Eleven Years.

Today has been difficult. Today has been one of those that started in the early hours of the morning when restlessness wakes you from sleep. When the anxiety and the depression have been in check for so long and suddenly, you find yourself feeling as if you’ve made no progress, and it takes every ounce of energy you have to even sit up in bed. Today’s been a day when you look at your bottle of little white pills that are supposed to help and wonder if they’re actually just a waste of money. If all that time sitting across from someone spilling the depths of your heart and training your mind to think differently has been a waste of time. Unlike other times, though, I know why. Eleven years ago today, my brother took his own life. Eleven years ago today, everything changed. It’s been so long and yet on this day, somehow, it feels as if it just happened, the pain feels just as intense and real. Every year, I have learned the lesson that I will handle this day differently each time it comes around. Some years have been totally fine. And then there’s...today’s—days when you wonder if you should feel guilty for those times when everything has been okay. Days when you wonder why some days everything has been fine and why that can’t be the case now. Then, there’s that line from the Second Reading at Mass today: “...the weakness of God is stronger than human strength.” Every year, I realize how overconfident I can be—that I coast along, thinking I can do it all on my own. That I can handle what life throws at me alone. And every time, the Lord reminds me that I need Him. He reminds me that no matter how strong I think I may be, it is nothing compared to the strength found in Him. Every year, I beg Jesus to take the pain away. And every year, He says no. Instead, He does something better. He transforms it. He helps me to pattern the pain after His own pain. He helps me to find strength that can only be found in Him. He breaks my heart to empty it, because He isn’t going to come and fill in the empty spaces, He’s going to come and give more than even a totally empty heart can hold. He helps me learn to use the pain as an agent of love—love that transforms, love that makes all things new. Love like He gave on the Cross. Every time I think I can do it alone, the Lord gives me a wake up call. Every time, I look at the scandal and hideousness of the Cross, and He helps me to see nothing but beauty. He helps me to see nothing but Love. He helps me to find certainty in the unanswerable questions and comfort in the uncomfortable realities. He helps me take a breath, get out of bed, take one of those little white pills, look forward to the time I can sit across from someone to discuss everything again. He helps me look the devil in the face and laugh, because nothing he tries to knock me down with is stronger than a single drop of His Precious Blood given at the Cross. Maybe today isn’t totally bad, after all. I share this not to get attention, or praise, or sympathy. I share it instead because I need to know that I’m weak. I need to be unafraid of admitting my weakness. I need to be comfortable with clinging to the hope of that Cross that casts everything else that is bad away. And, so do you. You’re not God. You’re not Superman or Superwoman. You’re not someone who has it all together. And you don’t have to pretend to be. It’s okay to feel weak. It’s okay to have bad days. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to not understand. But we have to remember... ...to get up when we’re down. ...to reach out for help. ...to cling to hope. ...to hold on to the Cross. ...to seek the transforming love that makes all things new. In your kindness, please join me in praying for my big brother on this anniversary of his death. Pray for him, for my family, and especially for those who have or have thought about taking their own life, and the loved ones they leave behind.