I lost my brother just about thirteen years ago. Sometimes, even now it seems such a fresh wound that it’s only natural to suddenly be broadsided by grief. Today is Jim’s birthday. He would have been fifty-five. It’s difficult… no, really it’s impossible to imagine him at fifty-five. I think he was never meant to grow old. Instead, he took his own life at forty-two, depriving me of the surprise of seeing him grow old along with me.
I loved Jim for all the good things I saw in him, and he hated himself for all the good he did not see. I never understood, when he was alive, how he could be so blind to the good in him. Somehow, with the grieving process came an understanding of that part of him, though. An understanding, and the realization that we were more alike than I’d ever realized. I’d always felt unworthy of love. In fact, if I believed someone loved me, I convinced myself quite easily that it was because I’d fooled them into thinking I was better than I really was. As a result, I would feel even more unworthy, and I believe this is where Jim and I were most alike.
In grieving my brother, I came to realize that perhaps I was no less worthy of his, or anyone else’s love than he was. It didn’t happen overnight, but in the thirteen years since his death, I have come to love myself. I realize that I am capable of great devotion, loyalty and compassion. Those were things Jim shared with me as well. He was not perfect, and neither am I. Both of us have had our share of being misunderstood. Still, we were and are no more flawed than most, and just as deserving of love and devotion in return.
Jim left behind three children; two grown sons I’d never known and a teenage stepdaughter I knew only slightly. I had loved them all through their father, and shared his sense of sadness in losing them when marriages fell apart. He thought they were better off without him, but felt a profound sense of loss, all the same. I never believed they were better off, and only prayed that they would find their way back to him someday.
Ah, but in the words of Creedence Clearwater Revival, Jim’s favorite band when he was a boy, “Someday never comes.” In 1998, in a hunting trailer borrowed from another brother, outside a small town near Missoula, Montana, Jim could not cope any more with the loneliness and the pain of being a man undeserving of goodness. He stole a gun from a neighbor and ended his own pain.
After his death, I began to wish that I’d known his children better. I wanted to have them in my life. I wanted to be a reminder for them of how much love their father had for them, and to prove to him that his love could be a positive influence. I had no idea how to go about finding them or connecting with them, but I thought of them often. In 2000, I found his stepdaughter and reached out, unsure of what I was really doing. We shared a couple of letters; she sent me a photo of Jim from a happier time. Then, in moving from one home to another, I lost her address and never found it again.
2010 brought me many gifts. Last spring, in a moment of sadness thinking about Jim, I typed his eldest son’s name into a Facebook search, and I found him there. I was unable to see photos or information, but wrote a short message to him telling him I would like to be a part of his life. I sent the message, not really expecting anything. I didn’t hear back from him, but I did start thinking about my niece again, and tried her name. When I saw the list of women with her name, I had little hope of finding her, but decided to give it a try anyway. Only half a page down, I spotted a thumbnail photo of a thin, dark-haired young woman. I told myself it “could be” her, and I wrote her a message, too. I asked if she was Jim’s stepdaughter. I did not expect to hear anything. To my surprise, within hours, she had replied. Yes, she told me. She went on to tell me she was married with three children, that the oldest shared my name. And at the end of her message, she said, “You can just call me his daughter. I do.”
I burst into tears, and I knew that Jim had a hand in leading me to her. She and I have corresponded over the past nine months. I see the photos she posts of her children. I got to wish her a happy birthday.
A few weeks ago, I logged on to Facebook to find a connection request from my nephew. Even more tears, this time, as I looked at photos of a face I would have known anywhere and read the name of his infant son, James.
I felt my brother’s hand, not only in bringing us together but on my shoulder. I heard his voice saying, “Thank you.” I could only imagine the twinkle in his eye and the grin spreading over his face… it had been a long time since I imagined that.
We have a long way to go, to be a family. My niece is in Missouri, my nephew in North Dakota, and I am here in Florida. But even if I never meet them again, I know I can be here for them if they need me; I can reach out and remind them of the goodness of the father they shared. I will make certain that their father’s love is a positive influence in their lives.
I miss my brother more today than ever, but on this, his fifty-fifth birthday, there is peace in missing him.
