to focus on my schoolwork and everything would be fine. If a counselor ever gives you that advice, don’t walk out of their office—run.

Once I was over my anger issues with God, and felt comfortable enough to do so, I started to pray. Every day, I prayed for my brother. Then, it got boring. I had no way of knowing if my prayer was doing any good and I got discouraged. So, I stopped. I went a while without regularly praying for my brother, and probably even without regularly praying in general. Then, something happened. I was in a crowded store, and as I was walking through, I walked by a man on the phone, and for some reason I heard him say, “Why did you stop?” He sounded just like my brother. I stopped, turned around, and awkwardly looked at him before I realized what was going on and kept moving. That day, I started praying again and I haven’t stopped. Really, it’s taught me perseverance—even when I feel like my prayer isn’t doing anything, I need to keep praying.

My word is Hope.

Finding a box of letters or hearing a guy talk on the phone may both seem like simple things, but I think that they were miracles. Those were times when I clearly saw God’s hand at work in my life. Those were times when He helped me regain what I lost when my brother died—hope.

When the word “Hope” first came to me in prayer, like I said, I didn’t get it. But, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Recently, my dad finished his treatments for cancer, and thankfully, for now, is cancer free. There were quite a few times over the past year that I lost hope, and a lot of times, I felt similar to the way I did when my brother died. Worry, anxiety, fear—all these things took hold of me with a strong grip.

In both instances, it took me a while to figure out the role that hope played, and really until this word came to me in prayer, I didn’t realize that’s what was going on. You see, for me at least, hope is the opposite of worry—it’s the opposite of anxiety—it’s the opposite of fear. Having hope is what helps me to trust, it what helps me to calm down and think about things, and it’s what helps me to not worry as much. Ultimately, hope is what helps me—encourages me—to nail my anxieties to the cross so that the Lord, seeing my trust in Him, or at least my attempt, pours out His love. Hope helps me to trust a God who I can’t see but who loves me more than my mind can fathom. Hope helps me hand my life over to Him.

Of course, it’s not something that is done alone. I’ve said for a while, especially in recent years, God had blessed me—spoiled me—with amazing people that I have the privilege of calling my friends. They are such clear examples of how God works through other people—they encourage me—they remind me to hope.

This past week at ministry, I was talking with one of the ladies at the nursing home. She was talking about how it amazed her how time keeps marching on no matter what happens. She said that when her husband died, she didn’t think she could handle it, but time kept marching on, and life kept going. Hope is what helped her move on. With this day in the back of my mind all week, I couldn’t help but agree.

Nine years ago, when I found out my brother died, and I saw all the pain around me, my world stopped turning, and I felt like it was never going to start turning again. But as the 90-year-old lady at the nursing home reminded me, time marches on—life keeps going. And, it has.

It astounds me how different each year is. This day comes, and for some years, especially toward the beginning, I’d completely shut down. If I went to school, I couldn’t focus, and some years, I couldn’t even go to school. It was all too depressing. Losing a loved one is painful, but when a loved one takes their own life, it’s different. It’s almost more painful, because you are forever left with unanswered questions. This day comes every year, and on the off chance that you are handling it well, if you feel like you’re going to make it through the day okay, you just feel guilty. It’s almost as if it feels like a disservice to the one that you lost to not sit in your room depressed and crying all day. But, as the nursing home lady said, time marches on.

This year feels different than before. Probably because this whole “what’s your word?” thing happened so recently. This year, I’ve learned more about my word—hope—and in prayer have discovered that it’s something that God wants me to remember. So, yes, I’m sad. In a way, I always will be. I’m sad that I won’t see him on this side of eternity, I’m sad that there are so many questions left unanswered, I’m sad when I see my mom dealing with it all—but, there’s hope. Although I may be sad, today, I refuse to sit and to sulk. Although I’m sad, and trust me, I’ve already gotten my cry in, today, I am going to do the best that I can, for my brother, to live a day full of joy, but most importantly, a day of hope. Today, I’m going to do my best to have a hope that helps me trust our loving God, a hope that encourages me to hand my worries over to Him. I think it’s what my brother would want.

I invite you to join me—even if only for this day, if you’re discouraged, if you’re stressed, if you’re worried, look to the Cross—look to that love—and ask Him for the grace to let go and live in hope.

Finally, I ask you to join me in prayer—for my brother, my family, the families of those affected by suicide, for all who have contemplated taking their own life, for medical professionals who help these people, and for a greater recognition of the need for mental health care in our nation and in our world.

We miss you Anthony, and we love you. Rest in peace, big brother.

Love, your little brother,

Tony.

In all things, may God be glorified.

Amen.