The Simple Yet Not-So-Simple Act of Living

The last blog I wrote—then rewrote (a thousand times)—a year ago was about how showing up for my family in hard times was a blessing. Choosing to “walk through the fire” with the people you love is a privilege—one that made me stronger and awakened every part of me to the very meaning of life.

You see, over the last couple of years, both of my siblings battled severe health issues. My sister underwent a second brain surgery due to a rare and excruciating nerve disease called trigeminal neuralgia. She was only a couple of weeks out of her operation when my brother called a family meeting. We don’t have family meetings. What was stage two colon cancer—with a very good prognosis—suddenly became stage four cancer, with a very bad prognosis.

Honestly, showing up was the only thing I could do. It became my saving grace, my coping mechanism. I felt grateful to be by both of their sides as much as I could. But each time I tried to write about it, I couldn’t finish. It felt like a desperate attempt to wrap it all up in a pretty bow of “lessons” and “blessings”—and there was no pretty bow.

My brother, Mark, died.

I am steaming mad, sad, furious, and still in utter shock. I can’t believe Mark’s beautiful children have to wake up every day with this tremendous loss. I can’t believe my sister-in-law has to go on living without the love of her life. I can’t believe the pain my parents have to withstand in their golden years. I can’t believe my sister and I don’t have our brother.

After all the prayers and all the treatment, he is gone. How do we live without him here?

There are rabbit holes, triggers, and traps everywhere. When the burning grief swells to an all-time high, doubt follows close behind. It spirals quickly into every other aspect of my life. To combat it, I find myself watching endless videos about near-death experiences. The testimonials of “seeing the light,” “the endless love of God,” and “no more pain” are incredibly comforting to me.

I have to remember that Mark is no longer in pain. He is no longer suffering—but he was never supposed to suffer. (I can’t seem to get past that part.) And yet, he isn’t. As strong as he was, never allowing his pain to be a burden on anyone, every day was a struggle. He suffered greatly—more than he wanted any of us to know.

It is clear that Mark led us through his cancer like an empathetic and loving king guiding his people. We looked to him with every new update, every twist in treatment options, every… everything. He never once led us astray.

Maybe we allow Mark to keep leading us—this time, helping us navigate the painful path of his physical absence.

Mark didn’t want cancer, but he faced it with laser-sharp intention, pure love and compassion, brave leadership, and true warrior grit. We didn’t want to lose him or endure the twists and turns of overwhelming grief that followed. But we can choose to face it the way he faced cancer: leaning into the storm, giving it hell, and somehow making peace.

He gave it “hell” not only by relentlessly treating cancer, but more importantly, by relentlessly living. His life force grew stronger.

Mark lived with pride and love in his favorite roles: Husband, Father, Son, Brother, Friend, and Believer in Jesus. He used every breath blessed upon his body for as much good as possible.

From the moment Mark heard his diagnosis, he was extremely intentional. He had a fun and salty sense of humor and never lost it, but he did start thinking twice before he spoke. On more than one occasion, he texted me, “Was that harsh?” to which I replied, “Kind of,” followed by a “Don’t be a jerk” GIF. #smileyface

He was not perfect, but even on his worst days, he leaned into his life force, his God, and his most authentic self—and let that lead the day.

Mark’s example of living is our roadmap.

He never allowed cancer to define him, and we don’t have to allow the roller coaster of grief to define us. Just like him, we have two choices. We can choose to let the loss we never wanted make us more of who we truly are—more compassionate, present, and loving—or we can allow it to make us less.

Mark approached each day with the sacred knowledge that only the sick and dying are often blessed to know: every single moment counts. Our actions create ripple effects that expand exponentially. The ordinary—the very thing we often seek to escape—is actually extraordinary.

As I watched Mark make peace with each stage of his illness, it was clear that it did not mean giving up. Not at all. He simply became more accepting of the present moment and the immediate next steps—which seemed to make him even more open to miracles.

Grief is exhausting and unpredictable. More often than not, I want to scream, “Uncle, uncle—you win!” But if Mark could do what he did, and so many others in similar circumstances can do the same, then I can get up and face the day—the precious day I have been given. That may be all I need to do.

If you choose life—whether in extraordinary circumstances or in the day-to-day (which may be the same thing)—it will most certainly be unpredictable. It will be messy and filled with extreme highs and lows. Sometimes, it may even feel like torture. But from my perspective, living will always be worth it.

When I get quiet and cut through the noise in my head, I always hear Mark:
“Look within, Jen. Look to God. Honor yourself, not me. You don’t get to use me as your excuse—use me as your inspiration.”

Those who knew Mark best carry his soul forever imprinted upon us. The gifts he gave continue to bless our lives. We honor his legacy and spirit by acknowledging our own—through the simple act of living.