I can remember so many details about September 24, 2016.
Dan and I decided to take the kids with us to a Mizzou game in Columbia, instead of having an adults-only day. We drove our friend Hayden too, because his parents were already there while his sister Bryn was in the hospital for surgery.
I didn't know it until many hours later, but around this time my friend Sean took his last breath.
The rest of my afternoon was really good. Going back to my college campus, sharing old memories with my college sweetheart and our kids, and making new memories of our own.
We drove home that evening, and I felt like it was a satisfying and full day. We got the kids to bed a little late, then exhaled on the couch together around 10pm.
My phone rang, and it was my friend Beth. She doesn't call often and never so late, so my first thought was alarm because I knew her husband was a firefighter. I don't think I even greeted her when I answered the call and started with, "Is everything okay?"
No. Okay disappeared with the words, "Sean died."
I won't try to describe the sounds that came out of my mouth as I tried to unhear what Beth had said. Sean had taken his own life during a shift at the firehouse that day.
You can imagine what the next hours, days, weeks, and months brought. Thankfully, I was already back in counseling so I had a professional helping me through this new wave of grief but it was still overwhelming. I just couldn't make sense of Sean's death. This was a man who loved deeply and laughed often and every single person he met became his friend. How could I have been so blind? How did I not know he was in such deep despair that he didn't want to live any longer?
I can't answer those questions, so the enemy of my soul tries to feed me lies in place of answers. He tells me I obviously wasn't a good friend if someone I love took his own life. He tells me I didn't fight for my friend Sean. He tells me I could've changed things if I had just paid attention.
I know all of that is a lie. I know Sean's death was way bigger than anything involving me. But that's how the enemy likes to spread despair around: trick us into thinking we are bigger than God and could have changed the outcome. He wants us to think we are in control so when something bad happens, we'll shoulder the blame.
Don't get me wrong: I have plenty of regret, especially when I think about the last time I saw Sean. But I'm learning to match every drop of regret with a helping of grace. I know I am doing the best I can at living my life, making the best decisions I know of with the resources I currently have. I still wrestle with my regrets, of course.
And yet I'm choosing to honor my friend by letting his death change my life.
September 24, 2016 changed me and brought a different Elizabeth to September 24, 2017. I've spent the last year channeling the love and grief I have for Sean into the people who I love.
I've spent the last year making shelter for other people's hearts. I've reached out to friends I know are struggling, instead of "giving them space" like I would have done before. I've asked people I love if they have intentions of harming themselves. Sean's death expanded my vocabulary on mental health issues, and it opened my eyes to see so many hurts I was oblivious to before.
Like I mentioned already, I had started therapy again just before Sean died. His death changed my treatment and I went deeper into my struggles much faster than I expected. Sean's death taught me not to be embarrassed to ask for help. My brain is an organ, just like my heart and my lungs and all the other systems in my body. If I had pain or weakness in my heart, I'd get help. Why wouldn't I do that for my brain? Sean's death helped me shake off shame. This last year, I became braver about getting help for an obsessive-compulsive disorder I've lived with for 30 years. It isn't gone by any means, but I'm bringing it out of the dark and shining some Light on it.
I've also spent the last year intentionally seeking out the theme of forgiveness: how to cultivate forgiveness and how to offer it without being so stingy.
I've gone out of my way to build bridges with people I might have said, "Live and let live" to prior to Sean's death.
I've prayed daily for first responders and those living with PTSD. I've checked in with my police, firefighter, and military friends a little more often. I've read the articles Beth has shared about the signs of PTSD, depression, and suicidal behavior. I'm educating myself. There's still so much to learn!
I've been trying to seek out delight this past year, keeping my eyes open for blessings - even in really hard times. I've even tried intentionally creating good memories as a way of "banking" joy to nourish myself when future despair hits. I'm trying to remind myself that hard times don't last and hope wins. I've visited cemeteries a lot more than I'd like, but that's also part of looking for joy. Sitting at Sean's grave makes me immensely sad, but it also convicts me to live a deeper, more vulnerable life.
I'd give anything to go back to September 24, 2016 and change the outcome of that day. And besides that day, there are a few other dates in my personal history I'd like to rewrite. While that's impossible, I can allow those dates to change the person I'm becoming. Doing so turns the ache into a revision.
I miss you, Sean. I am so sorry your pain was so unbearable. There aren't enough "I wishs," "I shoulds," and "If onlys" to make sense of things. You left behind your world of hurt, but created a brand new one in your absence.
