Drew Swanson

Bright and early this morning, I drove to Starbucks, ordered a soy cappuccino and sat down at my computer to write. Not about death, but instead about something related to haircare and makeup. I pushed the thought that I was supposed to blog about death aside. I felt very compelled to write something very specific and I told God, sure I would write about that. But first I wanted to write about something else. I told Him if He really wanted me to write about that, to let me know and to be very clear. Otherwise, I was going to do what I wanted to do. And that was to avoid writing about death at all costs and write about something light and happy and fun.

Well I wrote that blog — the fun one. And then God was very clear with me. It was gentle, but it was loud and clear; the entire post was erased by accident and I had no way to retrieve it whatsoever. I definitely knew what I was supposed to do. But I still didn’t want to do it. So I thought about rewriting the entire thing — the other blog, the one about hair. But as I started to type, I found myself wrestling with what to do.

I really tried as hard as I possibly could to avoid writing about this.

And now, somehow here I am. With goosebumps up and down my arms, shaky hands, and that familiar chain of knots that stretches from my stomach to my chest to my throat.

But before you continue reading this, I need everyone to know something. Blogging does not make me a credible source; I can’t possibly understand the depths of grief. One person’s death can be so vastly different from another’s. Grief just cannot be boxed in, no matter how hard I try — no matter how hard we all try. I want you all to know that I don’t claim to understand death as well as it may appear through my blog. I never wanted to write about death. I never expected or desired for my blog to become so focused on death.

When my brother died, I couldn’t do anything but write. That’s all I could ever do. It’s all I know. And as I wrote, people found solace in my words. I didn’t expect it for it to happen or for so many to be affected by my words. I was, and am, merely stumbling around through this thing that is grief and words find their way from my heart to this space.

So this is just me writing, because I truly can’t not write about this. It’s my calling. And I’ve never actually fully believed that until typing it out just now.

It’s scary — writing about this kind of thing. It’s not fun like lifestyle blogging. It’s heavy and dark. And my chest tightens with every tap on the keyboard. And right now I’m just trying to hold in the tears that want to spill all over this Starbucks table.

Drew Swanson.

Hi.

I really don’t know where to begin. I can’t say I knew you very well, mostly because you just didn’t talk much when we were kids. Or when we were teenagers. Or even as we got older. ;) But maybe you were talkative and I just didn’t know it. Something tells me you were the type who listened more than you talked. Someone who listened well when no one else was listening. And I have a feeling people leaned in close when you spoke, especially when you were serious, because they knew it would be important and it would be worth hearing and treasuring. I have vague and distant memories of your laugh and I remember you had this smile. It was a wide, thin smile that you just couldn’t hold back sometimes even if you tried. I remember you were goofy. But you didn’t want it to appear that way. You were sly and kind and quiet and remembering that makes me smile. Every Easter, my grandma and my dad would load my brother and I up in the car and we would all come to your parent’s house. I really never saw you much after we arrived because us three girls would run off to play and find all the Easter eggs. You boys always acted too cool for egg hunting. You would disappear and go do cool boy things that us girls (except sometimes Emily) never got to join in on. Usually Emily, Kelsie, and I hunted eggs and did cartwheels in the grass and ran around in that wide, open yard until we were buzzing on chocolate and sunshine and giggling our little girl heads off. When it was time to eat, we’d all pile in the garage and the house and fill our plates sky high with as much food as your mom could squeeze onto the countertops. We always ate as fast as we could so we could get back outside. Emily would elbow you and tease you and might even run off to play with you boys for a bit. Kelsie would desperately beg you to join us, wanting everyone to play together. And with no success, her and I would often end up coloring or playing on the computer, just the two of us. I loved the time I spent with your sisters. Those two girls will never know how loved they made a shy, scared little girl feel. They took me in each year like I was a beloved, long lost best friend. And I was always so surprised they wanted to play with me when I was a whole two years younger than them. Honestly, your whole family treated us like we were family. They always made us feel like we deserved to be there just as much as anyone else. And I just can’t say how much I appreciate that. The four of us never got to have big family gatherings on the holidays, but on Easter it sure felt like we were family. All those Easters sort of blend into one memory that is forever burned in my mind. And similar to the young version of my brother I fondly remember, that’s the Drew that comes to mind. Young, quiet, secretly goofy, always good-natured, Drew.

When I think of your sisters, my heart breaks. I cannot imagine what they must be going through. It’s true I also lost a brother, but I still can’t imagine what they must be going through. Because every death is so unique, every relationship so complex. There is no way for me to possibly understand the vastness of the grief of your family or your sisters or your wife. I know one thing about your family though and that is that they will band together. And people will be better because of this.

The thought of posting this really scares me. Of all the people in your life to be writing this, I’m certain I’m not qualified to do it. I know without a doubt that I am not capable of writing something that truly honors your life in the way it should be honored. Because to be honest, I don’t know what I’m doing. I only know where I’m going. And I suppose that’s the only reason I’m writing this right now. I can’t help but share the other side of the story, the other side of death. Because this kind of thing is heavy. It’s dark. It can get so dark it feels like there might not ever be a way out. And then it gets even darker. And it feels like maybe there shouldn’t even be a way out, it feels like maybe the deep abyss of grief is where we should stay. But I know of a powerful hope that can carry someone through those depths, through the crushingly heavy weight that is death. Because there is an overwhelming amount of light and hope that meets the heaviness. The heaviness is no less real because of this hope. But there is hope. There is a very real peace that can be found in this and the saying that there is life after death becomes very real and very tangible.

Drew, I’m convinced that your life and your story will be the very thing that reminds people who are grieving your loss that there is life and light and peace and genuine, unexplainable joy to be found in the midst.