Memorial Day Reflections

It gets me every time; the 3-Volley Salute followed by Taps. The sound of the first shot fired transports me back to the front row at my brother’s graveside service; encompassed by grief as I fix my eyes on a coffin containing his uniform-clad body. The shots that follow reverberate through my heart bringing back to life the places of pain that over time have grown dormant; shudders running through me from head to toe. And when finally there is silence, the gentle sound of Taps fills the air, as if wishing to soothe the abruptness of the pain that was just thrust upon me; a haunting accompaniment to my falling tears. 

Today as this tradition came to a close, I felt as these memories flashed before me—of a coffin lowering into a grave, of the feeling of dirt filling my shoes as it fell from the shovel while I put dirt onto his open grave, of the sobs that came in crushing waves breaking out of my chest with overwhelming intensity—gratitude. Time passes. Details and images in my mind grow fuzzy. But traditions like these take these memories, frozen in time I leave further and further behind me, and brings them for a moment into my today. They remind me that even if things get harder to remember, this fact remains: I am a marked woman. Marked by the life of my brother Noah, marked by the love I had for and received from him, and marked by the losses I know because he is no longer here.

A long awaited opportunity to say, "Thank you."

Dear Jhosselin,

It has been almost three years since I got that life-changing phone call in the early hours of the morning; my mother’s voice on the other end of the line telling me my brother had been killed. The cry and the silence in the moments that followed contained the knowledge that the pain of sorrow had just permeated my life and was about to sweep over my family with transforming waves of excruciating measure.

As the story unfolded over the next year and a half, we heard there was an airman who had arrived at the scene and stayed with Noah. Today, I found out that that airman was you.

I wish there were words to express to you how I am feeling right now.

Do you know what you did for my family?

You watched over our beloved Noah when we couldn’t...We have sat beside 2 others in our ranks as they breathed their last, but Noah died suddenly on the side of the road in a state far away. We weren’t there to hold his hand or stroke his head or let him go or send him off in a shower of our tears; we didn’t get to remind him that we loved him or assure him that we’d see him again. Miles separated us.

But you were there, Jhosselin. You stopped and you gave us an incredible gift when you stayed beside him. You gave us your time and your presence and the sweetness of knowing that he was not alone; because you were brave and you were there.

And to say “thank you” seems so minute a statement in relation to the proportion of kindness you showed my family.

I thank you for your gift to us: You counted the trauma you would have to endure by encountering someone in his broken state as worth the cost. You chose to stop and you chose to stay amid the bloody mess of a life lost because you counted this stranger in a pool of blood as someone’s loved one.

And he was loved, SO loved.
And he is missed, SO missed.

And though my words fail, my gratitude toward you is immense, and I pray the Lord would pour blessing over you that is far greater than I could ever think to ask or imagine.

With so much love,
Hannah

The Aftermath

August 4th marks the 1-year anniversary of my brother's death. This is where my heart is at the moment:

The Aftermath
©8-2-13 Hannah McLean

There are days
my feet won’t stand
when waves knock me down
while I am on land
I wipe the water from my eyes
I sadly scoff at my surprise
because
No matter where I look
it’s the same on every path
Before and behind and above and below
I see the aftermath

Memories
alive in my head
retelling those moments
reliving my dread
I close my eyes, I stop my ears
but there are things I’ll always hear
because
No matter where I look
it’s the same on every path
Before and behind and above and below
I see the aftermath

Yes, death takes its toll
on the heart and the soul
for the fury of grief
shows no partiality
Yes, death takes its toll
on the heart and the soul
Death takes its toll
on the heart and the soul
Death takes its toll
on the heart and the soul
because  
No matter where I look
it’s the same on every path
Before and behind and above and below
I see the aftermath

TO DO: Write about "The Gathering"

I’ve written about a lot of things surrounding Noah’s death.
I wrote about the phone call that rocked my world
I wrote about seeing his coffin for the first time
I wrote about facing his dead body
I wrote about carrying him and burying him
I wrote about a lot of things
and the feelings and sounds that accompanied them...
but there is one thing I haven’t dared
to put on paper:
the last thing that is required of me
to write about.