You were - and still are - very loved.
Dan and I decided to take the kids with us to a Mizzou game in Columbia, instead of having an adults-only day. We drove our friend Hayden too, because his parents were already there while his sister Bryn was in the hospital for surgery.
I didn't know it until many hours later, but around this time my friend Sean took his last breath.
The rest of my afternoon was really good. Going back to my college campus, sharing old memories with my college sweetheart and our kids, and making new memories of our own.
We drove home that evening, and I felt like it was a satisfying and full day. We got the kids to bed a little late, then exhaled on the couch together around 10pm.
My phone rang, and it was my friend Beth. She doesn't call often and never so late, so my first thought was alarm because I knew her husband was a firefighter. I don't think I even greeted her when I answered the call and started with, "Is everything okay?"
No. Okay disappeared with the words, "Sean died."
I won't try to describe the sounds that came out of my mouth as I tried to unhear what Beth had said. Sean had taken his own life during a shift at the firehouse that day.
You can imagine what the next hours, days, weeks, and months brought. Thankfully, I was already back in counseling so I had a professional helping me through this new wave of grief but it was still overwhelming. I just couldn't make sense of Sean's death. This was a man who loved deeply and laughed often and every single person he met became his friend. How could I have been so blind? How did I not know he was in such deep despair that he didn't want to live any longer?
I can't answer those questions, so the enemy of my soul tries to feed me lies in place of answers. He tells me I obviously wasn't a good friend if someone I love took his own life. He tells me I didn't fight for my friend Sean. He tells me I could've changed things if I had just paid attention.
I know all of that is a lie. I know Sean's death was way bigger than anything involving me. But that's how the enemy likes to spread despair around: trick us into thinking we are bigger than God and could have changed the outcome. He wants us to think we are in control so when something bad happens, we'll shoulder the blame.
Don't get me wrong: I have plenty of regret, especially when I think about the last time I saw Sean. But I'm learning to match every drop of regret with a helping of grace. I know I am doing the best I can at living my life, making the best decisions I know of with the resources I currently have. I still wrestle with my regrets, of course.
And yet I'm choosing to honor my friend by letting his death change my life.
September 24, 2016 changed me and brought a different Elizabeth to September 24, 2017. I've spent the last year channeling the love and grief I have for Sean into the people who I love.
I've spent the last year making shelter for other people's hearts. I've reached out to friends I know are struggling, instead of "giving them space" like I would have done before. I've asked people I love if they have intentions of harming themselves. Sean's death expanded my vocabulary on mental health issues, and it opened my eyes to see so many hurts I was oblivious to before.
Like I mentioned already, I had started therapy again just before Sean died. His death changed my treatment and I went deeper into my struggles much faster than I expected. Sean's death taught me not to be embarrassed to ask for help. My brain is an organ, just like my heart and my lungs and all the other systems in my body. If I had pain or weakness in my heart, I'd get help. Why wouldn't I do that for my brain? Sean's death helped me shake off shame. This last year, I became braver about getting help for an obsessive-compulsive disorder I've lived with for 30 years. It isn't gone by any means, but I'm bringing it out of the dark and shining some Light on it.
I've also spent the last year intentionally seeking out the theme of forgiveness: how to cultivate forgiveness and how to offer it without being so stingy.
I've gone out of my way to build bridges with people I might have said, "Live and let live" to prior to Sean's death.
I've prayed daily for first responders and those living with PTSD. I've checked in with my police, firefighter, and military friends a little more often. I've read the articles Beth has shared about the signs of PTSD, depression, and suicidal behavior. I'm educating myself. There's still so much to learn!
I've been trying to seek out delight this past year, keeping my eyes open for blessings - even in really hard times. I've even tried intentionally creating good memories as a way of "banking" joy to nourish myself when future despair hits. I'm trying to remind myself that hard times don't last and hope wins. I've visited cemeteries a lot more than I'd like, but that's also part of looking for joy. Sitting at Sean's grave makes me immensely sad, but it also convicts me to live a deeper, more vulnerable life.
I'd give anything to go back to September 24, 2016 and change the outcome of that day. And besides that day, there are a few other dates in my personal history I'd like to rewrite. While that's impossible, I can allow those dates to change the person I'm becoming. Doing so turns the ache into a revision.
I miss you, Sean. I am so sorry your pain was so unbearable. There aren't enough "I wishs," "I shoulds," and "If onlys" to make sense of things. You left behind your world of hurt, but created a brand new one in your absence.
You were - and still are - very loved.
