It is in the rawness of death that the grace of our Creator is revealed.
On January 5, 1997 my brother Jon was killed on our driveway; he was 17 years old. While lying on his back repairing the oil pump, the brakes of Jon’s old yellow truck suddenly gave way, rolled over his neck and suffocated him.
The scream that bellowed from my mother’s gut is seared into my soul forever.
This Easter Sunday I have no choice but to parallel Jon’s story with Jesus’ Passion, as the wisdom that often partners with death changes one’s perspective on everything - including the nature of God and Holy Week.
Holy Week is one of the most sacred times on the Christian calendar and spans from Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday. Interestingly, it is during this week that I encounter the most ridicule for my belief in God and my faith – my hope today is to promote tolerance and mutual respect.
Palm Sunday
Jon died while I was pursuing my undergraduate degree at the University of the Incarnate Word in San Antonio, Texas. I was also (ironically) cast in a production of Federico García Lorca’s tragedy “Blood Wedding.” For those who don’t know this incredible work, it centers on themes of life, death and forbidden love. It’s an extremely poetic, but horribly tragic piece of theatre. (It even has a scene at the end of the play where the mother wails a gut-wrenching soliloquy over the death of her son.)
Everyone begged me to pull out of the production – they said it was too much - but for some unknown reason I couldn’t. So, I dutifully muscled through the run of the show. However, every night during curtain call when the audience applauded - I felt sick. My brother was dead and people were clapping?
It was during these surreal moments that an unexpected truth about Palm Sunday was revealed.
Every year, in churches worldwide, Christians wave palm branches in remembrance of Jesus’ triumphant re-entry into Jerusalem. We recount the story of how He humbly rode into town on a donkey while the locals, after witnessing Jesus’ miracles, waved palms, cheered and welcomed Him with open arms.
Jesus knew that He would face the cross in a matter of days and yet the people, many of whom would eventually call for His conviction, cheered.
I can only imagine that He too felt sick. Not because He didn’t appreciate their praise, but because imminent tragedy is all-consuming. When the clouds of darkness appear – exuberance is as ill-fitting as oil is to water.
On some small level, I get it and I take great comfort in knowing that so does He.
Holy (Maundy) Thursday
In the back of the neighborhood where we grew up there used to be a place we called, “The Circle of Tyrants.” It was a secret place, hidden by Mesquite trees, where we would start bonfires, bury our dogs and/or get high. We lived in a forgotten neighborhood in South Texas that yielded very spirited and rebellious youth. Jon and I, being only two years apart, often ran with a gang of suburban hoodlums and we were all as thick as thieves.
A week before Jon’s death, we were all hanging out at “The Circle” and listening to Pantera’s “Suicide Note, Part 1 and 2.” As usual we were high as kites and everyone was laughing at the foolery of Vinnie and Kyle – everyone except Jon. There was weight on Jon that night that I’ll never forget. As he glared into the fire, I could sense a burden that was far too profound for his 17 year old spirit. When I asked him what was wrong, he just wearily shook his head and took off into the brush - alone.
I’ve always wondered if Jon could feel death looming that night.
Holy Thursday is the day Christians reflect on the Last Supper or the feast of Passover. With his gang in tow, Maundy Thursday was Jesus’ version of the night we had at the Circle of Tyrants. Death loomed and his friends could sense it. Much like our night with Jon, it was the last time they were all together.
After the meal concluded, Jesus also wondered into the brush alone - he was in search of strength:
On some small level, I get it and I take great comfort in knowing that so does He.
Good Friday
The day of Jon’s death was a blur; floating from the hospital waiting area, to the sterile room where we viewed his cold body, to the empty drive back to the neighborhood, to having to face our gang who were all parked outside of our house waiting – faces stained with tears. I don’t remember much, but the sounds of my mother wailing, my father falling to the ground and Guns N’ Roses’, “Knocking on Heaven’s Door” blasting through Adrienne’s car stereo still echo in my mind.
Jon’s death day was the worst day of my life.
On Good Friday we remember the day that Jesus was crucified and it too was a blur, I’m sure. While his friends and family watched on, Jesus - who was a Son, a Friend, a Brother, a Leader, a Teacher, a Healer - was killed. The willingness of His participation in His own death probably made the process even more gut wrenching.
As a mother, I can’t help but think of Mary on Good Friday. I’ve seen what losing a son does to a woman. I’ve heard the sound a soul makes when it cries out in agony. I’ve carried my mother through loss. Even though Jesus was being crucified, I’m sure the pain of watching His mother suffer trumped the pain of the nails or the crown of thorns on His head.
On some small level, I get it and I take great comfort in knowing that so does He.
Black (Holy) Saturday
We fittingly buried Jon in Zion Cemetery; a place on a hill that rests at the edge of the old neighborhood. When I say we buried him – our friends told the grave diggers to have a seat while we physically buried my brother. It was long and hard, but he would have done the same for any of us.
When the funeral was finally over, a silence came.
