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I Couldn't Face My Pain

After my brother's death, I wondered if the hurt would ever go away.

Amy Hodges As told to Marie Jones
(Names in this story have been changed)

Jennifer and I tossed our batons high into the air, caught them in unison, twirled them with a flourish, and ended in a perfectly-synchronized salute.

My best friend and I had been chosen as twirlers for our high-school band—pretty exciting stuff, especially for freshmen. I'd spent the past several days in intense practice partly because I wanted to do my best. I'd also thrown myself into practicing because I wanted to block out the fact that my older brother Josh had been missing for 10 days.

Josh had gone out to meet a farmer about buying some grain and hadn't returned. When my sister-in-law called to tell us Josh was missing, my parents packed and left for my brother's farm. I'd decided to stay at home with my elderly aunt and uncle, who were living with us at the time.

As Jen and I continued our practice, my family's doctor drove up. Doc was usually all smiles and wisecracks, but today he wore his serious face. He put his arm around me. "Amy," he said gently, "they found Josh. He's dead."

I didn't say anything. I didn't even cry. I simply walked into Jennifer's house and sat on her bed. She followed me into her room. I traced the yellow sunflowers on Jen's comforter with my finger. My ugly, gnawed fingernail snagged a loose thread. Josh hated it when I bit my nails.

Sixteen years older than me, Josh had been my handsome, fun-loving big brother. He'd babysat me when I was little and, as I'd gotten older, he offered words of wisdom about boys and friendship. He'd been my hero. He couldn't be gone.

Pushing my memories down deep inside, I pulled my hand away from the comforter and said, "I think we need a lot more practice on that salute." I jumped up, grabbed my baton, and dashed outside. We practiced until dark. I spent the night at Jen's. We talked about twirling, band practice, and football season. We never discussed my brother's death. I'd put up a barrier and refused to let anyone in.

Nobody told me how Josh died. My parents were trying to protect me from any further pain. As long as I didn't ask questions, they assumed I was coping. But they were wrong. By picking up bits and pieces of conversations, I learned that my brother had been shot and left in an abandoned pump house in a grain field. The thought of my brother dying on the dirt floor of a ramshackle pump house was too painful to even consider. From then on I tried hard to keep such thoughts out of my mind. I also tried hard to avoid talking about my brother's death with anyone.

During my sophomore year, the high-school athletic department put up a new flagpole and plaque honoring Josh, a former student, football player and game announcer. I stood on the football field with the band, saluting with my baton, eyes straight ahead. I didn't connect the dedication with my brother. It was like the announcer was talking about somebody else. Only one fleeting thought connected me to the ceremony: "I hope nobody's looking at me."

Not only did I avoid talking about my brother's death, I also tried to block out the murder investigation and the trial that followed. This wasn't too hard. The trial took place almost 400 miles away. My aunt and uncle hid the newspapers from me and turned off the television news when I was in the room. My parents never discussed the trial when they called home. In fact, all through my high-school years, they never offered any information nor encouraged me to talk about my brother's death. They thought they were doing what was best for me. But my denial of my pain and my family's efforts to "protect" me only drove my hurt deeper.

Even with all the efforts to shield me, I still found out who was being tried for my brother's death. I was propped up in my bed, doing math homework, when I heard my dad say that Josh's business partner, Mike, had been arrested for hiring someone to kill my brother. I dropped my pencil and fell against my pillows. Mike had been Josh's friend! They had grown up together, played football together. He had been in our house, eaten at our table. He was a pallbearer at Josh's funeral! Scenes of Josh and Mike together played in my memory. Pictures of Mike plotting Josh's murder suddenly flashed through my mind. I didn't want to think about anything so horrible. I simply willed away the thoughts.

It never occurred to me to ask God to help me deal with my pain. Although I was a Christian, my faith was shallow. I even avoided praying about my family's pain and hurt.

During my senior year, my English teacher had us keep a journal. One day, when I sat down to write, thoughts about Josh's murder wouldn't go away. They flooded my brain, flowed down my arm, and through my pen onto the blank page:

"How dare Mike serve as Josh's pallbearer? How DARE he pretend to be a friend for all those years? How COULD he take a daddy away from four little kids? HOW could a jury find a man guilty of second-degree murder, then give him a seven-year probational sentence? What kind of justice was that? People got stiffer sentences for shoplifting. But Mike was free to walk the streets! . …"

After my teacher read that day's entry, she asked me to come in after school. She pulled a chair up close to hers and told me to sit down. "Amy," she said, taking my trembling hand in hers, "would you like to talk about what you wrote in your journal?"

That day, for the first time, I talked about my brother's death. It had been three years since the murder. But now I couldn't stop myself. The thoughts, words, and emotions I had put on paper found a voice. They poured out of me and into the sympathetic ear of my English teacher. She patted my hand. "I really think you should see a counselor, Amy."

But I had no intention of seeing a counselor. Talking about my feelings was too painful—and exhausting. When I left my teacher's room, I immediately slipped back into my shell of denial. I didn't speak about my brother's death again for a long time.

When I graduated from high school, I moved from my parents' house into an apartment with a friend. For me, new situations were fraught with doubts and fears. From the very first day I was besieged by an irrational terror.

