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God’s Grace

by Anna Porter

Our first couch was a beautiful, mustard-yellow atrocity which sat in front of our brick fireplace. When pushed far enough against the fireplace, you would hit your head on the wooden mantle, painted white and topped with stunning resin Willow Tree figures that could tell the story of our family if looked upon closely. The couch had three cushions and golden-brown rivets that lined the armrests. It was atop one of these armrests that my forearm was propped, holding the beginning of an incredibly special life. Though I was young enough that I should not be allowed to recall this, I somehow so vividly see the peaceful, sleeping face of my baby brother wrapped in a pale green blanket as I held him in my arms for the first time on that couch. I can’t shake the feeling of Ethan’s tiny fingers wrapping around my thumb, nor would I want to. I can still see his little eyelids closed lightly and hear his soft breathing as he slept in my arms. At that age, I could not fathom everything that was to come. I wasn’t aware of the incredible bond of friendship that awaited me. I was oblivious to just how beautiful and cruel the world was. And I had no idea how blissful a mistake it was to assume that the little infant girl in a pencil sketch that hung on the wall of our stairway was peacefully asleep like my dear brother.

I don’t remember much of Ethan’s early years. I can recall his first birthday cake, a small one in the shape of a tractor tire that he promptly plunged his face into. And an oddly specific memory of my mom feeding him baby food in our kitchen while I stood on a red wooden bar stool making Kraft Mac-n-cheese. Most of my childhood memories include my brother. Playing with Hot Wheels cars and creating huge LEGO houses. I don’t think my parents liked it when we jumped on their bed, but they allowed it anyway. I assume it was to drain our energy so that they might rest occasionally among the chaos of two energetic children, but it was fun all the same. Sometimes they would even join us, my dad throwing himself onto the bed sending Ethan and I tumbling into the sheets.

A memory that will remain with me throughout my life is one that took place multiple years before the birth of my brother. I could not make sense of it for a long time; It still confuses me occasionally as it’s unusual for someone to recall something from a time when they were barely old enough to talk. But it must be a memory. My parents never told me the story of this moment, but somehow I can recall it so clearly. I can still see the outline of my dad sitting in the front seat of a parked car outside of a hospital. I sat behind him. It was just me and my dad, extremely late at night. But where was mom? I wondered where she had gone. My dad sat in silence. I asked him questions, but he didn’t answer. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know what. Eventually, I fell asleep. 

Ethan and I have always gotten along. Growing up, we never got into any major disagreements and when we did bicker, it was easily resolved the next time one of us wanted food or was bored. Saturday mornings with him were always my favorite. We would wake up to the sun pouring through the windows and play for hours. Some mornings we would lay on my bed and play Minecraft, and others we would battle with the foam swords and ninja costumes that spilled out of the large forest-green toy chest in the corner. We’d take turns over who got the well-loved golden sword, made of heavy plastic that had bent and cracked in places from when we’d hit something a little too hard with it. I wonder what Saturday mornings would have been like with her.

I know that God knew what he was doing when he took Grace from the world that night. But it took me a long time to understand that; I can’t even begin to imagine the pain my parents felt. I’m glad I don’t remember the moment they told me about Grace. Though that must have been one of the hardest things my parents had to tell me, I don’t want to remember the pain on their faces or the brokenness of their hearts. Though they are happy, I know they will never fully heal. There are things that I have grown to understand and realize in time. Such as why I one day came across my mom holding back tears on the floor of our storage room with a box of things I’d never seen before open in front of her. Or why we were always so careful with that thin, silver vase on the corner shelf. 

We have a box in our house, we call it Grace’s box. It’s a large, beautiful, wooden cube that latches shut on the front side. It sits in the upstairs hallway with a small lamp, pressed flowers, and a Bible on top. For years I didn’t know what was inside it, I figured it was blankets or pillows. When I was old enough, I realized it was full of things that my parents bought for Grace and the pressed flowers were those from her funeral. I opened it once… when I was 17. Right on top, I saw a teddy bear, the same one depicted with Grace in the pencil sketch that my dad had done years ago. I couldn’t go any further, I wasn’t prepared for the rush of emotions that attacked at that moment. I’m not strong enough to look through that box, not yet. I don’t know if I ever will be. I haven’t opened the box since that time, but every once in a while I look over at it and I think about her. I think about all of the things in there and how much hope is closed up under that lid. 

During my Junior year of high school, my family moved houses. To Ethan and I, leaving that home felt a bit like we were leaving behind our childhood too. The place our parents first brought us home to, the roof I lived under for 16 years of my life. Where we had grown up together and created so many memories. Though leaving that house was one of the hardest days of our lives, Ethan and I were always there for each other. While everyone was bustling about downstairs, we sat alone in the middle of my old bedroom for what must have been 30 minutes, looking around at the empty space and remembering everything that had taken place there throughout the years. No words, just sitting together, knees drawn to our chests, my head on his shoulder.

I often think about what was and what could have been. I think about the sisterly bonds that could have been created. The fights, the tears, the love. I think about teaching her how to braid her hair or playing dress up. Our disagreements about boys and stealing of each other’s clothes. She would be graduating highschool this year. But, I believe that things happened the way that God intended. Overcoming the tragedy that was experienced by my family, and many others, has never been nor ever will be an easy feat, but I would not have wanted anything other than what I got. Though I think about what could have been, I couldn’t be happier with what was. The memories I’ve created with Ethan are everlasting and we’re still making more of them. My brother is my best friend, my sibling, my safe place. Now, at fifteen-years-old, he is the most creative, silly, genuine, caring person I’ve ever known. My brother is an artist, an editor, and a Christian. Someday he will be the uncle of my children and a wonderful husband to a very lucky girl. He has been there for me through thick and thin and I could not be prouder of him. Why would I long for what could have been when I can enjoy the magnificence of what was and still is? My brother is a perfect example of unrelenting grace. God’s Grace, a life taken and given back.