Six months.

Next week will officially be the six month mark since losing Mikael.

One of the hardest things about losing someone seems to be the simple fact that people move on. It almost seems as if the funeral is the ultimate show of our grief and sorrow and it is also the peak of when people show their support. Days turn into weeks, and weeks into months and soon I'm left here in my sorrow as people have moved on with their seemingly happy, sorrow-less lives.

Yet here I am, the sister, heart aching because it's kicking in - that realization that he's gone and not just away somewhere.

What stops me from sharing this is false guilt that somehow people are tired of hearing about this. Not only that, but I often refer to this part of my life as the mood killer. (Said jokingly and also seriously.) What I mean by that should be pretty obvious, but I'll explain more... 

Losing my brother is the current news in my life. It's the thing that I'm reminded of daily, if not hourly. It's always in my head. Not quite like what it was at first, but it's my reality. Yet fear instantly floods me when people ask how I am because to be honest would mean telling them about my broken heart over losing my brother. It would mean admitting to the fact that even though I may seem okay and happy, there's a heaviness in my heart. Yes, I have joy, I laugh at things and still enjoy being silly - but the reality of brokenness is very real right now. I am living in both states of total joy and sorrow. It's confusing to me and I'm sure it's confusing to others. Not only that, but in the "Christian" circle there seems to be such a false pressure to find peace in losing someone quickly because of our promise of heaven. (But that's a discussion for another time.)

So therefore, I usually shield people from the truth. Even the people close to me - almost as if it's especially the people close to me. I want to protect them from my pain. 

I think that's just what we do. We try to shield our pain from people, afraid to bring them down. Afraid to disappoint them. Both of these would therefore make us a bad friend, daughter, sister... 

Yet quite the contrary. 

When we share our pain with people we are inviting them in to the depths of relationship. By sharing our pain we really are sharing the gift of vulnerability. Something amazing happens when we do. Not only do we grow in relationship with those people but the weight of our struggles is lifted. 

Now I get that I shouldn't be going around to everyone who asks how I am and drop the "I am living in both joy and sorrow" bomb because that would just be too much. Yet at the same time, to break out beyond the robotic response of, "I'm doing good and how are you?" is extremely appealing. The reason I don't do this (beyond what I've shared above) is also because as soon as I share this with people they feel the need to have an answer or a remedy. 

It's okay not to have a response or an answer when someone is admitting to something such as feelings of sorrow and brokenness. We get uncomfortable with silence yet in these situations it's simply just the companionship that is the most healing. It's okay to sit in the mess for a minute and truly feel the weight of it without instantly needing to fill the space with an antidote.

I will be the first to admit to doing this. In fact I am aways doing this. I'm a fixer and I also believe I'm pretty wise (insert winky face emoticon). Not only that but I'll share something then make light of it because the heaviness scares me sometimes. In fact my therapist pointed this very thing out to me a few months ago. I didn't even realize I did it. 

As much as I want to be honest with people in my pain I do my very best to lighten the blows by adding sarcasm and making light of it. Not only that but for much of my life I have tried to come up with reasons for my brokenness. In my mind I need a legitimate thing to show people. I now have what some would call a legitimate reason yet the fear of sharing still haunts me.

Yet, as if it's not obvious already, being vulnerable is something I actually have as a personal mandate. To live unashamed of my emotions and the current reality of my life. It's almost as if in being so vulnerable I'm not only giving myself permission to accept my current situations and emotions but to me the more I share the more it relieves the pressure to prove myself.

I shouldn't have to live to a false standard of 24/7 "good". Life is a shit show sometimes. So why are we so convinced that we need to be okay all of the time?

This is something that I love about God. It's in the top three reasons of the why He's so awesome list I have in my head.

I never have to prove myself to Him. I don't need to be fixed in order to come to Him. He meets me where I'm at, shit and all. (Insert winky face emoticon because I know that just made a lot of you uncomfortable, but maybe that was the point.) 

I don't remember if I've shared this here before, but I'll share it again because it's just too beautiful. And then I promise to finish this off.

I attended a conference this past May. It seemed that in every worship session all I could do was cry. Finally it got to the point where I was so frustrated at this. I felt all I had to give in worship were tears. This brought shame as I looked around the room and saw people celebrate God so joyfully. I felt I needed to do the same. It was in that moment where God so beautifully said to me, "I'll take your tears." 

So from my heart to yours, here's to admitting that the struggle is real. I am thankful for much and do have a lot to be joyful about. But right now I'm tired. Like really, really tired. Everything lately seems to be reminding me of my brother. And when I say everything, I literally mean everything. With that comes a great deal of brokenness.

And that's my truth.

This is an invitation to forget about being "good" all of the time and allowing for the spaces of heavy. Not shying away but sitting for a moment or two knowing that tears are enough sometimes.