Ten.

Numbers are weird. A lot of what we do in our world revolves around numbers—how we tell what time of day it is, or for that matter, what day it is—numbers are crucial in keeping track of our money—our grades in school are determined by numbers—the distances and speeds that we travel…it’s all numbers.

Numbers are also seen to be symbolic. Immediately, I think of the numbers 3, 7, and 40 and their significance in the Bible and in our Catholic faith. Right now, we are at the beginning of the 40-day observance of Lent. Even beyond religious symbolism, there are quite a few superstitions about numbers as well—people supposedly die in groups of three, the number thirteen is seen as somewhat cursed, the number seven to be lucky, just to give some examples.

Numbers help us mark important events as well. Married couples anticipate their anniversary—that day that marks another year into the married life. In fact, I believe there are even certain gifts that are supposed to be given depending on which number anniversary it is. Priests and religious celebrate jubilees after a certain number of years of ordination or profession of vows.

Today, the number 10 sticks out to me. When you think about it, 10 is a pretty significant number…it’s the first that reaches “double digits,” it’s the birthday that every child looks forward to, and nearly every parent cannot believe came so quickly. Ten is a nice round number…we like things in sets of ten. Most of our money is in amounts divisible by ten. We measure our time by sets of ten years called decades. Historically, we tend to look at things by these decades—the roaring twenties, the depression of the thirties, the sexual revolution in the sixties, the seemingly horrendous fashion choices in the seventies and eighties, and so on.

Today, the number ten sticks out to me, because today my family observes a tenth anniversary. Notice that I said “observes,” and not “celebrates,” because this anniversary is one that would not properly merit a celebration.

Ten years ago today, my big brother didn’t show up for work. It wasn’t like him—they called all day and got no response. They figured he might be sick. Ten years ago tomorrow, he still didn’t show up, and he still didn’t answer the phone. Ten years ago tomorrow, I was an eighth grade student who was packing my bag for school when the phone rang, and from the other side of the room I could hear screams coming from the other end of the line, before being told to go outside and wait for the bus. Ten years ago tomorrow, I spent all day wondering what that phone call was about. Ten years ago tomorrow, I got home to walk down our long driveway and into the house to find my dad pacing back and forth in a suit, not the normal activity or attire of a retired man on a Monday afternoon. Ten years ago tomorrow, with a paralyzed look on his face and a glazed over sorrow in his eyes, my dad uttered the words “Your brother is dead.” It was the first time I had ever seen him, the strongest man I know, cry. It was one of the events that made me realize that it is okay to cry. It showed me what a good man he was—my brother wasn’t his son, but his love of him was deep enough to make him feel like he lost a child that day.

Tomorrow, it will have been ten years since my mother had to walk in on that horrific scene left over from the day before. Mothers shouldn’t have to see their children die, and certainly shouldn’t have to walk in a room to discover that their child has taken their own life. He was one of her four children, who on March 4, was only 24 years, 4 months, and 4 days old…remember when I talked about superstitions? She’s not a big fan of the number four now.

Ten years ago today, my brother became a statistic. According to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, suicide is the tenth leading cause of death in our nation. My brother became one of the 44,193 Americans who die by their own hand every year. Because he was a man, he contributed to the statistic that men are three and a half times more likely than women to die by suicide. Because he was white, he contributed to the statistic that roughly 70% of suicides are by white men. Statistically, my family shares this day with about 120 others. 121 families who today and on this day for the rest of their lives will live through the pain all over again.

But, my older brother is more than a statistic—he was a person. He was a person who made mistakes, but a person who turned his life around and wanted to make things right. He was a person who taught me many lessons, even in his death. (I’ve written on these pages about my brother’s death and how it has impacted me before. Those postings can be found here and here.) In marking our time off in segments of ten years, “ten” is supposed to give us the opportunity to start over…to have a fresh beginning. That’s exactly what my family wanted, and I think it’s what my brother wanted, too. But, it’s just that very opportunity that was ripped out of our hands right as we got it, and the longer I live and the more I think about it, that might just be the most painful part.

As I said in the paragraph immediately above, this anniversary is something I’ve written about before. I have to be honest; I didn’t think I was going to write anything today. But, when I woke up, I knew I had to. Although dealing with my brother’s death and the ways it has impacted me has so far passed ten years of a life-long journey, it is something that is always changing. For me, writing about it is a tangible way of going through the extended parts of the grieving process…year by year I look back at what I have written on these pages and the more personal things I’ve kept to myself in the pages of my journal, and I am able to see what has changed and what is still there. For the longest time, my brother’s death was almost like a dirty family secret—its something that really no one else can understand, even if they’ve been through it themselves. But sometimes, actually most of the time, keeping things that need to be dusted off and exposed to the fresh air and the sunlight a secret can be the worst thing you can do. Writing about this has allowed me in my extroverted ways to take time to really reflect, and it has led to beautiful messages being sent my way and meaningful conversations.

