Eight

As it rolls around each year, and before I actually notice the exact day of the anniversary, I find myself given to a kind of quiet melancholy. The past week has not been sad or unhappy. Actually, with family events and people all around, it's proving to be a really enjoyable, exuberant summer full of laughter and smiles. Nevertheless, behind everything this week, I'm experiencing a heart-tugging pensiveness. I feel a little blue. It's been eight years since he died.

It's amazing the way God makes us. I am convinced that memory is one of his great gifts to us. I don't deliberately look for it, but it happens every year, very much like an internal clock.

Truth be told, I would not want it any other way. I would be devastated if I found that I had forgotten him. He was amazing. He was the biggest challenge in my life, indelibly shaping who I am today. Our relationship was so unique. We loved each other: our brotherhood was marked by unusual enmity and suffering one moment, and then the sweetest communion of souls the next. I know that I am a more patient man, able to care better today for having known him.

Hey, I love you still... and I want to be a little sad today because the memory is so alive. And I know my joy will not be contained when I see you again in the presence of our Father.