Eleven

The greatest day that I've ever had,

Is when I learned to cry on command.

Love myself, better than you,

I know it's wrong, but what should I do?

I'm on a plain,

I can't complain.

-Nirvana, On A Plain

I probably don't have anything new to say about this year.
Eleven always makes me think of Spinal Tap. Pretty much the same as ten.  Why don't you just make ten louder? Because there's something beyond it? Eleven.
I looked back on years 7 through 10, I've said a lot of stuff about my brother on this blog, not much has really changed.  I can still find where the hurt is, but now I can choose when to touch it.
It actually sort of troubles me sometimes that I can choose not to touch the pain. For the first couple of years, I really didn't have much of a choice, it would just roll in on me and kick me repeatedly in the face.  Now, I have learned to use it and keep it in a box.  It comes out on certain days: April 10, Jon's birthday, July 23, the day he died.  I know I'm a little early this year, but the 23rd is a Saturday and I'm usually not blogging on Saturday. Plus, I'm trying to decide whether or not to trot out the tragedy for another sermon illustration.
Honestly I feel like every time I use it I'm just sort of pulling a Nigel Tufnel and turning thing up to eleven, so I'm careful, I think. I've had over a decade to deal with the emotional sucker punch of a drug overdose to the little brother, the emotional weight of such things can very easily be a shock to the senses. But July 24 gave me Luke 11: 1-13, about prayer, how to pray and how God answers our prayers... or doesn't, or maybe does things a little differently than you expected.
The overwhelming question people have about a tragic death is, "Why?" I understand it, but it's not really a very good question.  We all die, and in the scope of eternity a couple of years or decades really doesn't make much difference.  In the end, I believe, God heals all our wounds and picks up all our broken pieces and makes everything beautiful in its time.
Acceptance, the last of Elizabeth Kubler-Ross's five stages of grief.  Is that where I am? I guess so.  Do I get a diploma? Maybe a trophy?  No, I still just get the presence of an absence
These numbered posts, don't really feel like poking a wound anymore, they're more like the ache of an old scar.
Here's a walk down memory lane if you want it:
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten


Eleven