The Unimaginable

There are moments that the words don’t reach
There is suffering too terrible to name.
You hold your child as tight as you can
And push away the unimaginable.

-It’s Quiet Uptown, Hamilton

Like much of America, I have become enamored with the Broadway musical Hamilton. Initially, the draw was fun, upbeat, and unique music. As I got to know the soundtrack, I fell in love with one particular section of the musical.

Philip Hamilton, Alexander Hamilton’s son, was defending his father’s honor in a duel and was killed. The song that follows Alexander and Eliza’s grief and reconciliation as a couple (he had previously had an affair) is one of the most insightful songs that I have heard about grief, suffering, and forgiveness.

It’s titled It’s Quiet Uptown and you can listen to it here.

As I listened to this song, I could picture my dad, myself and the rest of my family trying to process and survive sudden grief.

It’s quiet uptown, I never liked the quiet before.

When Taylor died, I could feel it change me. Not just my perspective on the world or my value of people, but how I interacted with everything. Like Hamilton, I noticed myself doing or feeling things that were uncharacteristic. For months, I could not be without my cell phone for fear that I might miss important news. I often feel anxious and trapped in work, at home, or in relationships. To this day, I cannot fall asleep without music playing.

There are moments that the words don’t reach
There’s a grace too powerful to name…
Forgiveness, can you imagine?

My journey in grief has left my life in a whirlwind that I have yet to sort out… a bundle of depression and anxiety that makes me want nothing more than to just pretend that it is over. The one thing that has been unwaveringly clear to me is that I need to forgive Jesse, the man who murdered my brother. I can’t explain the need or the clarity. It is unimaginable. The best I can do is say that I have been forgiven by God of so much. Who am I to withhold forgiveness from Jesse? It is an incredibly powerful grace. I, with Jesse, say, “Can you imagine?” Neither of us understand it. Both of us are grateful for it. I don’t know what that will look like. The process has started. The words have been shared. And now we move forward. Together hopefully.

The Hamiltons move uptown
And learn to live with the unimaginable.

And hopefully, we are better people having learned to live with the unimaginable.


The Gift of Time

I have decided rather than narrate through my life, I will share vignettes that come to mind. They may or may not be chronological. Fortunately, today we start at the beginning.

When my mom was first diagnosed with cancer, I was a homeschooled 5th grader. I had been in public school up to that point, but my brother was being homeschooled and I thought it sounded like fun.

Grandma and Grandpa had been in town for Christmas and they decided to stay longer. Just because. At least that’s how it was communicated to us. It was sometime that winter that my mom found the lump in her breast. It was sometime in January when they told us.

It was so long ago, and I was so young, that I don’t remember what my exact reaction was. But being the emotionally irrational child that I was, the thing that really made me upset was that I had to go back to school (as an adult, I now understand that I was dumping all of my emotions onto this one specific change in my life, but at the time, I just didn’t want to go back).

I was reenrolled at Holladay Elementary in Richard Steen’s 5th grade class. He had been my sister’s teacher so I knew a little about him. From what I knew, one thing Mr. Steen highly valued in his classroom was timeliness.

When I came into the school, Mr. Steen pulled me aside and offered, “Anytime you need to go speak with the counselor, you may do that.” He was willing to give up his time.

During math on my first day, we reviewed long division. I had not yet made it to long division. I was overwhelmed, put my head on my desk and cried. I sat like that until the entire class went to lunch, then Mr. Steen sat with me one on one to teach me long division. He gave me his time.

(As a side note, I was so excited to have learned how to divide and find the answer with decimals that I would often create problems for myself to solve while listening to the lesson)

A few years ago, my sister and I had the chance to visit Holladay again. Mr. Steen came out of a staff meeting to say hello and began to cry. All those years he had kept a copy of mom’s obituary next to his desk to remember her by.

16 years later, Mr. Steen’s gift of time to me still stands out as an important moment of kindness. He probably has no idea.


We Start Here…


Fourteen years ago my mother died from breast cancer.

Three years ago my brother was murdered.

One year ago I began to write letters to his murderer.

I don’t deal with my emotions.

These are the premises behind this blog. My family and I are walking in territory that few have walked. Hopefully, our club will stay small, but it is ignorant to assume there will not be new members joining our ranks. My hope is that our story can be of some help, comfort, or inspiration for another who is dealing with loss. I could easily wait a few years and endeavor to write something poignant and reflective. But, as I need help actually sorting out what I feel now, and as new things unfold constantly, it is more meaningful and helpful (to me) to begin this process now. I could keep a journal, but as an extrovert, why not capitalize on sharing my innermost thoughts with the world?

I began today because I just finished watching Dear Zachary on Netflix. It is a heartbreaking story that is worth a watch only when you have plenty of tissues (I did) and someone to hug (I did not).

I ended that film with an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the confession from my brother’s murderer. He never tried to disown his actions.

I am also again in awe of the strength of my parents, especially my dad. These are things I will expand on down the line.

Until then, don’t take memories for granted. Having you family over for dinner, being in their weddings, or even texting them is a gift you may not have tomorrow.

And as I type this, I am Facebooking a former student of mine whose mom just passed away minutes ago. Please pray for him and his family.