Kisses and Whispers: Touching You for the Last Time

After what we thought was the hardest stuff, we were only approaching the hardest yet surprisingly the most healing of them all. We all woke up that morning, the day prior to his funeral, and worked to become the most presentable we had been for days. Our unthought of apparel and simple routine of hygiene turned into readying ourselves. Readying ourselves to see our Austin for the first time since he spoke to us. It was a day we dreaded, but needed. He didn’t ever care how we presented ourselves but for some reason we must have felt it important to embrace him at the best we could be during those long 6 days.

This has been the post and writing and I have so long dreaded to share, for it was this day that will forever be etched in my brain. And yet by the grace of God, it was also the one day in which I felt His presence the most. Taking deep purposeful breaths all the way to Madison, I wrote my last physical words on paper that I would place by his hands. “You were and are always enough. I forgive you. Until we embrace again, I will think of you each and every day. Rest in the comfort of God’s arms and I will meet you there. I love you, my light. Love, Tasha.”

One Set of Footprints Carried Us to You

We picked up sub sandwiches to share, because maybe it just brought a sense of normalcy or it was something I could control that day. The strength I felt before an almost unbearable day surrounded my family and I. We would carpool and follow each other to the meeting place where we picked out his coffin only days earlier, but this time the coffin would not lie empty. I still am in awe of the pure power we had to park, walk the funeral home sidewalk, and open the doors to a closure we didn’t know how to navigate quite yet. A robotic, almost forced pace to a dreaded moment. I swear if we could have taken a peek down from the heavens it was then that God carried us, only His footprints leading us through those doors. I don’t know if it was out of nervousness or dread but I immediately escaped to the restroom. I remember washing my hands, letting the cold water burn my already chilled fingers. I let that moment last, because I knew what was coming.

As I exited the bathroom, I heard a wail I had never heard before. Sounds from my mother I hadn’t even heard from the best actress on a screen. I rushed to where I had left my family moments before. An old couch, 4 steps up from the entryway, on the right hand side where my mom was slumped over. Half of her body on the floor and half draped over the bottom cushions of the couch. Guttural weeps and sobs filled the already still room, and I could barely make out her words but she was crying “my son, my son”. Preparation is impossible, but she wasn’t prepared to see him from a glimpse until she deemed ready. In a small funeral home, it is hard to take a few steps back or forward until ready – a glimpse is what she saw and it caused the grief we would all witness and never forget. I don’t remember who or how many of us it took to grab her lifeless body up to hold her, but we did.

We did not force or pressure anyone to walk the 30 feet to my brothers body but we followed the lead of our parents. They held each other up every step of the way, with family and friends who were hand-selected to share in this moment silently offering up support from behind. I know this helped propel them forward, step by step. As I numbly approached him, I felt a peace. He looked perfect. He looked like my Austin. The only way I can describe this is that I was eagerly anticipating touching and embracing him as I always had in the past. It did not seem any different; it was a sister excited to feel his presence after an absence of him. I wasn’t scared, fearful, or hesitant. I just wanted to touch his face, his hands.

Peace in the Details of You

My mom laid her head upon his, while my dad held her up. She wept and whispered, “Son, it’s not too late. You can still be the first one in Minnesota to rise from the dead”. This wasn’t an unrealistic ask for her; for as I told you before her faith is insurmountable. Nobody can tell me that our God in our now isn’t the same God that rose the dead, for He is. It is our faith that may be smothered in a world unwilling to still believe in miracles. I believed, silently praying beside her, of the possibility Aussie would open his eyes. After a long 20 minutes, she solemnly turned towards the sad faces behind her and said “He is happy. He doesn’t want to come back”.

Given that moment, I approached my brother with a steadfast mission. I needed to imprint the touch of him in my brain because I couldn’t live with remembering the structure of his face and the placement of his freckles through aged pictures or imagination. I traced his jawline and held his hands, studied his fingernails he bit in worry, a trait he and I shared. I laid my cheek upon his cheek and spoke a private conversation. When I stood back up to study his features I realized that the tears my mom had so freshly shed upon him were slowly trailing down his cheeks, as if he was crying with us. But I had a peace that he was to shed no more tears, and it was only us that would bear these hurts any longer. An environment I wouldn’t want any one to have to be a part of changed into a moment I would now share with anyone. It was the most peaceful, powerful experience of my life. The presence of the Lord and Austin was so huge that the tears turned into worship. All that were present that day held hands in a circle and shared in something special. We prayed, we sang, we worshiped and Austin partook. We felt the Holy Spirit was with us and although we weren’t ready to accept our circumstances, we were reminded of the softness Austin provided us, reminded of the power of simple togetherness.

I still thank God for that day and moment, no matter the dread that proceeded it. Everyone closest to him approached him with the gentleness and love that he had provided to us. I didn’t want to leave his side that day, although fully knowing he was no longer there. His middle son wouldn’t stop holding his daddy’s hand, just staring and smiling at the sight of him. I scooped Aussies middle one up and he clung to me. I felt a special bond because he felt a familiarity between myself and his daddy. My parents lingered and had their private moments with my brother that day. I left yearning to still touch his face, but his heart followed me out those funeral home doors. No one can take that away from me. I may not be able to touch him anymore, but he continues to influence my decisions every single day. What I thought would be a closure was also the beginning of a newfound mission to share the voice we lost. In studying every freckle and bit down nail bed of Austin, I realized closure is a finality that can often stall our conversations, but conversations are what can bring healing and continued recognition of a precious life gone too soon. Conversations bring the possibility of finding new hope. And hope in a world desolate of it, is what Austin would want us to share.