The day is almost over, but I wanted to write a few memories down first. They are uncomfortable memories for people to hear, I think--the kind of information that leaves people wondering just what they should say. I apologize for making you uncomfortable, but it's ok.
August 13, 2004 was the day my brother, Ben, was killed in a car accident. We will never know exactly what happened that day, but he ran a stop sign and was hit by a van as he crossed the intersection.
On this day I always think about what I was doing the night before. We had just moved into married student housing at BYU and Joe had just started law school. Logan was having a hard time sleeping through the night, and we had gone outside the apartment to look at stars and to escape from the baby crying for just a few minutes. I had wanted to call my family that night, but knew they were camping at the county fair and wouldn't be home to answer my call. I decided not to call because the only person home would be Ben, and I didn't have anything to talk about with him. I will probably never stop regretting that decision.
The next morning Joe got up early to take a shower. I guess the phone had been ringing, but I hadn't heard it. He came in to tell me that my mom was on the phone. I faked a cheery "I'm awake!" voice and said, "Hey Mom!" She sounded tired and said, "Honey, I need to talk to you. Ben was in a car accident last night." "Oh. Well, he's all right, right?" "No honey, he died."
When someone dies unexpectedly you go through a stage of denial. They must be wrong. How could something change so suddenly? How could it possibly be true?
Gradually you come to accept it, and accept that your life will never be the same, but you get used to a new life, so to speak--one in which this is what happened and you don't know any different.
But you never stop wondering what if. . . what if I had been able to talk to Ben that night? What if he was still alive? Would he have kids? Where would he live? What would he be doing?
Ironically, when I allow myself to think about Ben and remember and feel. . . I think about how a lot of the last memories I had of him had to do with death.
I remember how my parents' dog was hit by a car near their home, my sister running barefoot and sobbing as she hugged the dog on the side of the road, and Ben driving in his white truck to pick up the dog and and take Rene home.
How he asked Joe and me to stop walking on the side of the busy road with Logan in a stroller because he feared that we would be hit by a speeding car.
We were only 15 months apart--meaning we were at times best friends, and other times biggest competitors. When we moved to Pennsylvania our two zebra finches died. We buried them in a McDonald's Happy Meal box and made a parade and banged on some sort of homemade drum as we marched around the house and mourned for those birds.
He was at times the protective brother who dared to tell me not to date boys he thought would not respect me.
Joe and I spent the summer in between undergrad and law school in PA, and Ben wanted to take 8 month old Logan with him everywhere. . . to the mall, to his friends' homes, on walks. I think it made Ben popular with the girls. He bought Logan a few outfits, which I still have and am saving to pass down to the next person in the family with a boy.
He helped us move our crazy heavy piano so that we could carry it across the country. When I told him over the phone that I was giving piano lessons, he asked how much I was charging, and then told me I needed to be charging more because I was so qualified.
I remember him cleaning cars and riding on tractors and dancing in the kitchen to country music.
I remember crying when it was his turn to drive because the rule was that the driver got to choose the music, and I hated country music.
I remember that after his funeral my dad got out some firecrackers he had found stashed in some of Ben's things--and we lit those things off and we celebrated his life.
Even though today has been a headachy day, I take comfort in this scripture in Mosiah 16:7-8
7. And if Christ had not risen from the dead, or have broken the bands of death that the grave should have no victory, and that death should have no a, there could have been no resurrection.
8 But there is a
a, therefore the grave hath no victory, and the sting of
b is swallowed up in Christ.
I don't have time to write much more down tonight, but one thing I learned after this was how people mourn with those who mourn. Our friends didn't ask what they could do--they just did. They ironed our funeral clothes, painted the porch, and got the house ready for visitors from across the country. I have so much more to remember about those days, but I need to go to bed.
Suffice it to say that I know that the sting of death can be swallowed up in Christ. I'm thankful for the knowledge I have that families can be together forever. One of these days we are going to have a grand union.
