Peanut butter and jelly
As an adult, your spouse is typically referred to as your other half. And rightly so. My husband brings out the best in me, and His walk with the Lord encourages me. Sometimes I still can't believe I get to be his wife. My other half he is. Because I can't imagine who I would be today without the example of my husband.
And yet, growing up, and for more than half of my life, I had a different other half. There was rarely a time growing up that our names were said apart. It was always "Ashleigh and Austen." Peanut butter and jelly. You just don't have one without the other. I think this is the case so often with siblings, we are truly raised "together."
When Austen died, I felt lost. Our family is staggered in sibling pairs. Everyone has their "other half." I lost half of my life's file catalog. He was there, on every card. And he had cards in his file with my name on them. This isn't a perfect analogy. But I felt like half of my being fell off of existence. Don't let me confuse you. I saw my brother as his own person, but I also saw him as a part of me. I grieved my brother and our relationship greatly after he died. For months, I wept daily.
I've been going through the enneagram (personality profile) lately. My counselor brain loves all things about people's pasts, personalities, and how they think. Months after picking up the book, I'm still talking about it. Anyway, I started thinking about Austen, as I do in the spring. I wondered what number he was. After a few minutes, my eyes welled up with tears and a lump formed in my throat. I couldn't remember.
The girls are in this phase of wanting to hear stories of Mom and Dad when we were little. The thing is I'm not much of a story teller. If you've heard me try to tell a story and ramble on, you know this much. It's not just in the telling of a story, but my memory doesn't conjure up events as stories either. But. The girls don't discriminate. And they want stories.
I've racked my brain and tried really hard to deliver on the story front. Every story seems to have my brother in it. Austen was a constant in my life growing up. He is in most every memory. He was annoying at times, putting lotion on my seatbelt, knowing if he placed it just right, it would get in my hair. Or all the times he sat on me or came and sat next to me, only to fart and then leave. He would also shoot our babysitter with his Nerf gun. On one family vacation, he impulsively spent all of his money jet skiing and then tried to get everyone else to give him their spending money. But other times, he was really generous and sweet. One year he spent all of his Christmas money on me and showered me in gifts. My parents made him take most of them back to the store. I can remember multiple occasions where he bought me gifts just because - a Tinkerbell charm in Disney World and Abercrombie perfume at the mall. Growing up he liked to sleep in my room, and in middle school, I finally told him no more. Then during a big thunder storm, a bolt of light thundered so loudly, I shot straight up in bed, just in time to see my door fling open and Austen standing there with a blanket wrapped around him. This is the same guy who towered over me from day one (when we met at age 4 and 3) and could out eat most grown men.
It seems that as we grow up, the memories become a little fuzzy, though they're still there. While I don't love telling stories, because I don't think I'm good at it, I do love getting to remember him, and I love that through my stories, my kids get to know their uncle. And for those of you wondering, memories did flood back, as you have read, and I did identify his enneagram type/ number.
I've been meaning to sit down and type this out for over a month. I sat in church last month, and cried just a little as the band sang Never Once. I knew the Lord was working on my heart. But grief is hard. And it takes time. So here I am, sitting here, on this night, doing the hard work. Tomorrow marks eight years that Austen has been gone. The Lord has grown me, shaped me, and shown me His faithfulness all along the way. When this song comes on, I sing these words tearfully because I've seen His work in my life, and I know these words are true.
And yet, growing up, and for more than half of my life, I had a different other half. There was rarely a time growing up that our names were said apart. It was always "Ashleigh and Austen." Peanut butter and jelly. You just don't have one without the other. I think this is the case so often with siblings, we are truly raised "together."
When Austen died, I felt lost. Our family is staggered in sibling pairs. Everyone has their "other half." I lost half of my life's file catalog. He was there, on every card. And he had cards in his file with my name on them. This isn't a perfect analogy. But I felt like half of my being fell off of existence. Don't let me confuse you. I saw my brother as his own person, but I also saw him as a part of me. I grieved my brother and our relationship greatly after he died. For months, I wept daily.
I've been going through the enneagram (personality profile) lately. My counselor brain loves all things about people's pasts, personalities, and how they think. Months after picking up the book, I'm still talking about it. Anyway, I started thinking about Austen, as I do in the spring. I wondered what number he was. After a few minutes, my eyes welled up with tears and a lump formed in my throat. I couldn't remember.
The girls are in this phase of wanting to hear stories of Mom and Dad when we were little. The thing is I'm not much of a story teller. If you've heard me try to tell a story and ramble on, you know this much. It's not just in the telling of a story, but my memory doesn't conjure up events as stories either. But. The girls don't discriminate. And they want stories.
I've racked my brain and tried really hard to deliver on the story front. Every story seems to have my brother in it. Austen was a constant in my life growing up. He is in most every memory. He was annoying at times, putting lotion on my seatbelt, knowing if he placed it just right, it would get in my hair. Or all the times he sat on me or came and sat next to me, only to fart and then leave. He would also shoot our babysitter with his Nerf gun. On one family vacation, he impulsively spent all of his money jet skiing and then tried to get everyone else to give him their spending money. But other times, he was really generous and sweet. One year he spent all of his Christmas money on me and showered me in gifts. My parents made him take most of them back to the store. I can remember multiple occasions where he bought me gifts just because - a Tinkerbell charm in Disney World and Abercrombie perfume at the mall. Growing up he liked to sleep in my room, and in middle school, I finally told him no more. Then during a big thunder storm, a bolt of light thundered so loudly, I shot straight up in bed, just in time to see my door fling open and Austen standing there with a blanket wrapped around him. This is the same guy who towered over me from day one (when we met at age 4 and 3) and could out eat most grown men.
It seems that as we grow up, the memories become a little fuzzy, though they're still there. While I don't love telling stories, because I don't think I'm good at it, I do love getting to remember him, and I love that through my stories, my kids get to know their uncle. And for those of you wondering, memories did flood back, as you have read, and I did identify his enneagram type/ number.
I've been meaning to sit down and type this out for over a month. I sat in church last month, and cried just a little as the band sang Never Once. I knew the Lord was working on my heart. But grief is hard. And it takes time. So here I am, sitting here, on this night, doing the hard work. Tomorrow marks eight years that Austen has been gone. The Lord has grown me, shaped me, and shown me His faithfulness all along the way. When this song comes on, I sing these words tearfully because I've seen His work in my life, and I know these words are true.
Standing on this mountaintopLooking just how far we've comeKnowing that for every stepYou were with us
Kneeling on this battle groundSeeing just how much You've doneKnowing every victoryWas Your power in us
Scars and struggles on the wayBut with joy our hearts can sayYes, our hearts can say
Never once did we ever walk aloneNever once did You leave us on our ownYou are faithful, God, You are faithful
I love this Easter season and that it coincides with Austen’s death. It’s in death, raw unbridled grief, that we yearn for the cross and can rejoice in the empty tomb. It’s coming, my friends.
And because it seems fitting, I am off to have a PBJ (gluten-free, of course) before bed.
xoxo,
J (with PB on my mind and my heart)
Yes our eternal hope in the cross! Powerful words and powerful testimony to your kids and everyone one your light touches!! Praying for yall!
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