His Hand

It's been a rather trying month since Christian left. I have experienced emotions that range from all areas of the spectrum from anger to joy, from doubt to hope. There have most certainly been ups and downs--unfortunately, I've spent the majority of my grief burrowed in a hole of sadness; however, peace is slowly helping me to resurface.
I mentioned in my first post after tragedy struck again this summer that I haven't been entirely sure how to feel towards God. I've put the blame on Him. I've neglected to speak to Him at times--actually, "neglected" seems to be inefficient in explaining precisely what I had been purposefully doing, which was "ignoring" Him. I didn't want to speak to God for quite some time. I still have my days.
Yesterday, my childhood friend, Maddy, and I took a day trip to Afton, Wyoming to go to the first temple open house we'd been to since last decade. As we rode in the wagon, wrapped in our blankets as we braced the fierce Wyoming wind, our tour guide told us a stained glass portrait of the Savior knocking at the door would be the very first thing we'd spot as we would walk into the temple. She was right...it was gorgeous and thought-provoking.
I pondered the strength of my testimony over the course of the past five years. For the longest time, I didn't quite believe in God's existence...especially as a loving Heavenly Father because my life seemed to be in shambles because of choices I had made. If He loved me, how could He allow me to be in such a dark place? I couldn't possibly understand. So I chose to throw His existence by the wayside and do my own thing.
When life seemed to be getting harder, I realized it might be better for me to understand the nature of God more fully--if He existed, then what could it hurt? Maybe He could help. I wasn't sure, but I gave it a shot. I picked up my copy of The Book of Mormon and read, then I prayed. I felt His arms wrapped around me, and that's when my faith began to surface.
Over the years since that evening, my testimony has flourished. I was so set in my convictions that I knew a year and a half before my nineteenth birthday that I would serve a mission. Because of my determination, nothing got in the way, and on February 5, 2014 I set out to preach the gospel.
Nothing stood in between the Lord and me between the time I first received a witness of His reality to the time I left on my mission. Absolutely nothing. We were perfect.
But then the headaches started. I struggled for about six months with severe, chronic migraines. I knew at seven months that I wasn't going to finish my mission, but my pride got in the way and I held on until I reached thirteen months.
I wasn't angry at God during this time, but I was confused. I thought I was so great. I had a handle on the missionary thing and I felt like I was fulfilling my purpose. Why did I have to go home?
Not a month after my return last year, I received a phone call from my mom letting me know the high school called to inform her Christian wasn't there. I walked into his room to find his bag lying on the floor beside his bed, but he was gone. Frantic, I left the house, shoeless, to go to the first place I thought I could find him. Not there. It was awful. I didn't know what was going on, and I didn't know what had happened to my little brother.
It was about two hours (or so it seemed) after that phone call that my mom found Christian walking down the main street in our neighborhood and learned he had been contemplating suicide all day long, but he didn't go through with it. Immediately after walking in the door, Christian went with Mom into her bedroom and he called the suicide hotline.
We were worried sick about him. I remember pulling his mattress into the living room, turning on Psych, and having a campout to ensure he'd be safe with us there.
The next day, Christian spent most of his time laying on his bed. As the protective big sister that I was, I wanted to check on him. I quietly knocked on his door, and he grumbled at me. That usually meant I could come in.
I sat on his bed, and he looked at me for a brief moment. I told him how much I loved him. Then the tears began to trickle down my face.
"Christian," I whispered.
No answer. His eyes met mine.
"Please don't leave me."
Again, no answer.
Through my silent sobs, I told him how torn, broken, and hurt I would be if he ever went through with it. I told him again how much I loved him and how much I needed him to stay with me.
That week, Christian met with a psychiatrist and was diagnosed with depression.
Even during this time, I wasn't angry with God. In fact, I turned to Him much more than I did before. I felt confident that I had His trust, and Christian had His protection.
So I wondered why I came home from my mission five months earlier than anticipated.
This is why.
I came home, not only to marry Corey, but to have five months of uninterrupted time at home, under the same roof, with my brother.
I also wondered--racked my brain, even--why it took us six months after our wedding to find jobs.
Corey and I weren't able to find jobs so I could go home twice this year, for two weeks at a time, so I could be with my brother.
God's hand is in everything. His hand was in my suffering on my mission so that I could be there for Christian. His hand was in our inability to find jobs so we could have more time. His hand was even in my sister's and her husband's decision to move to Utah so Christian and Mom would have a reason to take a road trip--for us to have a shot at our shenanigans one last time.
The Lord knew. He knew what our family needed so we could have more time, more experiences, with Christian.
It still bothers me that He didn't intervene when Christian made his final plans, but I know that the Lord was still with Him. It wasn't a part of His plan, but He has a plan that will ensure the entrance of my little brother into His kingdom one day.
While I still struggle to understand what God's intentions were, as I looked at the picture of the Savior knocking at the door, I recognized my need to accept Him and let His atonement work in my life as I grieve.
Although I am upset in His allowance for Christian's death to transpire, I find gratitude in knowing His hand truly was in all aspects of my life over the past few years.
Had I not seen that piece of art in the temple yesterday, I don't know if I would have ever recognized just how much time the Lord gave Christian and me before he left.
He truly is always there.
Always.
He will never leave because of His infinite love for all of us.
I know He allows Christian to be near me at times, even though I cannot see him.
His hand is still working in my life, even though I've ignored His constant knock at my door.
I love my Savior, and I love my Heavenly Father.
I think I'm beginning to let Him back in, little by little, as I recognize the mighty miracles He's wrought in my life that has allotted me more time with my brother.
He truly is good and I love Him.