Four years ago today, my brother died. After a long battle with bipolar disorder that stole his sanity and severely tested the rest of ours, he committed suicide. This morning, I put up a picture of him on Facebook, being silly with my son:
The picture garnered a silent stream of “likes” throughout the day, and I was oddly comforted by my friends and family’s acknowledgment of his death. Because that’s what those “likes” were to me: an acknowledgment. I know it’s silly, but with just a simple click of the mouse, they said to me, “Yes. That happened.” And there is something in me that doesn’t want others to forget.
Alongside the silent “likes” on Facebook, quiet snowflakes fell outside all day long. I have never experienced anything like the weather today: it snowed and snowed, but nothing stuck. That’s because it was 34 degrees all day. And yet, the big, fat snowflakes kept tumbling down from the gray sky, refusing to turn into rain. They were peaceful and beautiful, and I took their presence as heaven’s acknowledgment of this significant day: Peace and beauty, falling from the sky.
The thing is, today was not a sad day. I wasn’t tearful (for the most part); on the contrary, I was very busy. This morning, I had our church’s first curriculum meeting, where I sat around a table and discussed with several other wonderful people how to best equip our children for the Christian life. On the way home, I stopped by the grocery store. Then, I came home and started working on the house: I mopped, I scrubbed baseboards, I vacuumed, I spot cleaned, I did laundry. You know, all those little things that make it so I can open my house to others and welcome them in. This evening, I attended a benefit to support some friends who are in the process of adopting their third precious child. No…I wasn’t sad.
I was just mindful.
Whenever I think about the fact that my brother is in heaven, I am comforted by the idea that I am going to see him soon. Maybe that sounds morbid, but it’s true. You and I are on this earth no longer than a minute. Our life is a breath. We are the fog that appears in the morning and vanishes. We are the grass that quickly withers.
We are the snowflakes that don’t even stick to the ground. That’s how ephemeral our presence is.
Is it weird that that thought comforts me?
Is it weird that it energizes me?
Sometimes I think, “I AM ALIVE ON THIS EARTH AT THIS MOMENT!” And that thought blows me away. It makes me want to live my little moment to the fullest. It makes me want to live for things that MATTER. It makes me look with disdain on all my petty concerns, like the big world map canvas I want (but can’t afford) for my living room and like the pounds I still want to lose. It makes those little frustrations seem like the pointless distractions that they are. And it makes things like loving my neighbor and serving others and dying to myself seem like they are the only things that matter.
Because they are.
No, the awareness of my mortality doesn’t sadden me; it invigorates me. And that makes sense, I guess. At least, it does to C.S. Lewis, who observed,
If you read history you will find that the Christians who did most for the present world were precisely those who thought most of the next. The Apostles themselves, who set on foot the conversion of the Roman Empire, the great men who built up the Middle Ages, the English Evangelicals who abolished the Slave Trade, all left their mark on Earth, precisely because their minds were occupied with Heaven. It is since Christians have largely ceased to think of the other world that they have become so ineffective in this.
I believe that Lewis is absolutely correct on this point. It’s when I forget that my life is a breath that I get distracted by wall decorations and weight gain and all manner of other meaningless junk. My brother helps me remember that. And so does the Bible.
I’m going to die soon. And so are you. Let’s start living like we understand what that means.
Kingdom Civics 
Posted by Greg on March 2, 2013 at 4:29 pm
I love this. I listened to this podcast http://www.onbeing.org/program/father-greg-boyle-on-the-calling-of-delight/5053/audio that a friend recommended yesterday and he said something to the effect of having a fulfilling life is to find something more powerful than death. Glad you and I are fortunate enough to have found it.
Posted by Tracy Stice on March 2, 2013 at 7:38 pm
Kim… I never read anything on facebook but I read this, and am so glad I did…..as the anniversary of losing my mom has just passed, I can so relate to what you have to say…i always found you so insightful 🙂 We love and miss you guys and thank you for helping me keep things in perspective!
Posted by kingdomcivics on March 2, 2013 at 8:30 pm
Thank you so much for taking the time to comment, Tracy! I can’t imagine losing my mother; that loss brings its own brand of grief, I’m sure. I said a prayer of comfort for you and your sister, as I know how hard anniversaries can be.
Thank you for your encouraging words. They mean a lot.
Posted by Linda Kunkle on March 2, 2013 at 8:47 pm
I, too, have been mindful today — hence the ❤ on your mom and dad's pages. But I am mindful many, many days. I love all of you so much (Mike included). Love never dies. I am mindful of having a daughter with bipolar disorder. I don't live in fear she will take her life, even though the last statistic I knew was 1 out of 5 people with that disorder will. That's not counting the countless attempts. I made the decision years ago not to be held hostage by that. That's a waste of living days — we don't know the number of our days. Like my sister said when she had cancer that was possibly terminal "I may step out in front of a bus or be in a car accident any time — why waste my time thinking about cancer taking my life." My saying about our "time" is this: we are ALL (Christians) already together in heaven, we just don't know it yet. Hmmm, you say. Well, if time ceases to exist for an individual when they leave this world then I think that is the bottom line. Yes, mindful today but not sad.
Posted by kingdomcivics on March 2, 2013 at 8:52 pm
You are so right, Mrs. Linda, that we can’t live in fear of death. It’s crazy how crippling that fear can be, to the point that it starts sucking the true meaning out of life. I know it is hard not to fear for our children and family–even when they don’t suffer from illnesses! That’s another reason why a frank awareness of our mortality, combined with a faith in heaven, helps me not to be afraid, but instead to be mindful of how I spend my precious seconds and minutes.
Thanks so much for sharing your thoughts!
Posted by Tim on March 2, 2013 at 11:26 pm
Kim, This is beautiful. Our lives are a mist, and our lives are eternal. Thank you so much for writing this today.
Tim
Posted by kingdomcivics on March 3, 2013 at 9:51 am
Thanks for stopping in, Tim. I have a blog post for you, btw. But it’s still in my head. I will try to get it in pixel form within the week, and then you can decide what, if anything, you want to do with it.
Posted by Tim on March 3, 2013 at 9:58 am
Send it on, Kim!
Posted by Matt on March 5, 2013 at 9:10 am
I didn’t know Mike for very long, I only lived in Macon for my senior year of high school, but the guy had a knack for making an impact on people’s lives. I am comforted in knowing that I will see him again someday.
The older I get, the more I realize what a short blip our lives on earth really are. I really love what you wrote, Kim. Keep up the good work.