Days after the dearest person in my life at the time took her own life, I wrote her this letter.
I wonder what you were thinking when you woke up that day.
When you saw the sun shining on the leaves as you shut the garage door, and with it your will to live.
When you thought about me for the last time.
When you thought of your daughter.
When you thought of your friends.
And when you thought of dad.
I wonder if you knew how much you were loved; how much you tore my heart apart as I watched you destroy yourself.
I wonder if you knew that God was watching you, as you walked down the stairs, as you hid yourself from the world, and believed the lie that life wasn’t worth living.
I wonder how many times you cried out as the walls of your mind were caving in and thought nobody was listening.
All I could do was speak and pray.
Do you remember those heart-wrenching conversations for which I prepared myself for hours?
My heart broke in two as I pleaded with you to open up your fist, seeing the anger in your eyes consume you.
You refused to let go as I tried in vain to breathe words of life into a raging fire — Love. Forgiveness. Grace.
I wanted to get married to be a witness to you. I wanted you to see how I would care for my wife and how she would treat me with affection.
I remember your anger in the years when I didn’t know better; how dad endured your wrath for so many years.
I’m writing to tell you that I will not be a product of my past as you were.
I’m going to lovingly warn my sister to be watchful of what we inherited — the cynicism, the discontentment, and the darkness that so easily clouds our minds.
I’m going to tell her that we honour your memory by living.
By working for the day when we will meet our Maker, as you have.
By looking up at the blue sky and feeling the warmth of the sun and His embrace, believing all things are being made new in their time.
Even now.