"Somebody's going to break in and kill us," I told Emily, my roommate. I was often too afraid to even sleep. Weeks of sleepless, panic-filled nights threatened to destroy me. One night Emily found me crouched in a corner, sweating and gasping for breath. "Amy," she said, "you have to get some help." She talked me into seeing a Christian psychologist.

During the first few counseling sessions I avoided talking about Josh. Whenever the discussion came anywhere near my feelings about my brother's death, I suddenly "remembered" I had to do something or be somewhere, or I conveniently changed the subject. But my counselor was persistent with his gentle prodding. He continued to steer the conversation back to my brother. At the beginning of one session he said, "Amy, last week we had just begun to talk about your relationship with Josh. We got a bit sidetracked, so why don't we take up there today?"

I stared at my long, manicured fingernails. Josh would have been proud. All of a sudden, I blurted out, "I've got to see Mike. I've got to ask him why."

My counselor helped me identify the source of my fears. The feelings I had pushed down for so long were trying to surface. My brother had been killed, and I had never allowed myself to grieve, to feel any anger. But I didn't know how to deal with the emotions. In spite of my counselor's encouragement to allow God to help me through my pain, I could not. I felt no connection with God. I couldn't pray.

Now that I'd begun to open up, I wanted to know everything about my brother's death. I got a copy of the trial transcript. I asked my parents questions. I read old newspaper clippings. Hundreds of questions raced through my mind. Some were answered, but others were raised. One obsessive thought remained: I had to see Mike face to face. I had to ask him why. Why did he hire a professional hit man to kill Josh?

Then one weekend I got my chance to ask why. Mike returned to my hometown for a short visit. That Sunday he was in my church—in church, of all places! How could he face God? Even though it was a cool day, beads of sweat popped out on my face and dripped down my neck. An unseen weight pressed against my chest. After the service I ran outside. I stood alone near the entrance, ready to seize my chance to say something, to do something. Suddenly he appeared. Those cold, dark eyes stared directly at me. His very presence was suffocating. I tried desperately to breathe. I tried to move toward him. My feet remained glued to the pavement. I couldn't get any words to come out of my mouth. He started to move toward his car. I stared helplessly as he got into his car, drove away and vanished in the distance.

In the following days, I grew angrier and angrier at myself for being so weak. I'd blown my chance to ask Mike all the questions that had been haunting me. The pain and the anger were overwhelming. I had nowhere to turn.

In desperation, I finally prayed one simple prayer:

"God, please help me."

In the silence of the moment, a thought came to me: There was nothing I could say or do that would change anything. My brother had been murdered, and it changed my life. Finally, I fell to my knees and shouted toward heaven:

"Lord, Jesus, I need you. Take it all away! I can't deal with it alone!"

After a long time of silence, I felt an indescribable peace. Then I cried, but this time they weren't tears of deep, hidden pain. They were tears of release.

A few weeks ago I stopped by the high-school football field. As I read the inscription on the plaque at the base of the flagpole, two boys practiced their punting skills a few yards away. A freckled-face boy ran up to me. "You know that guy?" he asked, gesturing at the plaque.

"Yes," I said. "He was my brother. He played football on this field, too."

Today I can face the past. I'm no longer in denial. I can finally think about and talk about my brother, his life, his death.

I guess the pain will always be there, but I've found comfort and peace in God's love. And while it's been hard, I'm glad I finally stopped running from my pain.

FINDING HOPE WHEN YOU HURT

When you face your own struggles, don't do what Amy did. Don't go it alone. Instead:

TALK TO GOD. Or yell at him. Scream, if you need to. Ask him why things are so bad. Don't be afraid to tell him how you really feel. He's a big God and he can handle anything you want to say.

LET GOD SPEAK TO YOU. After you let your feelings flow to God, let him "talk" to you. Sometimes he does this in moments of "silence." In those times, you may feel his presence and sense that he's trying to bring you comfort and healing. Often, though, he speaks to us through his Word.

CHECK OUT THE BOOK OF JOB. Reading it can tell you a lot about suffering; it can also tell you a lot about God's presence amid the most painful experiences. Also, read the Psalms (see Psalms 3-6, 23, 40, 61, 73, 88).

WRITE YOUR FEELINGS DOWN. Amy's first step toward healing came when she wrote her feelings in a journal. Writing your feelings in a private journal can help you admit those things that hurt you most. Your "secret" writing can be an important first step to finally talking to someone about your feelings.

TALK TO A FRIEND. All of us need a caring friend to confide in. So find someone you can talk with about your problems. This person should be someone you trust and who will keep what you say confidential, like your youth pastor.

IF YOU NEED MORE HELP . … If you're struggling with problems like physical abuse, alcoholism, drug addiction or depression, you need the help of a professional Christian counselor. Ask your youth pastor, a family member or a trusted adult friend to recommend someone. If you're unable to find help, we encourage you to call the Christian counseling service Rapha at 1-800-383-HOPE. Their trained professionals will be able to direct you to the help you need.

Copyright 1996, Christianity Today International/CAMPUS LIFE Magazine September/October 1996
Vol 55, No.2, Page 34

Last updated: September 6, 1996

Read more from 'It Happened to Me'

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