On my list it says, “The Gathering.”
The gathering together of my family
the morning after Noah’s death.

There are probably many reasons why this
paralyzes my fingers
and causes the shields around my heart to raise
in a stubborn, protective hardness... 
but mostly I think it is simply
the immense multiplication of pain
that accompanied this necessary coming together.

It is one thing to confront your own losses;
to feel the shattering inside
and the piercing pain of what was loved
ripped from you
dislodging pieces that you will never get back...
but it is another thing all together
to come face to face
with the others you love who did not leave you
and to look into their beautiful faces
at the realities of crushing sorrow
unimaginable pain
crumbled dreams and hearts.
There is a helplessness that washes over you
and grips your throat so that you cannot speak
as you hold onto them,
one by one,
unable to heal or rescue or revive
without the strength to move the stones that have fallen upon their shoulders
whose jagged edges have penetrated the soul
and knocked the breath from within.

My husband drove me home
(home will always be where my parents are).
I left the car and walked into the silent house
not quite knowing what I would find inside.
On the table sat a picture of my Noah,
dressed to the T in his Air Force attire,
beside it stood a vase of flowers
denoting sympathy.
I walked into the living room
where the members of my family had begun to gather
and someone stood to embrace me.
It was like I had finally reached a safe place
to release the wave of sorrow that had welled up in me
in the time I should have slept the night before.
One by one
I looked into their beautiful faces
our sadness and brokenness colliding for the first time
causing us to fall together into an embrace that held the other up.
One by one
I looked into their beautiful faces
and the weight of their shattered worlds
met the weight of mine
with deep understanding
that allowed us the freedom to crumble.
One by one...

The 9 of us arrived over that Sunday and Monday,
though mere months before we had been scattered across the country,
God had brought us all in varying measures closer
simplifying the logistics of togetherness for us.

I found my feet to be heavy
as if weights kept them from running to meet
my loved ones as they arrived;
knowing the pain I would find in their embrace
would cause my heart to overflow yet again.

But finally the gathering was complete
and we sat together in heaps around the living room
we had grown up together in
and spoke of the newest gaping hole we had to face
and the wonder of the boy man who had filled it.
And though the coming together
was a pain unlike others I have known
the peace of each others’ presence was enough
to nourish my shattered world
with the promise of healing and
the reality that we did not sorrow alone.

And sometimes that is enough
for the moments
that paralyze my fingers
when my mind thinks upon them.

I love you all,
my Papa
and my Mama
my Abigail Ruth
my Joshua Michael John
my Jacob Olaf
my Nathanael Martin
my Naomi Anne
my Rachel Helen
my Eve Elizabeth
my Samuel Andrew
I would gladly walk with you
through any fire
that you would not have to walk alone.
I will gladly share in every sorrow
that must flow across your beautiful faces
and will forever be grateful
that you are willing to share in mine.

Honor given "in due time."

Yesterday we went to a gate dedication ceremony at Wright Patterson Air Force Base. They closed down the stretch of road where my little brother Noah was struck and killed while biking to work and made it a private road for the base with bike lanes. The gate to enter this portion of the base has been dedicated to him as a memorial: The A1C Noah D. Muonio Gate. At the ceremony, an installation entry controller stood up and gave his shift report, the one he and all of his colleagues who will stand guard at this gate from now on will say with each change of shift.
The report began with these words:

“This is the Airman First Class Noah D. Muonio Gate. It is named after Airman First Class Muonio, a native of Saint Francis, Minnesota, who proudly served at Wright Patterson Air Force Base as a NASIC Remote Sensing Analyst. On the night of 4 August 2012, Airman First Class Muonio was riding his bicycle to work when a distracted driver crossed the solid white line onto the shoulder and fatally struck him from behind. This gate has been named after Airman First Class Noah D. Muonio to ensure he is never forgotten...”

