Sometimes I break out
in a cold sweat, rememb’ring
that horrible day.

Today is the third anniversary of my brother’s accidental death. I don’t like the word anniversary in this case, since it seems to insinuate a happy occasion, but I don’t know of another word to use. Last week, two close friends made a comment on different occasions about the phone call I made on that fateful evening to tell them that something terrible had happened, and I had to drive to Houston right away. I was amazed that it stuck in their minds so vividly, because I don’t remember making those phone calls. I remember bits and pieces about that evening but not much in the way of specific conversations.

Three years later, and it feels like a different lifetime. I live in a different house; my family dynamic is completely different; I’ve finished one more degree and working on another. We still attend the same church, though it has moved locations and grown tremendously since then. About the only thing that hasn’t changed is that I’m still in the same position at work, but really, even that has changed significantly internally — my team has been reassigned, and I just relocated offices on Friday. Things change even when they stay the same.

Perhaps I’ll make it through the day without crying. Perhaps not. I didn’t make it through church yesterday dry-eyed. We sang a worship song that I’ve heard dozens of times before, but it struck me that he might be singing something similar right then in Glory, which made me think about spending forever with him, praising God – in person! – together. They were bittersweet tears, indeed. I miss him terribly, but how could I feel sorry for him? It’s the rest of us here who are to be pitied. What a glorious reunion we’ll have someday!