November 3rd lingers on my calendar like a foreshadowed set of twin towers in the New York City skyline. This day and all that it encompasses has become my own personal 9/11. While the events of that day were an attack on my country and my innocence, I didn’t lose a personal friend or family member. Yet, my worldview was shattered forever and childish ways of viewing the world were retired for me. Optimism was soon replaced with a pragmatic approach to life that, at times, can veer toward the negative. November 3rd in a much more personal way and all it has come to mean can be viewed in the same way.

 As I watched strangers lower my brother’s casket into the ground, I knew it would soon be covered with the bits of Earth that had been removed to make room for him. Grass would return to this bare space. A headstone would appear and serve as a permanent marker to a person and his story. Wrestling with a heightened level of guilt, I didn’t want that to be the end. The story couldn’t end there in a small cemetery in the town I called home once upon a time. I made a conscious decision to use my talents to continue telling his story. Volunteering, fundraising, and advocating came naturally. For all the hours served, donations received, and positive change made, the thing I am most proud of is this annual letter to my brother. I am proud the tradition continues because I didn’t want the eulogy I wrote to be the last thing read and understood of my brother. I wanted something more.

 Now in its fourth year, this letter serves as an opportunity to reflect, ponder, think out loud, and initiate conversations about suicide, mental health, grief, depression, and so much more. When thinking about this year’s letter, I ran across a wonderful conversation between Stephen Colbert and Anderson Cooper (I am including the link below) and a quote that has wrapped itself around my heart.

“To love the thing, I wish most had not happened.” -Stephen Colbert

To live is to suffer. November 3rd is suffering. September 11th is suffering. These days are markers in the sand and points in time where the ground shifted beneath my feet. Given time and distance, I’ve come to understand what that suffering can and should mean. I now look upon them as gifts. In the same vein as Stephen Colbert, that doesn’t mean I wished for them. I wish Lucas was still here with every fiber of my being. Yet, all the wishing and praying in the world won’t bring him back. In his absence, I have had to make a choice. By using this opportunity as a gift, I’ve created chances for empathy and real human connection beyond my wildest dreams. In this void, I’ve learned to create space for a deeper understanding and love without conditions. Standing here wishing I could hear his voice one more time, I’ve learned more of human suffering and the lengths people will go to end that suffering. The thing I wish had not happened, happened. What to do with it was Lucas’ final gift and it has changed my whole world.

I hope that gift can do the same for you. While Lucas was only trying to end his suffering, he unintentionally provided us an opportunity, whether you personally knew him or not. My hope with this year’s letter is that you will pause, reflect, and open yourself to the opportunity of changing the way in which you view suffering. At the moment, it can be a weight which Atlas couldn’t shrug. That moment is important. Please be in that moment for it opens the door to what comes next. Around the corner can be something beautiful, if you’re open to it.

 Be good to each other,

Nathan

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