This struck me like a ton of bricks. They’ve made his memory a permanent part of life on base, and not only have they preserved his name, but they have lifted him and set him in a place of honor. If you knew Noah, you know that he was a humble man of quiet strength; he did not seek praise nor did he let the praise he earned go to his head; he was the man who was quick to let his acts of service and personal sacrifice go unnoticed or pass by without thanks; he was not self seeking.

So as I consider this honor that has been given him, I can think of few others who could carry it so well as Noah’s name. I think of the miraculous mark of God’s hand all over this lasting memorial--Noah was an Airman First Class who had been at this base for 5 months; gates are usually named after Generals or people with many metals across their heart--and into my mind comes these words from the Lord found in 1 Samuel 2 and Luke 14: “...those who honor Me I will honor,” and “...he who humbles himself will be exalted.”

The Lord Himself has placed names on the gates of heaven for those He loves and bestows great honor; for Him to give our Noah a gate here on earth is a great honor from the Lord who exalts the humble and honors the one who honors Him.

For some the exaltation from the Lord that comes “in due time” (1 Peter 5:6) begins while they still stand upright beside us, but for others, like Noah, it has been given after he has gone away...maybe to help fill the expanse of the empty space he’s left behind. Either way, I praise the Lord for The Airman First Class Noah D. Muonio Gate and all it means for the preservation of his memory, and I thank the Wright Patterson Air Force Base for being a conduit of honor for this quietly honorable man.

The news that comes at night.

I don’t really do phones.
There’s an internal part of me that rebels
against culture’s attachment to them,
so phones and I minimally intersect.
But my phone is my alarm clock,
so it is always near me when I sleep.
I know that is good
because if someone tries to reach me
in the silent hours of the night,
I know it is important
that I am connected.

But phone calls in the darkness
rarely bring good news;
good news can wait till the brightness
of the morning.

On August 5th, my phone rang at 2:21am
and as I was jarred awake from a deep sleep,
“HOME”
lit up the screen.
I answered,
“Hello?”
My mama’s voice shook on the other end,
“Noah was killed, he got hit by a car...”
The remaining shards of sleep instantly left me
and I was wide awake.
I think I said, “Oh no.”
I know I said, “I’m so sorry, Mama.
I’m so sorry.”
And because neither of us had anymore words,
we said, “I love you,”
and hung up the phone.

I sat for a brief moment on the bed in silence
before out of my mouth came a long wail;
it sounded hollow
with disbelief
it came from a place of foresight
currently numb to reality
but knowing the pain that was coming...

Nathan, who had woken up before I had hung up the phone,
now sat upright and asked me what had happened.
He rested his hand on my back
as I sat with one hand folded
around the phone in my lap
and one pressed against my mouth,
unable to speak.
My shoulders shook
until my cry abruptly stopped.

“Noah was killed,” I told him,
“He got hit by a car on his way to work.”
“I’m so glad I’m home.”

And suddenly my mind returned to my mama
whose aversion to phones I had inherited,
but who had dialed my number
in the dead of the night
to tell me that she and my papa had lost a third son,
and I was overwhelmed with sorrow and compassion for them.
What could I do?
How could I help?
I picked up the phone I had laid down,
grateful for its convenience and connectivity,
and I called home.

I had to wait till morning
when everyone would gather;
and because a person cannot fall back asleep
after the news that comes at night,
I did the only thing I knew to do...
in the stillness and darkness of those morning hours,
I prayed.

“Don’t ask about that, please don’t ask.”

We got your autopsy report and an in-depth accident report
the other day.
I surprise myself by reading them thoroughly
multiple times,
examining the details carefully.
I didn’t think I’d do that, Noah,
I didn’t think I wanted to know.
For some reason,
I have found the topic of the accident and the details of the crash
to be off-limits in conversation
outside our family;
my heart grimaces at others’ curiosity
and silently pleads as they look into my eyes,
“Don’t ask about that,
please don’t ask.”
I do not want the questions
and the speculations do not comfort
me in the realities of your death.

But still I read about
the moments and the injuries that took your life;
the accident report pulled deep, gulping sobs
from my chest,
while the autopsy report made me
praise the Lord for His mercy to you.

