Two years.

Two years. Honestly, it’s felt like an eternity. I feel as though the last year alone has been about five. I mean who am I kidding, this past January was a decade in itself so…

But man, two years. It seems surreal, almost more surreal than it did when the first year came and went. Two years puts further distance between what I feel is the memory of him. And that honestly scares me. What I realized, through listening to a friend of mine share about grief and processing, I realized I don’t want to let go of the pain that is missing my brother.

The pain is what keeps him here, alive. Remembering the long hours at the hospital is how I keep him present in my world. It’s easier to remember the pain, because that was my last experience with him…

I had a flashback a few weeks ago. It was a rare one where I was almost completely lost in time, back a year to the day when Mikael died. He had taken his last breath only moments before, and there I was, hunched over his bed, clinging so desperately to his hand. Clinging to what I felt was the possible life that was maybe still lingering in the room, waiting to revive his heart. That’s when one of his nurses put a hand on my back. What stood out to me in that moment was how hot her hand was. But I also think it was in comparison to the mood of the room mixed with the temperature of Mike’s hand. And as honestly as I am sitting here typing this now is how honestly I can say I felt her hand on my back three weeks ago.

Memories like these offer comfort, but along with it is the heart pounding kind of experience that steals your breath. Even as I write this now, I’m taken back to that night, that moment. The sounds, the smells, the shock... How does one let go of the pain of this moment? In a way it seems like I’m giving up or something. In surrendering the pain I feel I’m letting go of all memory of him.

My friend - she runs a grief and trauma healing centre here in Edmonton - said that letting go of the pain only makes room for the happy memories. It creates space for joy in remembering. So therefore remembering isn’t painful, or as painful. Which seems good and logical and like the thing I should be doing. But my fear is what if I can’t remember the good moments? Because for the last two years the clearest memories of him are the times we spent in the hospital. Or rather the memories I seem to jump to first. The couple nights I spent sleeping on that uncomfortable bed in his room, just so I could spend more time with him. Even though I knew he just wanted me to go - I’m glad he realized I wasn’t going to. Actually, this makes me chuckle, because the main reason he didn't want me to spend the night was because he was worried about my sleep getting interrupted. (I don’t care about my sleep, I only care about you, silly!)

Ahh… so that’s what my friend meant...

There is space for joy here, even in the time during the hospital. I assumed the only way to hold onto the memories was to dwell in the pain. But really, even amidst the pain there is joy threaded through, waiting to shine its thread and heal the hurting parts of my heart.

Losing someone sucks. It honestly does so much. Let’s be real. But as I’ve thought about the idea of two years I’ve realized that in death I have actually found life.

For me the continued story that has birthed out of the last two years is one of redemption. One of owning up, and of coming out of the shadows. It’s caused me to face head on the things buried deep within me. Layer by layer, the things I’ve found comfort and existence in for years have been stripped away. But not away as in gone necessarily, but rather away as in differently. As in the Lord was like, “hey kid, look at this, I think it’s time we deal with this.”

Because that’s just it, He has never caused me to confront a layer in the way of shame, or even forced me out of it. (I’ve already done that for myself enough times.) Rather, he’s done it in a way so gentle, so full of love. As if I’m hiding behind the curtains, thinking I’m invisible, no one can see me. Then I hear, “I can see your toes.” And a bit of the curtain is pulled back.

No more hiding, Marisa. We’re done doing that. It’s an invitation.

I’ve hidden for much of my life, in a way I’m still uncovering. And that may sound strange. But I’ve hid behind busy, I’ve hid behind being the funny one, I’ve hid behind being the ‘good’ one, the serving one. I’ve hid behind these names I’ve made for myself, in the moment not totally realizing what was happening. But here I am years later confronted with pain from my past of never really feeling like I was present. It’s also here where I think anxiety found its way into my life. Constantly needing to figure out which name tag I was wearing in every moment, not realizing who I am goes much, much deeper. Not allowing myself to take a breath and just simply be…

Then death happened. A loss so close, so personal in which I was literally forced out of my many hiding spots, finding myself crying in such public spaces. Literally being forced into vulnerability by my own tears.

But this has been the best thing. Bit by bit life has begun to return within me, in a way I didn’t even realize I needed it. And while there has been this weird place of in-between with my relationship with Jesus, I have also never felt Him so near. His goodness so constant in my life. Beyond what my words can even fully describe.

Where it seemed death and darkness were winning, The Light pierced through revealing new things, new promises, new dreams. Life redeemed.

It’s amazing how far we can make it with all of our vices and tricks in avoiding pain and disappointment. Limping along. Struggling, surviving rather than thriving…

And so, from my heart to yours, if you too are grieving some kind of loss in your life, here I am stretching out a hand to you. Praying that you too would find the unshakable thread of hope, of joy that is threaded through every moment. The unshakable truth that God is good.

Our stories are not over, this is just the start. We are all in process, and that is what is so beautiful. Because it’s in this that we discover we are not alone. And we also get to learn, a lot.

Moreover, again I find myself coming back to this: Jesus has the final word.

To Mikael: I wish you were here. I wish I could share this process with you, get your wisdom into it. I wish you were here to see the amazing community I’ve found, the hope and promise it’s brought into my life. And my job, the job where I literally get paid to be creative, all along side some amazing people. And maybe you do get to see some of it. Maybe the Father shows you glimpses of our lives down here. 

But man. I miss you. You left a hole and it’s scary to think of it getting filled. Because I don’t want to forget you. I don’t want to let you go and move on with my life, which I know I don’t have to. But what I did learn, Mike, is that in the wake of losing you, I’ve gained so much... more than I even thought possible.