It's Monday... But Sunday is Coming!

It's hard to be a Christian. Whoever says it's not, is not doing it right. It's hard to raise your kids in a Christian environment, with all the temptations at their fingertips via the Internet. We live in the digital age. Kids don't even have to know how to read to soak up information thanks to platforms like YouTube. 

These can be innocent, but too often, parents in my generation have their kids so plugged in that they miss the message of Christianity, despite all the "trying". 

It's Holy Week. Time to unplug and reflect on what it means that Jesus, the Son of God, was crucified and rose again to bring the inheritance of eternity to the world. Time to be intentional about what we teach our children. 

"For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord." Romans 6:23 NIV. To teach them anything less than this is not helping them in any way. 

Open your Bible, get out those Resurrection eggs, whatever you do- resolve to spend the next 7 days pouring the life-giving message of Easter to your family. 

It is a matter of eternal life and death. 

True Story

There are quite a few people floating around out there, in the world, that are completely disillusioned.

They cling tight to their own sordid perceptions of a relationship with my brother.

Truth is, he probably didn't like you.

Truth is - he had to take a Xanex just to be polite to most people.

Very VERY few knew the real Ryan.
Most only knew the version of himself that he wanted them to know.

Ryan was private. Spinning a web of half-truths and untruths to protect his own fragile self-worth.
He wanted people to like him.
But he allowed only a handful to be real with him.

Truth is, if I hadn't lived life right alongside this man, I wouldn't know who he was.

As the end of the 23rd month without my brother draws near, I struggle to think of what he might be doing, if he were still here. I am drowning in a sea of despair at the thought of all he has missed. I am caught up in a moment of fleeting joy when I remember that I will see him again - a joy that always leads to the tearful cry like a temper-tantrum from a 2-year-old, "I want to see him NOW."

I am aware that Ryan was a great many things to a great many people.
But Ryan is my brother, and there is no amount of time that will heal this wound of grief.
I will always be without my right hand, my best friend, and the only person who has ever really understood me.
I miss being the person that was there for him, wiping his tears, and calming his fears. Listening for hours to his ridiculous dreams, and far-fetched wishes of winning the Lotto.
I miss both sides of what being a sibling means.
The giving and receiving.

I miss the real Ryan. The man I knew, that few didn't.
I miss my brother,