Topics: death, grief, loss of a loved one, religion

October 8th, 2019. It was the day after what would’ve been your 27th birthday. The photographer was coming the next morning to take listing photos of your house, and I was tasked with last-minute staging. I remembered what my dad had told me: no photos with faces, no items with names; less is more, but some is best. Homey touches help appeal to potential buyers.

After grabbing a few items from my own shelves, I decided I should also switch out the picture in the frame on your bookcase. Maybe a photo of a sunset or a vintage car—something with character but nothing too personal. 

I smiled (just a little) as I grabbed the box labeled “Hunter’s Negatives”. To an uninformed observer, this looks like a self-deprecating version of an affirmation jar. Thankfully, it’s just photos, not insults. With each envelope, your affinity for organization shined. Each individual packet had the receipt taped to the front, cataloging the time, place, and store that developed the film. Organized oldest to newest, the box was a chronological time capsule of the past six years. 

I flipped through the hundreds of glossy pictures, careful to return each group to its proper sleeve. I pulled out any that I thought might work for framing...and a few that I selfishly wanted to hold on to just a bit longer. Our cats. Mom’s Christmas decor. Scout. Your motorcycle. A rusted old Chevy sitting in an empty field. Although pictures of people were few and far between, something about the captured objects felt uniquely personal. I wasn’t reliving your memories; I was actually seeing life through your eyes. 

One photo, though, stopped my search altogether. From a sleeve dated 7/31/15, it was a picture of a poster hanging on a nondescript wall. The poster was of a man in a pith helmet reaching for a beer. No doubt you saw it in a bar somewhere and thought, “That’s cool,” and snapped a photo. But the beer ad and fun hat weren’t what you thought was special. No, it was the words that piqued your interest. I know why you took that photo without even having to ask you. It was the ad copy that caught your attention: “Above all, courage.”

Courage meant something to you. It was a theme throughout your life. The promise of Joshua 1:9—a command of strength and courage—was something you wholeheartedly leaned into, and it held you together even when the world set out to tear you apart. 

I looked at the picture and cried. I want to have courage. I want to be brave. But it’s so hard! The last few weeks have broken me down in ways I never knew were possible. Above all, courage. ABOVE ALL, COURAGE?!? God, give me courage! Jesus, get me through this!

At that moment, my best friend Alyssa walked through my front door. She saw me crying and took the photo from my shaking hands. I didn’t need to explain it, the message spoke for itself. She lived through this nightmare too; she knows it takes a hell of a lot of effort to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Some might call that effort courage, but trust me, it never feels courageous. It feels like brokenness. It feels like fear. It feels like falling apart and over and over again.

I took a deep breath and I reminded myself that falling apart wasn’t an option right now. Grief will have to wait because I need to find a picture. A throw pillow. A bowl of fake apples. Homey touches. There was work to do. I wiped my tears and composed myself. Together Alyssa and I packed my car and set out for Ridgeway Street. Another horrible task in the landscape of this unimaginable cluster(f&*$).

We spent about an hour completing our morose chores before deciding a drink was in order. Alyssa suggested a place down the road. It was sort of on our way home, plus it had easy parking and a full bar. Perfect. 

By the time we arrived, it was a little past six. The restaurant was busy, and the host informed us there was only one table immediately available: the corner booth way in the back. We assured her we weren’t picky, just thirsty. (And emotionally exhausted.) I sighed as I slid onto the wooden bench. I picked up a menu and glanced it over before handing it to Alyssa. As I lifted my head, something caught my eye. Suddenly, my heart skipped and a shiver ran down my spine. No. Fricken. Way. It can’t be! Can it?

Shocked and a little terrified, I told Alyssa to look behind her. Of all the walls, in all the pubs, in all of Grand Rapids, we were facing this one. Of all the seats, in all the booths, in all the dining spaces, we sat in this one. Of all the eateries, and all the bars, and all the places close by, we stumbled into this one. 

Low and behold, there it was staring back at me, “Above all, courage.”

I was in complete disbelief as I sat exactly where you sat, looking at exactly what you were looking at when you took the photo. Well, ok, not exactly. When you were here, the wall was red. They painted it; it’s blue now. But the corner booth, the exposed ductwork, the overhead outlet...there was no mistaking it. 

And at that moment, there was no mistaking the message, either. God winked, and I felt it with every fiber of my being, “Be strong. Be courageous. I am with you, and I command you: above all, courage.” 

That phrase meant something to you, and after that moment, it meant something to me as well. Those words were seared into my soul and not a single day has passed where I don’t think about them. I wear them engraved on a necklace. I repeat them over and over again in my head. I use them to help me put one foot in front of the other. During all the worsts of the worst of the past year, I have clung to courage.

To be fair, I haven’t changed my mind about grief— it is still a cesspool of fear and brokenness—but I cling to the hope that maybe, just maybe, I won’t always be in the cesspool. Maybe that’s why you clung to the idea of courage, too. Not because you felt bravery and strength protected you from getting torn apart, but rather that you could move forward and heal again after the fact. Above all, courage is the factor that allows you to prevail despite falling apart. That’s a perspective I can get behind.

And speaking of perspective, when I think of how asinine this story is, I giggle. God winked, but you definitely trolled. Messing with me from heaven...well played, little bro. Well played.

Above all, courage.