It's after midnight and I can't sleep. My brother, Steve, went Home to heaven on February 23. He died from renal cell carcinoma - very fast moving. I've just gotten home from Little Rock. Somehow leaving his house knowing I wouldn't see him again there was so hard, so permanent.

Somehow I want to make the world stop - for just a few moments - to acknowledge how wonderful he was. It just seems so unnatural for things to continue along without missing a beat.

We grew up for a good while with a single father, and my brother, Steve, was given a lot of responsibility. There are a lot of hard memories, but the hardness of our lives produced such fruit in Steve's life. He was a wonderful brother. He taught me how to shave my legs, and how to play tackle football. He sewed shoulder pads for me made out of a flannel shirt, stuffed with all kinds of weird stuff for padding and I became his tackling dummy. He decorated the house at Christmas and I learned there was no Santa Clause by hiding behind the couch as I watched him put together my bike. He helped me with school projects and taught me how to write with a cartridge pen. He taught me how to swim, how to blow up army men with firecrackers and paint them with red fingernail polish so they would look like they had really been to war. I learned how to play whiffle ball, softball, and tetherball under Steve's tutelage. Necessity is the mother of invention, and so often Steve would creatively come up with solutions to our every day needs. I thought he could do or fix anything. But cancer, he couldn't lick. We prayed hard for Steve's healing and now we turn to God for our help, healing, hope and grace. We had hoped he would be healed this side of heaven. So with what we don't understand we turn our face to God and open our hand, acknowledging God's goodness in giving him to us for 57 years. The more you love someone, the harder it is when they leave. I'm thankful that Steve was my brother.

Steve was a rock, a constant, a wise and loving man. He was sweet, in the greatest sense of that word. We talked often and he was always anxious to hear about my children and grandchildren. One of the women who worked with Steve said he would ask her if she wanted to see some pretty babies and he'd call her in to check out Linda or Jen's blogs. She said he loved the names "Lavender Zoe" and "Ella Rose."

When he called and got my voice mail he would leave a message and most often said, "Susan, this is brother. Call me." I so wish I had saved one of his messages so I could hear his voice every now and then.

At the viewing the night before the funeral a DVD was playing with pictures of Steve's life and Randy Travis singing hymns. My son, Josh, said from those pictures it looked like Steve lived at the beach. He loved it so much and he, Susie, and the girls and their families spent many vacations enjoying the sand and water. He loved his wife, his daughters, his grandchildren. Another friend who came over to be with me watched the DVD and said kindness and love could be seen in each of Steve's snapshots. I will post some of those pictures if I can copy them from the DVD. For now, the sunset picture was the best I could do.

This is the hardest trial I've had to face thus far in my life. Losing parents is hard, but somehow losing Steve was even harder for me. It just seemed like there was a lot more living for him to do. I don't think we're ever meant to "get over" the deaths of those we love. We must turn to God for the help only He can give and for his mercies that are new every morning. If you're reading this, your prayers for me and for our family are appreciated. Steve left a boulder-size hole in my heart.