The sounds of silence are deafening and oppressive on the days following the death of a loved one. None of us slept and when we did it was in a pile on the living room floor. Our friends couldn’t leave the house – it was almost as if the were standing watch, waiting for Jon to bust through the door. He, of course, never did.
Black Saturday is also often called Holy Saturday – it refers to the silent time where Jesus lay in the tomb. After experiencing the darkness of silence, “Black Saturday” in my mind is much more appropriately termed.
On some small level, I get it and I take great comfort in knowing that so does He.
Easter Sunday
There are two days out of every calendar year that sucker punch anyone who has ever lost – the birthday and death date of their beloved deceased. My family is no different; every September 14th and January 5th we seek joy by composing love letters on helium balloons and releasing them to heaven.
Our tradition allows us a tangible way to remember, to laugh, to cry, to mourn and to feel my baby brother’s spirit collectively.
The birthday immediately following Jon’s death would have marked his 18th year of life – it was on this day that the magic of the balloons began. The day was windy and impossible, but we trucked out to Zion, balloons and candles in tow. Someone pulled up a car and turned up Rod Stewart’s, “Forever Young” on the car stereo – as this had become Jon’s song.
In spite of the wind - we lit the candles and sent off the balloons. To our surprise, once the song began the candles stayed lit and the balloons just hovered over the cemetery. The hair on our arms stood at attention and tears rolled down our worn faces.
It was the Holy Spirit. He/She was telling us that Jon was OK. We all felt it – it was awe-inspiring.
When the song finished the wind blew out the candles and carried away the balloons. My words fail to describe the wash of Peace we felt that day.
To understand Easter Sunday, one must understand that Christians believe that Jesus was God made flesh. In other words, God wanted to come to earth, hang out with us, experience what it was like to be human and speak for Himself.
Easter Sunday marks the day that we believe Jesus rose from the dead and spoke for Himself. There is no event that I would welcome more than having Jon walk among us once again and Jesus does. Unabashed joy is at the heart of our celebration.
I understand that many have never felt the Holy Spirit and are right now scoffing at the very idea. However, for someone who has experienced God’s spirit with every cell in my body – this is indeed a joyful, sacred and divine day.
Jon taught me that, in a big way, God gets it. My hope today is that so will you. . .or at least enough to not make fun it.
Selah.
On January 5, 1997 my brother Jon was killed on our driveway; he was 17 years old. While lying on his back repairing the oil pump, the brakes of Jon’s old yellow truck suddenly gave way, rolled over his neck and suffocated him.
The scream that bellowed from my mother’s gut is seared into my soul forever.
This Easter Sunday I have no choice but to parallel Jon’s story with Jesus’ Passion, as the wisdom that often partners with death changes one’s perspective on everything - including the nature of God and Holy Week.
Holy Week is one of the most sacred times on the Christian calendar and spans from Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday. Interestingly, it is during this week that I encounter the most ridicule for my belief in God and my faith – my hope today is to promote tolerance and mutual respect.
Palm Sunday
Jon died while I was pursuing my undergraduate degree at the University of the Incarnate Word in San Antonio, Texas. I was also (ironically) cast in a production of Federico García Lorca’s tragedy “Blood Wedding.” For those who don’t know this incredible work, it centers on themes of life, death and forbidden love. It’s an extremely poetic, but horribly tragic piece of theatre. (It even has a scene at the end of the play where the mother wails a gut-wrenching soliloquy over the death of her son.)
Everyone begged me to pull out of the production – they said it was too much - but for some unknown reason I couldn’t. So, I dutifully muscled through the run of the show. However, every night during curtain call when the audience applauded - I felt sick. My brother was dead and people were clapping?
It was during these surreal moments that an unexpected truth about Palm Sunday was revealed.
Every year, in churches worldwide, Christians wave palm branches in remembrance of Jesus’ triumphant re-entry into Jerusalem. We recount the story of how He humbly rode into town on a donkey while the locals, after witnessing Jesus’ miracles, waved palms, cheered and welcomed Him with open arms.
Jesus knew that He would face the cross in a matter of days and yet the people, many of whom would eventually call for His conviction, cheered.
I can only imagine that He too felt sick. Not because He didn’t appreciate their praise, but because imminent tragedy is all-consuming. When the clouds of darkness appear – exuberance is as ill-fitting as oil is to water.
On some small level, I get it and I take great comfort in knowing that so does He.
Holy (Maundy) Thursday
In the back of the neighborhood where we grew up there used to be a place we called, “The Circle of Tyrants.” It was a secret place, hidden by Mesquite trees, where we would start bonfires, bury our dogs and/or get high. We lived in a forgotten neighborhood in South Texas that yielded very spirited and rebellious youth. Jon and I, being only two years apart, often ran with a gang of suburban hoodlums and we were all as thick as thieves.
