Sliced Orange Smiles

In mind I see a picture clearly, although it was never really a clear picture at all. I can’t hold this image in my hand, I can only retrieve it from the deep recesses of my memory. This image dwells there and usually makes its way to the front of my mind every November 9th.

Today would have been my brother’s 40th birthday. It’s been almost 16 years since he left this earth. The only way I keep score of how many years have passed is by the age of my daughter who was not yet born the day he died. Each November, as the leaves change from verdant hues to radiant oranges, reds, and yellows- the grief starts to roll in as quick as the days are growing dark. These markers of autumn remind me of what was once to be celebrated are now only remembered.

Today I don’t want to dread his birthday. I don’t want to dread the memory of that tiny pixilated photo he texted me from his flip phone. The image of him sitting across from my sister in a small booth of a Chinese restaurant, smiling with an orange slice in his mouth that created an inevitable grin.

This was years before the advent of 5 MB images that would be shared in stark detail and live ad infinitum on our handheld devices. 16 years feels like a lifetime, a day dream. Even my memory tells me his clothes in the photo are now retro and his hairstyle hasn’t yet made a comeback. But that orange slice, his wide joyful smile, I will cling to that beautiful image in my mind that does not exist anywhere else on earth any longer.

It’s unhealthy to get into the thoughts of ‘what if’ and ‘why him’  and the ‘what could have been’. So for today I will set my mind to joyfully remembering him. I remember his beautiful face, the special role he played in our family, his auburn hair, the way he made me laugh, the tenderness of his heart, the fiery passion I saw him wrestle to wield for good, the creativity that poured out of his hands, the desire to be a good man and to leave his mark on the earth.

I sit in the quiet darkness of my kitchen as the sun comes up, making the orange leaves look like they are on fire. They are on fire- announcing the burning hope of a new day that is to be lived out. Alerting me to go out and live a full and vibrant life. I’ve spent too many years under the heavy and unforgiving weight of grief. The kind of grief that ties us to the past and prevents us from living in the present and the future.

But over time, something has broken free in my heart. I choose to live out today with a fiery hope. Blazing like the sun illuminating the trees and bright like the oranges that remind me of his goofy smile.

I passionately write these words as my gift to him today. Like a musician pours their heart out on the piano keys, or as the artist places the paint on the canvas, knowing something beautiful and otherworldly is stirring inside me. The artist creates and the writer writes to release beauty from inside out. They can only hope that the beauty that is produced moves the subject. That the subject reads, hears, feels something beyond the natural eye and in turn, is inspired to do the same.

I let the emotion and treasured memories of his life that I have left trapped in my mind come out through my hands. The tiny pixelated image is resurrected to life and can now be seen by others. It’s more than a memory, it can be seen and felt in the mind by simply putting words to it. It can have joy attached to it in others minds, along with sadness, loss, grief, and pain. All of these things by just sitting down with a pen in the quiet still morning, all of this while sitting at keyboard at noon.

The greatest consolation the Lord has offered me all these 16 years is found in Isaiah 55:8, “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are my ways, your ways declares the LORD”.   If our perspective is limited to this one dimensional earthly existence, then death is a total loss. But God’s word says, “so that you will not grieve like the rest, who are without hope.” 1 Thess. 4:13. There is always hope. When our mind is expanded to see more, to see broader, to see beyond- we see that in death, the human body just left much earlier than we expected. This doesn’t make the pain any less painful, but it makes the hope so much more hope filled.

Tonight I will eat Chinese food for dinner with my family, followed by sliced orange smiles. I’ll take a picture of our silliness and share it with my siblings with tears, knowing this memory keeps him alive in our hearts. I’ll share stories of him with my children and let them see what grief and hope look like when they coexist; tears and laughter, utter loss and resolute hope, present in pain and peace at the same time.

Let us remember our losses, but let us always know where our hope lies. May my brother John’s memory live forever in our minds and hearts. May we joyfully celebrate birthdays even when they only take place in heaven, while forever clinging to the hope of eternal life that is to come.