Everything was in place and the family’s private time was drawing to a close . . . meaning the doors to the sanctuary would soon open and the crowd of friends already gathered in the foyer would begin making their way down the aisle, toward the casket that held the earthly remains of a young boy who had left this world unexpectedly and far too soon. As my eyes swept the room one last time before beginning the public visitation, I saw his sister seated on the front pew, away from the surge that was about to take place, quietly studying her surroundings and trying to grasp what had happened and how drastically it had changed her life.
He had been her first playmate and her closest friend. They would spend long hours together simply enjoying each other’s company. And now he was gone.
The doors opened, and the line formed, and still she sat.
Just a few minutes later, an older woman came through a side door, a gift bag in her hand. She too was scanning the space, looking for someone in particular. When she spied the girl alone on the pew, she sat down beside her. From the bag she pulled a beautifully bound book and, handing it to her young friend, began explaining the purpose of her gift. The book was a journal, filled with lined pages and nothing more—and when she was missing her brother . . . or thought of a special moment they shared . . . or just felt incredibly sad or alone, or both, she could write those feelings down. She could put her grief into words, and it would help ease the pain.
This wise soul realized how much her young friend was hurting. And she acknowledged her loss and her suffering—something we often overlook when someone’s brother or sister dies. It’s easy to focus on the parents when a child is lost, or the spouse when a partner is taken, but what about the siblings? The people who grew up together, side-by-side, creating the memories of shared childhoods? Depending on their age, they’ve not only lost a family member. They’ve lost a playmate . . . a friend . . . the person they looked up to . . . or the person they protected.
Late last year St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital released a commercial featuring a three-year-old bundle of energy named Beckett and his battle against brain cancer. Memphis was a long way from where they lived in Michigan and the separation from his brother and two sisters was hard on everyone. So, when his test results made the journey possible, his parents decided to surprise the rest of the family with a quick trip home. After being apart for over two months, his older sister ran to Beckett, sweeping him up in her arms—and sobbing as he laid his head on her shoulder. He was home . . . but he would have to leave again. He was well enough to visit . . . but he wasn’t cancer-free. In that moment, her tears told the story of so many brothers and sisters who must watch helplessly as their siblings suffer—and sometimes even die. But her tears also told the story of her deep and abiding love for her brother.
It’s a story that’s told every single day—one we all too often miss.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926 and has worked with Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 45 years. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
