Dear Daughters,

 This week is the 23^rd anniversary of my brother’s, your Uncle Steve’s death.  He was only 40 years old,  his life ending much too soon.

Steve loved the outdoors.  One of his favorite pastimes was canoeing down the Snake River, sometimes coming home with a banged-up canoe after going through some tougher than expected white water.

I can still see him playing the piano with his large muscular hands.  One of his favorites was Easter Song by Annie Herring.  I appreciated how he worked so hard to get those demanding octaves in the left hand.

He also loved to whistle.  In church when other people would be singing, Steve would whistle.  He and I sang duets together, spent time together, but he never talked about the depths of despair that haunted him.

He went to Mexico to help the poor.  He loved God but had a difficult time loving people.  No one knew, not even Steve himself, why interpersonal relationships were so challenging….

I remember that dark day well.

Our family, many of your aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents had planned to spend four days in the beautiful heart of the Sawtooth Mountain Range in Idaho.  Redfish Lake was our destination, sitting at an elevation of 6,550 feet above sea level, where the waters are crystal clear and the beaches are sandy.

Our full family van had recently arrived from Kansas, our home at the time, anticipating another splendid summer vacation with our family in Idaho. It was a tradition, you remember, for as long as you girls have been living.  Each summer our extended family would gather together for three nights and four days, enjoying mountain climbing, water skiing, canoeing, and simply delighting in time together.

We were planning to meet the whole family at Redfish Lake which was about a three hour drive north, each family taking their own vehicle.  The day was sunny and hot, as they always are in July.  Dad, Jodi and Stephanie were well on their way up Highway 75 in Grandpa’s motor home.  I was following behind with Joslyn and Amanda in our car, eager to see the beauty that awaited us. I stopped to wait at a designated spot to meet up with Uncle Steve and some of his children, but he never showed up.  We waited and waited until Uncle John came and stated the reason that he had not come.  Steve had been found – dead.

Even though I was told plainly with words that my brother was dead, my mind could not comprehend that fact.  I was in complete denial and drove to the hospital to see which room he had been admitted.  When they told me there was no one registered by that name I walked away in a daze. I don’t remember how, but eventually we all ended up at his house and walked out to the garage where the death took place.

The details of the story slowly emerged.  It happened the evening before, July 4 – Independence Day – when Uncle Steve took his own life.  From his perspective, life had become unbearable and he could no longer survive the emotional turmoil that was raging inside him.

Just two days before, Grandma and I had visited him as he was settling into his new apartment.  He seemed OK, although he always was a man of few words and little emotion.

As we were driving away from his home that dark evening, the guilt, shame and stigma of suicide began to descend on Dad and I.  I was embarrassed, humiliated and ashamed that this happened to our family.  This was for other families, not mine.  Yes, I knew that my cousin had also given up on life a few years earlier, but things seemed to be better in our family.

I was absolutely certain that no one would show up at the funeral.  It was too horrifying to think about, much less talk about.  In my mind I imagined that I had a big black letter “S” sewn on my back.  I felt like an untouchable, a reject, cast out to sit on the ash heap. Dad, one of the few who could stay focused on what needed to be done, helped my sisters and me go through the dull motions of picking a funeral home, choosing the casket, writing an obituary, planning the service – something I had not been prepared to do on my carefree vacation to Idaho.

Then came the day of the visitation.  I was going to be strong and greet the people who could possibly be brave enough to stand with us in this atrocious grief.  But as I walked into the dimly lit parlor and saw his body lying lifeless, his trademark pith helmet lying on his chest, I stayed for a few seconds and then fled out of the room, sobbing uncontrollably.

The day of the funeral dawned even though I was hoping it would never arrive.  With legs like lead I got dressed and mechanically prepared the family to go.  I was quite certain that maybe, just maybe, there might be two rows of people brave enough to attend.  Who in their right mind would want to be identified with such an atrocity?

When I walked in the doors of the church, my high school friend, Lora, was there with tears and a hug.  She had heard the news and she had come.  Some cousins came from Washington to grieve with us.  People trickled into the church until it was packed.  I remember nothing of the service, just sitting there numb, except for the overwhelming fact that there were people who came and cared and cried with us.

God was there in those people who took time out of that glorious summer day, and it was because of those people that I knew for certain that God still loved our family.  I was afraid that He would perhaps turn His back on us but the presence of many who cared assured me that God was present, even in the midst of our personal horror.

Riding in the family coach on the way to the cemetery I watched as people mowed their lawns, played catch with their children, some laughing as they were talking to their friends.  I wanted to scream at them to stop.  STOP.  STOP and cry and wail with me.  The whole world, all of you, should stop, everyone should feel the same heart-breaking grief that I‘m feeling.  There should be no smiles, no laughter, no joy….not today, not now, maybe not ever again.

It was a fierce good-bye.

Uncle Steve had devised a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

It took months, no it was years slowly turning into decades, to be able to process all that had happened.  I read books about suicide, I grieved with friends, cried while singing in church, mourned with tears of unspeakable guilty grief into the early hours of many mornings. To this day there are still more questions than answers.  I honestly think Uncle Steve had no idea about the grief others would suffer because of his death, simply because he was hurting so badly himself.  I bring up this memory of Uncle Steve to thank you, daughters, for choosing to live even when your marriage gets hard and fractured, when life hurts and everything seems so unfair.  When you are in the depths of despair, when your heart is breaking, God walks with you and I will walk with you.  He’s there even when you slog through the valley of the shadow of death.  He is permanently there.  Always.  He will never leave you nor forsake you.  There is always hope, light, and life, even when life seems hopeless, dim and futile.

Always choose life.  Love fiercely.

Love, Mom