I wasn't sure what to title this post at first; in fact, I wasn't sure why I even wanted to write it at all. Writing used to soothe me and calm my anxious nerves, but now I avoid it at all costs, probably because it forces me to be honest and vulnerable, to process my thoughts and emotions, and to accept all that I'm feeling: the good, the bad, and the horribly painful. But after searching my heart and mind, I realized that I really do need to process my thoughts in order to heal and to fully feel, and I soon discovered that "wrecked" is an adequate and all-encompassing description of my life during these 4 months since I last wrote.
It feels somewhat strange for me to even read my previous post about my summer activities and future plans, because I feel as if I am about five years older than I was back in August. Or perhaps I don't feel older; perhaps I just feel different. altered. changed. And the more time goes on, the less I am able to recognize the girl I once was, the girl with a whole family, who never feared or contemplated death, who took for granted the precious time she had with her sister, not knowing that one day, very soon, she would kill to have one more moment. A look. A smile. A hug. Even an eye roll.
My older sister, Merideth, passed away on August 24, 2013, and her death has been the closest thing to hell that I've ever experienced on earth. Shock. Pain. Confusion. Regret. Words can't even fully express the torment of my heart and spirit. And, of course, the questions: why? what could I have done to prevent this? did we not love her enough? did she even know how loved she was and still is? I ask questions, but no answers ever come.
I miss everything about Merideth. She's the last face I see when I close my eyes at night, and the first name that appears in my mind when I wake up. I am constantly reminded of her: in a smile, in a flower, in a TV show or a joke or a favorite song. She's everywhere. In this house. In the eyes of my family. In her clothes that I wear every day. She's supposed to be here. She's supposed to always be here. I keep expecting her to waltz through the front door, holding an iced-cold bottle of Corona, or to be lying on the couch when I come downstairs in the morning, surrounded by half-empty Diet coke cans and a hundred candy wrappers. I expect to see her name on my phone when I get a text, or to see her face whenever I turn around in a crowd, to see her standing there with her mega-watt smile and deep, dark eyes that twinkled when she laughed. I imagine her face whenever I go out for a run; in fact, I almost can't help but smile as I remember her look of exhaustion and impatience whenever she was forced to exercise (or really do anything that she deemed "uncomfortable"). I am constantly bombarded by reminders of her ridiculous fear of snakes, her cheese-dip cravings, her weird obsession with cats, her fascination with murder-mystery novels and TV shows, her intense love for Brandi Carlile and the Avett Brothers, her silly comments, her ability to make any situation FUN, her fervent opinions and "weird facts" that were almost never right, her incredible love for her family and for Lake Rabun, and her desire to always live a better life.
Sometimes the reality of her death takes me by surprise and envelops me, overwhelms me, knocks me down. It can't be real. There's no way she's gone. It's not supposed to happen this way. My parents should never have to spread the ashes of their child. Some days it still takes all of my strength to climb out of bed; some days I just decide not to try. And as Christmas gets closer, it becomes even harder to comprehend--I believe that this is the very first year in my whole life that I've ever wanted to skip Christmas; not just the day, but the entire season. The upcoming holidays are bound to bring with them a whole slew of memories of my sister, and a more concrete reminder that she's no longer here. Merideth loved Christmas, mostly because she was able to come home to Athens. She loved playing White Elephant with our whole family and going to church on the night of Christmas Eve; she loved wrapping presents and waking up with all of our cousins at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning, and then taking a long nap in front of the fire in the afternoon. She loved giving gifts that she knew people would enjoy, and she always got (or made) the best presents for the family-- I used to be jealous because Mom always liked her presents better than mine.
There's so much brokenness in my heart and soul. But, somehow, in the midst of that brokenness, I've also found incredible grace. Grace gives me the freedom to be honest, the freedom to mourn, to grieve, to feel pain and hurt and depression. Grace allows me to break down, to yell, to scream, to doubt, and to question. It gives me the space to feel vulnerable, to process my feelings and be honest about my anger. It allows for confusion and for suffering, but also for moments of joy. It is by His grace that I am home with my family during this season, that we were able to be together to celebrate the engagement of my older brother to his long-time girlfriend over the weekend, that I was able to travel to Costa Rica last week and feel affirmed in my desire to go on Young Life Staff. It is by His mercy that we remember everything about Merideth, that we can hear her voice, see her smile, recall her touch, and have hope that we will be united once again. It is by His love that we rejoice in Merideth's life here, that we can be thankful to have been known and loved by her, that we can learn from her scars, and that we, as a family, can love and support each other as we cry, yell, laugh, and rejoice together.
I am so very thankful to all of you for your prayers, love, and support during this difficult time. I cannot tell you what an overwhelming blessing it has been.
All my love,
Grace