You did not fear and
you did not suffer.
You did not feel the pain of your broken bones
or the agony of crushing injuries.
You did not have to wonder
what was happening
or what would happen to you.
You only had to die
instantly.

It is your mercy
that instead of surviving the severity of
your injuries
and the immense physical, mental and emotional
anguish and loss that would have followed for you,
you got to instantly enter the
glories of heaven
and the presence of our Lord.
It is the gift of mercy
given to you.

And this mercy I see you have received
strengthens my heart
as I look at the numbers on the pages:
The lengths of blood splatters 1, 2, 3 and 4,
the position of your glasses, 43' from where you were hit,
the position of your body, 58' from where you were hit,
the position of your bike, 76' from where you were hit,
and between your body and your bike
your dislodged safety reflector at 71'
flashing red
flashing red
flashing red...

I would have been there, Noah
I would have taken the hit for you,
or at very least,
I would have held your hand in the place where you landed...
but the fact that I could not
is the mercy I’ve received.

I saw the visual aftermath
in a lesser measure:
The blood was gone
but the spray paint remained,
and they had picked up your glasses;
your body was gone
but the matted grass remained,
and they had picked up your bike;
the flashing lights and investigators were gone
but the illustration and measurements remained
and they had picked up your beckoning red reflector.
While I would have held your hand
and offered you every ounce of strength I could muster
as your heart beat its last,
even as I let your brothers go before you,
God knew it would have been
more than my human heart could have withstood
and so He covered my eyes with mercy.

To know you did not fear
and you did not suffer;
you did not feel
and you did not wonder
is my comfort in the center of description
of things my eyes never have to see.

I know that to live is Christ,
and to die is gain;
and to know you’re whole in Heaven
is healing balm for my searing pain.

Questions

What am I to do?
©9-7-12 Hannah McLean
For my Noah Boa

There is a place beside me
that you are suppose to fill
but these days
when I reach my hand out
to grab hold of you
I feel only air rush past my fingers
and an aching emptiness.

Without you
I’ve a gaping hole
within arms reach
the constant reminder 
of what is lost.

What I am to do?
Do I rattle around in this space that is now
too large for me?
Can I wedge myself in
by filling the gap?

If I gather all my memories of you,
will they shelter me from the
razor sharp edges of your empty space?
If I pour out all my affection for you
will it cushion my feet from the
spitting stones on the ground where you no longer stand?
If I pull together all the photographs of you
will they distract from the
heart breaking reality that I can no longer look into your face?

...Or if I collect all the things that remind me of you
will it only prove to magnify the gap between us
and the broadness of the expanse you’ve left behind?

What am I to do
when the air rushes through
my reaching fingers
and the gnawing ache of emptiness
overflows me?
What am I to do?

Trying to let the Healer do His work.

Slow, promised healing
©8-29-12 Hannah McLean

The wounds are still fresh
I know it when the slightest
confrontation of the loss of him
brushes against my heart
and my walls come up
in an awkward, hurried fashion
that leave me feeling
as though I am in a hardened glaze
unable to receive or give

What am I to do
when the wounds are still raw
and uninvited pressure inflames
the pain and bypasses what numbed
as i grimace my way
through the jarring bumps
ignorantly surprised by how easily
I bruise
or maybe by how deep the bruises truly are

The wounds are still fresh
borne through the flesh
and penetrating into the depth
of my heart and soul
healing is slow, but promised

And as I wait expectantly
while walking through each day’s unknowns
I will carefully take down my
awkward, hurried walls
that when I reach the
moments when the wounds have healed
I will be soft and whole
not cemented beneath a hardened glaze
of faulty security

When the giving and the taking collide.

Psalm 139 has been of significant importance to me lately. It’s grace when the Lord solidifies verses in your mind that you will need for what is to come. For me, this psalm has been a very rooting place in scripture for me over the last two months. Even as I write this, I marvel that maybe it has been a bit longer than two months as it is actually the very first Psalm that I chose to memorize after I gave my life to the Lord (I grew up memorizing scripture because I had to, to choose to was something different all together). Over the years, different portions of it have held me up, as it is filled with comforting truths of God’s presence with, care for, and complete knowledge of me.

