Yesterday my precious husband had a hard day.  It was the twelfth anniversary of his dad's death.  I hate to see him sad.  I know grief affects everyone differently, and I always wonder how other families are coping with their own tragedies, especially if it's been many years. 

Are we normal, I wonder, compared to other families who've lost a loved one due to someone else's selfishness, stupidity, or just plain evil?  How long does healing take when the loved one was killed (accidentally or otherwise) as opposed to dying of natural causes or an unpreventable freak accident?  Do people ever really heal from something like that, or does the date on the calendar never pass without an unavoidable reminder of that dark day? 

Would we grieve less, or be somehow less broken, if my husband's brother hadn't also died in an accident?  In a previous post about my son R., I mentioned that his situation wasn't the first family crisis I'd gone through; in 1997, my husband's brother, Dave, was killed in a car accident on his way home from college to visit his family.  Dave was the oldest of my in-laws' three kids; brilliant, dynamic, handsome, and devout.  When he died, their seemingly perfect world was shattered.  I grieved for a good friend gone, and for the teenage boy I'd been dating for eight months, now mourning his only brother. 

A. and I kept dating through the college years that followed.  We were happiest when we were together, and as the months passed, we slowly began to feel normal again.  My identity was wrapped up in us as a couple; I had little to no contact with A's parents or sister, nor did I want any.  I knew A and I would get married someday, and I reasoned (as selfishly as only a teenage girl can) that the rest of his family could take care of themselves.  I had never been close friends with A's sister, and his parents had each other. 

One Saturday in November 1999, A. was visiting me at my college, two hours away from his own.  We talked about a lot of things: the mini-vacation to Las Vegas his parents had gone on that weekend, how they were doing with the loss of their older son...about our being in love and wanting to get married someday, about our original plan for me to finish college first (I was a year behind him in school).  We/he had healed some from Dave's death, and we decided that life was too short to wait any longer.  We wanted to be together, and we already had irrefutable evidence that 'tomorrow' was not guaranteed to us.  We drove two hours to the "big city" and went looking at engagement rings for the first time.  College would take care of itself.  We were getting married.  A. and I went home to our respective dorms that night, giddy with excitement and new hope for the future. 

The next morning, the phone in my apartment rang.  It was my dad.  While walking down the Strip with his wife that Sunday morning, A's father had been struck and killed by a drunk/high driver.  The car missed A's mom by inches. 

In less than three years, A's family had been cut down from five to three, and A was now the only man left.  No brother, no dad...just a broken mother and sister depending on him.  His loving, devoted dad, the linchpin of a damaged family - A's mentor in life, faith, and the medical field - had been ripped away.  The one who had held the most strongly to his faith in God throughout the tragedy of Dave's death was now gone himself.  We reeled, again - this time not sure whether we would get back up at all. 

Can a family heal from two horrible tragedies?  Lots of people heal from one, I think, but two?  I'm not sure.  Maybe we're better off than I realize; after all, I've always been afraid to ask questions about it.  A's mom saw things that day that were sheer evil.  Maybe she's doing as well as can be expected.  I guess I wanted to cover up the pain whenever we were with his mom and sister, just change the subject and talk about other stuff.  The grief was always there, but as long as I didn't ask questions, I didn't step on any toes or make anyone sadder.  I wanted to escape, yet not enough to break up with the guy I loved. 

The ex-felon who killed A's dad went to back to prison for seven years and was then released.  For some reason, Nevada didn't have a vehicular homicide law at the time (maybe they still don't; I don't know), so the most he could be charged with was involuntary manslaughter (at least that's my understanding).  Parole was denied as long as it could be, but once the seven-year sentence was served, the felon was free again.  How's that for justice. 

Maybe we're doing fine; maybe we're not.  Sometimes I wish we had a normal family, un-ravaged by tragedy.  I wish holidays were truly joyful.  I wish everyone would come to my house at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and that the house would be full of people and noise, just like it was when I was growing up.  I wish I could play hostess to a big family gathering instead of just my mother-in-law (who we spend lots of time with) and sister-in-law (who doesn't eat anything).  If my brother-in-law were alive, he'd be married with kids of his own, and my kids would have cousins.  If my father-in-law were alive, my husband would probably be in family medicine instead of being a surgeon.  (Which might not be a good thing, because A. didn't like family medicine; he's much happier as a surgeon.  I don't know if he'd have switched specialties if his dad were still living.)  If they hadn't died, maybe my sister-in-law would be happy and well-adjusted instead of bitter and alone. 

No pictures of them hang in our house.  A. hardly ever speaks their names.  His mom keeps a cabinet full of mementos at her home - and it's taken a few years, but she has pictures of them on the wall now.  She talks more freely about Dave and my father-in-law than she used to, just by what I can tell from my kids.  They at least know who their grandpa was - that he existed, that he was a good and godly man, that they'll meet him when they get to heaven someday.  I tell my kids about their uncle and grandpa in heaven.  They see pictures of them hanging on the wall at our small Christian school; there is a scholarship given each year in Dave's memory, and a plaque commemorating my father-in-law's years of service and dedication outside the gym, which also bears his name. 

Sometimes I still can't see how any good has come of these losses, except that now we take special care with other people who lose loved ones.  We never forget the anniversary of someone else's loss, and I know that means a lot to people whose grief is fresher than ours.  After everyone else goes on with their lives, people who've been through it too - they remember you.  We keep reaching out to others who've lost children, parents, and/or spouses.

Time does heal, to an extent, but there comes a point where time is no longer your friend.  There's a difference between healing and restoration.  I believe healing is something time does, and beyond that, restoration is something that only God can give.  I can only pray that He will restore us, because it doesn't feel like we're whole.  I know things will never be like they would have been if these losses hadn't happened, but there could be a new joy, a stronger, deeper, more lasting, unshakable groundedness.  That's what I think we are missing.