The Tale of Two Photographs and Shaky Steps Forward
“Where’s that picture of Jeremy and I in the chair at the Soldotna house?”
No one could find it. I needed that photo.
My brother and I were six years apart. We weren’t close enough in age to be everyday playmates. But we had something no one else had. We bookended the family. The oldest and the youngest of four kids.
The oldest signaled the agenda for the day while the others rolled their eyes. The youngest smiled and went with the flow in a noisy family.
The oldest lived in her brain, trying to keep the peace and follow the rules. The youngest adventured all day, knowing watchful eyes got distracted.
The oldest driven by a sense of duty and responsibility too heavy for her young shoulders. The youngest able to rest and laugh with the ease of one being held by so much love.
A week or so after my youngest brother died, my sister sent me this image and my heart broke in half.
I stared at the photo for hours. This image from 1991 somehow captured an invitation for 2022.
I felt my baby brother inviting me to rest. To set down the floating expectations and responsibilities. My only work was to be fully present to each moment. To allow the grief to sit heavy in my body. To not fight the love trying to make its way to me.
To let go. To open my hands.
Best of all – this image reminded me his love and smile were close. Very close.
For weeks, this image carried me.
Rest. Allow. Be here. Tell the truth. Feel it all. He’s with me.
Thing is, that wasn’t the photo I had been looking for.
I remembered a gift Jeremy gave me one Christmas. A poem and a picture of him leaning against me while we watched TV. I asked family members to search photo albums for it and it never turned up.
Then, one day last week, I found it in a random folder on a hard drive. Tears rolled. Gratitude held out its’ hands for grief to dance again.
What mattered so much to me about this picture? Take a look.
Now he gets to rest.
He can rest on my shoulder anytime. In life, I loved being someone he could lean on. I just loved it.
As the oldest, I took my job seriously. Probably too seriously sometimes. With four of us, I took pride in helping my parents. I liked feeling in charge, even if they didn’t listen or rolled their eyes behind my back. I loved these three humans something fierce and was determined to protect them from everything.
You can imagine the day I got the call that my youngest brother was unconscious in a hospital bed and likely to die, my heart broke in half.
I had failed him. I didn’t save him. It was my *one* job. To protect him.
I noticed the internal voice for a few days before I named her out loud to a family member. As soon as the words left my body, I crumbled. I knew, intellectually, it wasn’t true. As I sat in a theater in Los Angeles watching Wicked, I couldn’t have saved my brother that night. But that voice – that assumed story running in my veins – felt true.
So I honored her. I let the waves crash. I let that precious voice of my 10-year-old self wail. Yes, I hear you. It feels like you failed him. You felt responsible for saving him.
Oh, my reader. It hurt so bad.
And then…it didn’t. The cry subsided. I spoke to my 10-year-old self with the love and compassion of my 39-year-old self. Sweet girl, you were a wonderful big sister. He knew how deeply you loved him. It was not your responsibility to save him. I know you miss him. I do too. I will care for you while this hurts.
And you know what? It didn’t hurt as much the next day. Over the span of a week or two, I felt that storyline fade. My inner 10-year-old believed me. She let go.
My brother gets to rest now.
And what about me?
I guess I’m learning how to take one shaky step at a time into new adventures. Things he always knew I could do. Jeremy and I talk a lot about it lately. Our conversations mostly go like this:
“Jeremy, I’m scared. I don’t want to do this work without you here.”
I take a deep breath and question my sanity that I’m talking to thin air. Then I feel his presence (or my soul) whisper back,
“It’s okay to be happy.
Don’t hold back.
Go after it.
I see you.
You’re scared.
Don’t hide behind me.
I know it hurts.
But you’ve got this.
I’m with you.
Seriously.
Wherever there is love, I’m there.
You’re healing.
Use it.
For good.
For love.
For people.
You’re not pushing against my energy.
I’m in the river with you.
Floating and living it up.
Let it happen.
Watch the doors swing open.
You don’t have to try so hard.
We’ve got you.
Love’s got you.”
He senses my hesitation. He adds,
”Jenny, my hands are open too.”
As I sit on the grass leaning against a picnic shelter in my neighborhood, my shoulders shake with sobs. I look up and see an eagle soar by.
Well played, Jeremy. Well played.
In life, I loved being someone he could lean on.
In death and this life to come, I will lean on him. Every step of the way.
I think he’s honored right now to care for his big sister. To teach me what he did so easily. Play, relax, rest, love.
We now offer you the poem he wrote in the frame a decade ago as we prepare to honor all who mother in this season. The ways you care for your people are noticed and felt, more than you may ever know.
Three gifts from my siblings one Christmas
Where do I begin my loving sister?
Seriously, where do I begin?
We used to joke that you were our second mom,
Don’t know why it was a joke,
You changed our diapers, played with us, put us to sleep
And I’m sure you probably always did it with a smile.
Now that I see how much of a natural mother you are,
I am extremely thankful that you had that impact on
My life, I certainly didn’t understand it at the time.
You are an amazing sister, and inspiration in my life.
Love Always, Jeremy