It has been seven years since my brother-in-law Eric died. It doesn’t feel that long, and yet it also feels like longer. Time can be so odd.
Today, as we are missing him, I am thinking of how we never really lose the people we love. But I also know that there is an Eric-shaped hole that only Eric can fill that we try to work and live around. Seven years later, there is a gap that no one else and nothing else can complete.
I have faith that we will see him again one day. And we have wonderful memories to hold onto. I thought I might tell you a little about Eric.
Eric was one of the funniest, wittiest people I have ever known. He was also brilliant and well-read. That made him an exceptional conversationalist.
Eric had a depth and breadth of understanding that most people don’t even aspire to. He absorbed and analyzed information. He loved listening to multiple viewpoints. And he enjoyed digging into topics together. We didn’t have to agree. We could range far and wide in an exhilarating conversation and just enjoy the exchange.
And he had some incredible insights. There are still times my husband and I will look at each other and say, “Eric was right,” because we see things playing out in the world, and we remember discussing them with him. Whenever I see a complex situation in the news or we have a legal question to consider, I wish he were here. He would always make me think about things a little differently.
We vacationed at the beach with Eric and my sister Maureen and their children for several summers. The beach was a happy place for Eric, even though invariably he ended up bringing his work along with him. He and I would head to the grocery store and come home with snacks and treats galore. My sister Maureen would dig through the bags asking whether we had remembered to buy bread.
Every year, Eric was ready to splurge on games at the Boardwalk so we could make sure everyone came home with the stuffed animal of the season. They always did.
Eric was immensely proud of his children. He was also excited to welcome our sons when we adopted them. He wanted to hear about every step of the process, and he was ready to marvel at them alongside us when they came home. I remember his awe at how one of our toddlers could eat three bananas and then a full dinner a half-hour later. I wish he were here to see his children rocking high school and college, singing and performing in the band, making friends and finding their own paths forward.
I like to think that Eric must be watching proudly from heaven, wearing his Oxford blue button-down shirt and smiling his easy smile, perhaps singing a favorite song in his baritone, maybe keeping an eye on an Ohio State football game. He has to be laughing at the entertaining fantasy football league summaries his brother sends us every week.
Grief is just an extension of love, people say. Sometimes I think that is an attempt to push grief aside or not give it the space it might need. But we also know that loving does not come without pain. Jesus shows us that on the cross.
“Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal,” St. Thomas Moore said. Maybe you are missing someone you love today, too.
As we mark this anniversary, I am remembering Eric with gratitude and love, believing we will see him again, and knowing that we have not reached the end of the story.
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