The past few weeks, I have held onto the comfort provided in two verses as I have found myself in the center of a strange collision of the Lord who gives and who takes away.

My brother Noah died on August 4 at the age of 22-years-old. As I have faced the quandaries in the air around me of, “He was taken too soon,” or “What if he had stayed an extra minute longer before he left for work?” or “Why did she hit him?” Through my mind goes the truth I see in verse 16, “All the days ordained for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be.” God is the One who created Noah, He is the one who planned his life and numbered his days before he even existed. I find it comforting to know that God had a purpose and a plan for Noah’s short life and that it was fulfilled, and Noah now gets to be with Him forever. For some reason, knowing that allows me to freely set aside the questions and the “what-ifs” and to submit myself to the Father’s will with peace.

Then there is verse 13, “...You knit me together in my mother’s womb.” I heard the news of Noah’s death at 2:21am on August 5. It wasn’t until later in the day that it began to sink in; I’m 10 weeks pregnant, what will this grief do to my developing child? The first trimester of a pregnancy is critical to a fetus, all of its organs and systems are forming; it’s a time that calls for intentional care, much rest, much water, a healthy diet, exercise...if you’ve ever experienced death before, you can see why I fell into my natural response to fear. Grief makes you sort of forget about all that; sleep doesn’t come easily, food seems unimportant, water is not on the mind, time stands still as the day-to-day goings on grow dim in the light of what you have lost. Not only does basic physical care and concern tend to fall to the wayside, but the crushing burden of grief takes its own physical and emotional toll that leaves you drained of strength to the point of exhaustion. But I know this verse is true; it is God who is creating this baby inside me, not me; it is God who can protect this developing child from the negative affects of sorrow, not me; and it has always been God who can carry my fears, not me. I am grateful for praying friends who let me set my burdensome fear for my 10-week-old unborn child onto their backs and willingly carried it for me as I grieved for my Noah and stumbled my way through the crushing blows of the week and a half that followed.

Friends, my fear was lifted by your strength and prayers, and it has not returned; I cannot thank you enough for carrying it for me to our Father when I was far too fragile to lift the added burden of its weight. May He overflow you with blessing for your care of me and the strength you have lent me.

So I continue to stand on Psalm 139 with confidence and cling to the comfort that has poured out of the verses onto my weathered soul. I believe with my whole heart in a good, faithful and sovereign God; a present and thoughtful Creator with a wisdom that far outweighs my own. While this time has been a strange juxtaposition of life and death, I am certain it has made my praises all the fuller as I bless the One who gives and who takes away.

"I have to bury my brother today."

I woke up in the morning
on the day we were to bury you
and realized I had nothing to wear
to your funeral.
So my morning started off with a teary
trip to the store
which is the least fun kind of shopping
a girl can do.
I numbly walked past racks and wondered,
“I have to bury my brother today...
how am I suppose to dress for that?”
But God has mercy on the grieving
and the first dress I tried on
I bought.

We drove to the funeral home--
my husband, my baby and me.
It was one of those trips that was filled
with those deep guttural sobs that catch in your throat
and leave you gasping for a breath.
It was a quiet trip,
punctured only by a grief that my body wouldn’t let escape
for fear of its affects.

We found ourselves greeted by a line of patriot guards;
they wrapped around the building
and guarded every door
like a leather-wearing, tattoo-bearing, flag-waving army of angels.
It was a moving sight.
I walked to the door alone,
but stopped short of entering
“I don’t want to go in.
That’s my brother in there.
I don’t want to go in.”
One of the guards hugged me
until I had mustered up the necessary courage.

I walked inside and up the stairs
feeling lost and fragile,
I imagine I looked as I felt;
like the slightest bump would have shattered me.
I didn’t really know how to greet people,
and was grateful when the service started.

We sang,
we cried,
we “alright”-ed,
we spoke,
we listened,
we said, “goodbye,”
we carried your coffin,
we survived.

Then we lined up in a processional
to escort you to the cemetery;
it was reminiscent of the tarmac caravan,
only much, much longer.

