Grieving The Loss Of A Brother Quotes

I think about the people I know with the absolutely largest hearts, people with a stunning capacity for endurance and grace and kindness against the most screaming terrors and pains. My Mom and Dad, for example, enduring the death of their first child at six months old, the boy the brother I never met, dying quietly in his stroller on the porch in the moment that my mother stepped back inside to get a pair of gloves because the crisp brilliant April wind was filled with a whistling cutting wind.... Fifty years later after five more children and two miscarriages she is standing in the kitchen with her usual eternal endless cup of tea and I ask her: How do you get over the death of your child? And she says, in her blunt honest direct terse kind way, You don't. Her face harrowed like a hawk for a moment in the swirling steam of the tea. p112-13

I’m sorry,” Jace said quietly. “That you lost your parabatai. Is there anyone— anyone left for you to go home to?” The boy’s mouth curved a little at the corner. “There is one. She has always been home for me. But not so soon. I must stay, first.” “To fight?” “And love and grieve. When I was a Silent Brother, my loves and losses were muted slightly, like music heard from a distance, true in tune but muffled. Now—now it has all come upon me at once. I am bowed under it. I must be stronger before I can see her.” His smile was wistful. “Have you ever felt that your heart contained so much that it must surely break apart?

I was once uncertain whether it was right to love you, when the whole world seemed to quake in fear of you, and a thousand voices told me what was the right thing to do. But Mado was right: In all things that matter, faith in the heart is the only measure. But our mortal hearts are small; they are limited in what they can contain. What joy did it give me to hear that a thousand men lived to glory, when my heart grieved only for the loss of my brother? What does it matter if ten thousand men think the man I care for a tyrant, as long as I see him in a different light? Our lives are too brief to worry about the judgment of others, let alone that of history.

I was once uncertain whether it was right to love you, when the whole world seemed to quake in fear of you, and a thousand voices told me what was the right thing to do. But Mado was right: In all things that matter, faith in the heart is the only measure. But our mortal hearts are small; they are limited in what they can contain. What joy did it give me to hear that a thousand men lived to glory, when my heart grieved only for the loss of my brother? What does it matter if ten thousand men think the man I care for a tyrant, as long as I see him in a different light? Our lives are too brief to worry about the judgment of others, let alone that of history. You think my embroidery trivial, and yet all the works of men must be trivial in the fullness of time. There is no need for either of us to be afraid.

The task is still before us and we must press on. We cannot let Satan defeat us because of fear. Our Lord would not want this. Stephen would not want this. “Our brothers and sisters, may I remind you that Stephen— our Stephen—not only showed us how to live, but how to die. He died with forgiveness on his lips. He died praising God. He was ushered into the very presence of our Savior. Do we begrudge him this blessing? Do we mourn that he has received his reward while we still labor? I think not. We grieve because of our great loss. But now we must strengthen our hands and lift up our voices and carry on the task we have been given to do. May God keep us faithful until such time as we meet our Messiah once again. “Let us pray.

And there followed him a great company of people, and of women, which also bewailed and lamented him. But Jesus turning unto them said, Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me…. —Luke 23:27–28 (KJV) GOOD FRIDAY: MORNING IS COMING My sister Cindy died three years ago, and I have yet to cry. I’ve cried about other tragedies, other deaths, but not about my sister. “Strange” does not begin to describe this behavior. Cindy was quadriplegic—had been for forty-five plus years. I could say she suffered (she did); I can say her death was a release (it was); I can even whip out the funeral clichés: “She was needed in heaven” (I wouldn’t know). But none of that explains my dry-eyed grieving. Late one night, my ever-patient wife said, “You know, you already mourned your sister.” I assumed Sandee wanted to start a large fight with a large insult. I hadn’t even begun to mourn. Then she added, “You mourned when she was alive. You celebrated who she had become, but you mourned the loss. You mourned that Cindy couldn’t walk. You mourned that she was in pain. It’s okay. You were a good brother. You are a good brother.” I realize this revelation was Sandee’s small gift to me. No one can tell you the right time to cry. Grief follows its own etiquette; death is rude and, lacking dignity, tramples timetables. I doubt Jesus’ gentle admonishment to the daughters of Jerusalem worked (Do you really think they stopped crying?), but now I get the point: It’s okay to mourn and it’s okay to finish mourning because morning is coming. Lord, Your death overcame sin but did not overcome sadness. Teach us how to grieve our losses as we celebrate Your victory. Amen. —Mark Collins Digging Deeper: Ps 30; Is 25:8

Fear manifested itself as a physical presence that seemed to dominate the public sphere. Time almost stopped. Even without confirmation I could sense that something had gone terribly wrong.