When I look back, over the past ten years, so much has changed in our family, and so much has changed with me. While there is beauty in it all, as I look back I only wonder how things would have been different today had things played out in a different manner ten years ago. Yet, at the same time, there is a sense of meaninglessness in even posing the question. That may sound weird, but it makes sense in my own mind. I guess that, at least to me, dwelling on what could have been does nothing but hold us back from what can be. This doesn’t mean that we abandon our loved ones whom we have lost, but rather, to honor them, we mourn them appropriately and we never forget them, but we move forward in living our lives. That, of course, would look different for every single individual.

As I look at today, and “today” over the past few years, there is a peace. Today is really the first time that I woke up, fully knowing what today was, and my heart wasn’t filled with sadness. I mean, of course there was a sense of sadness, but it wasn’t as prominent, or more precisely, overwhelming, than it normally is. I think it marks a different place in grief. I think part of it has to do with a change in mindset that I made—one that wasn’t necessarily easy, but one that has helped. Last year, I wrote about how, although I was sad, I was going to do my best to live a day of hope. You can click here to see exactly what I meant by that. Living in hope is part of what it means to live the Christian life. Today, though, is also a reminder of God’s mercy—which may sound ironic. I’ll explain…

Over the past year, much of it being the Jubilee Year of Mercy in the Church, I have learned quite a bit about how to deal with my brother’s death, and specifically, about how to face my biggest fear—ministering to someone who has lost a loved one to suicide, or even more anxiety-inducing, ministering to someone who is suicidal. I wanted to make sure that I wouldn’t simply project my own experience onto theirs, or, even worse, completely lose it while listening to their story. I’ve been able to reflect quite a bit, both in classes I’ve taken and in my own spiritual life, about how to “settle” a lot of things with my brother’s death. Today, I sent emails to my diocesan brothers and my seminary community, asking for their prayers for my brother on this anniversary of his death. One of the replies I got stuck out to me quite a bit. It came from a Franciscan sister who teaches in our school. She said, “I pray for him, for you and your family in the mystery of the unfathomable mercy of God.” Wow.

You see, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how this story of my brother fits into the story of God’s Mercy. It must—our God is one of justice, yes, but it is justice which is always balanced by His Mercy—a Mercy that, as Sister so rightly says, is an unfathomable mystery.

It’s really all caught up in the drama that is the Cross of Christ—a drama that is appropriately reflected upon in this season of Lent. Some of our brothers and sisters of other Christian denominations often question why we Catholics keep the Crucifix—the Cross with the body of Christ still on it—so prominently in our homes and in our churches. To me, I don’t think we could have it any other way, because the drama of the Cross is the greatest love story there ever was—the greatest sign of Mercy that we will ever know. Yes, there was resurrection, but only after the Cross. This same Christ who died for us on the Cross also calls us in the Sacred Scripture to pick up our own crosses in order to follow Him.

Sometimes, though, our crosses don’t make sense—but other times, embracing our cross in order to follow Christ has moments of making sense in the most beautiful ways.

A couple of weeks ago, I was at my ministry assignment—a hospital, getting ready for the start of my time there. Before my classmates and I begin the day at ministry, we meet with our supervisor who gives us a list of patients that we can visit, and at times, points out specific patients who may need some attention or care. She gave me my worst fear—a patient who was suicidal. He was in the hospital because he tried taking his life by jumping off of a bridge, and while he thankfully survived, he broke his arms and legs. I was incredibly nervous. What on earth was I going to say to this man? Was I going to be able to focus and to listen?

I visited a couple of other patients first to get myself reoriented to the task. Then, I went to his room. I knocked on the door, opened it, and a man who looked eerily similar to my own brother was in the hospital bed. When he spoke, it was almost as if I was talking to my brother himself. I slightly panicked. Thankfully, a nurse was in the room and was going to give him a bath, so I needed to come back later. I took some time to go outside and calm myself. I have had encounters before where someone looked or sounded like my brother to me—honestly, I think that it is the evil one’s way of trying to mess with me at times. But this was different—this was a man who not only looked and sounded like my brother, but tried to end his own life, as well. I went to talk to one of the hospital chaplains, but they were all out in their units, so no one was there, so I called my dad and partially explained the freaky situation, and how it was basically my biggest fear in ministry. I’m glad I made that phone call, because my dad shared wisdom I needed to hear—he said, essentially, that I had two options—I could either embrace the Cross, fight through the anxiety and awkwardness of the situation and come out the other side better, and probably help this guy along the way, or I could run away from it. Running away, I have to admit, did cross my mind. I had a whole list full of patients—pages of them—it would have been extremely easy just to pass over his name. But, I took my dad’s advice and faced my fear, and while I won’t share any significant details, it was the most moving visit I’ve made to a patient in the hospital—not that I was there for me, but in journeying with this man and hearing his story, I benefited quite a bit. My dad was right—it is in embracing the Cross that we can experience indescribable beauty and growth.

There is probably more I could say, but part of me says that I shouldn’t. As the end of this day draws near, I humbly ask that all who read these words please keep my brother and the repose of his soul in your prayers—but pray, too, for all who suffer from mental illnesses, those who have taken their own lives, and the families that they leave behind. May all of them—and all of us experience the powerful Mercy which flowed forth from the side of Christ on the Cross.

May my big brother rest in peace, and in all things, may God be glorified.

Amen.