A week before Jon’s death, we were all hanging out at “The Circle” and listening to Pantera’s “Suicide Note, Part 1 and 2.” As usual we were high as kites and everyone was laughing at the foolery of Vinnie and Kyle – everyone except Jon. There was weight on Jon that night that I’ll never forget. As he glared into the fire, I could sense a burden that was far too profound for his 17 year old spirit. When I asked him what was wrong, he just wearily shook his head and took off into the brush - alone.
I’ve always wondered if Jon could feel death looming that night.
Holy Thursday is the day Christians reflect on the Last Supper or the feast of Passover. With his gang in tow, Maundy Thursday was Jesus’ version of the night we had at the Circle of Tyrants. Death loomed and his friends could sense it. Much like our night with Jon, it was the last time they were all together.
After the meal concluded, Jesus also wondered into the brush alone - he was in search of strength:
42 “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done.” 43 An angel from heaven appeared to him and strengthened him. 44 And being in anguish, he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground.” Luke 22:42-44
On some small level, I get it and I take great comfort in knowing that so does He.
Good Friday
The day of Jon’s death was a blur; floating from the hospital waiting area, to the sterile room where we viewed his cold body, to the empty drive back to the neighborhood, to having to face our gang who were all parked outside of our house waiting – faces stained with tears. I don’t remember much, but the sounds of my mother wailing, my father falling to the ground and Guns N’ Roses’, “Knocking on Heaven’s Door” blasting through Adrienne’s car stereo still echo in my mind.
Jon’s death day was the worst day of my life.
On Good Friday we remember the day that Jesus was crucified and it too was a blur, I’m sure. While his friends and family watched on, Jesus - who was a Son, a Friend, a Brother, a Leader, a Teacher, a Healer - was killed. The willingness of His participation in His own death probably made the process even more gut wrenching.As a mother, I can’t help but think of Mary on Good Friday. I’ve seen what losing a son does to a woman. I’ve heard the sound a soul makes when it cries out in agony. I’ve carried my mother through loss. Even though Jesus was being crucified, I’m sure the pain of watching His mother suffer trumped the pain of the nails or the crown of thorns on His head.
On some small level, I get it and I take great comfort in knowing that so does He.
Black (Holy) Saturday
We fittingly buried Jon in Zion Cemetery; a place on a hill that rests at the edge of the old neighborhood. When I say we buried him – our friends told the grave diggers to have a seat while we physically buried my brother. It was long and hard, but he would have done the same for any of us.
When the funeral was finally over, a silence came.
The sounds of silence are deafening and oppressive on the days following the death of a loved one. None of us slept and when we did it was in a pile on the living room floor. Our friends couldn’t leave the house – it was almost as if the were standing watch, waiting for Jon to bust through the door. He, of course, never did.
Black Saturday is also often called Holy Saturday – it refers to the silent time where Jesus lay in the tomb. After experiencing the darkness of silence, “Black Saturday” in my mind is much more appropriately termed.
On some small level, I get it and I take great comfort in knowing that so does He.
Easter Sunday
There are two days out of every calendar year that sucker punch anyone who has ever lost – the birthday and death date of their beloved deceased. My family is no different; every September 14th and January 5th we seek joy by composing love letters on helium balloons and releasing them to heaven.
Our tradition allows us a tangible way to remember, to laugh, to cry, to mourn and to feel my baby brother’s spirit collectively.
The birthday immediately following Jon’s death would have marked his 18th year of life – it was on this day that the magic of the balloons began. The day was windy and impossible, but we trucked out to Zion, balloons and candles in tow. Someone pulled up a car and turned up Rod Stewart’s, “Forever Young” on the car stereo – as this had become Jon’s song.
In spite of the wind - we lit the candles and sent off the balloons. To our surprise, once the song began the candles stayed lit and the balloons just hovered over the cemetery. The hair on our arms stood at attention and tears rolled down our worn faces.
It was the Holy Spirit. He/She was telling us that Jon was OK. We all felt it – it was awe-inspiring.
When the song finished the wind blew out the candles and carried away the balloons. My words fail to describe the wash of Peace we felt that day.
To understand Easter Sunday, one must understand that Christians believe that Jesus was God made flesh. In other words, God wanted to come to earth, hang out with us, experience what it was like to be human and speak for Himself.
Easter Sunday marks the day that we believe Jesus rose from the dead and spoke for Himself. There is no event that I would welcome more than having Jon walk among us once again and Jesus does. Unabashed joy is at the heart of our celebration.
I understand that many have never felt the Holy Spirit and are right now scoffing at the very idea. However, for someone who has experienced God’s spirit with every cell in my body – this is indeed a joyful, sacred and divine day.
Jon taught me that, in a big way, God gets it. My hope today is that so will you. . .or at least enough to not make fun it.
Selah.
2 comments:
You're beautiful. This was really moving to read and so personal. As is becoming the usual, thank you for sharing your journey so that others may learn on their own treks. xoxo, Janelle
Shannon, I remember hearing that Jon had died because of the way that it happened. What I didnt know was that he was your brother. This article was very moving. Your description and comparison was moving. I am sorry for your loss and even sorrier that I didnt know sooner.
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