At the cemetery,
we found your fellow Airmen,
faithfully lined up,
standing tall in their dress blues to honor you.
We stopped our car and walked to
the freshly dug grave that was for you.
It was a large open hole,
the dirt to fill it with was piled atop
your brothers graves,
waiting.

The scene that we found was a bit unorganized,
but it all came together in typical Noah fashion.
Looking over the day,
the wrinkles that needed to be ironed out
were far better and full of purpose
than we could have planned.

When the vault was in the ground,
we sat in a line of chairs
alongside your coffin.
The honor guard carefully folded the flag
that was draped over you,
heart-wrenching fold
by heart-wrenching fold
until it was meticulously handed to a man
to present to our mama.

How do you hand a mother the flag
that laid atop her son’s casket?
What words do you say to bring her comfort
as you share in the moments of her grievous loss?
“On behalf of the president of the United States of America...”
Our mama’s hands accepted your flag,
even as they seemed to long to comfort
the one who placed it in them.

There was another flag for our papa.
What do you say to the man
whose son lay in the coffin on your left?
What words do you say to offer strength
to the father who had lost three and yet who "never had any extra kids?”
“On behalf of the president of the United States of America...”
Our papa’s hands accepted your flag,
even as they extended strength to
the one who placed it in them.

The honor guard behind us
stood ready with their rifles raised
in a three-volley salute.
>Bang<
My heart cringed
>Bang<
and my tears fell.
>Bang<
Then the woeful sound of a bugle
began to glide atop the air;
the peaceful proclamation of Taps
“Day is done, gone the sun
from the lakes, from the hills, from the sky...
as we go, this we know
God is nigh.”
After the scripture was read over your coffin,
your brothers-in-arms stepped forward
and took the honored task of lifting you up
to courageously carry you across unstable boards
and crumbing ground
to lower you into your grave.
It was no small thing they did for us,
I am certain none of them had placed a man
into a grave before
and I am certain none of them wish for the opportunity
to do it again.
One of them graciously left his hat with you.

And then the time was upon us
that our mama had told me would be as painful as
the labor it took to bring you into this world;
as we began to sing
“Now the moment has come when we must say farewell...”
one-by-one your siblings stood
and moved as those who’d taken on such a task
too many times before,
to pick up the shovels
that leaned against the linden tree
that sways majestically over our brothers’ graves.

The sound of the shovels
digging into the pile of dirt
joined the melodic voices,
and the harsh sounds of the dirt falling onto
the cement vault
hammered in the reality:
We were burying our brother today.

My shoes filled with dirt
as I carried the shovels full,
so I took them off.
As I stood in the dress I had bought that morning,
with my bare feet in the grass and dirt
beside your grave,
I offered you what was left of my strength, Noah,
and did my part to cover you.

Eventually the sorrow overflowed
and I fell into the nearby arms
of our sister
who absorbed my sobbing soul
with her own.

Others joined our efforts
as we buried you,
they offered their strength
where ours was stretched too thin.
And when the dirt had all been placed into
the freshly dug grave,
when the last note of the hymn faded,
when we had brushed the dirt from your brother's foot stones,
there was nothing left for us to do,
but turn around

and walk away.

“I have to bury my brother today.”
May those words never fall
from our lips again.

Though we cannot see you anymore beside us,
Noah David Muonio,
we will always see you fondly
in our minds-eye.

The coffin on the tarmac.

I sit down with my fingers poised above the keys
and wait for words to come.
But my mind swirls in circles
and I wonder,
how do I write about this moment...
this moment when the idea became the reality.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012, 7:29pm:
when the answer was presented in a
flag wrapped coffin on the tarmac.

We knew the plan for the day;
three cars could meet the Air Force Honor Guard at the airport
and caravan to the tarmac
to meet Noah’s body upon arrival...
a simple, straightforward plan.

So carefully following orders
we pulled into the airport fire station
at 6:30pm.
None of us was prepared for the silver hearse we saw
parked silently beside the Honor Guard’s van.
We passed out kleenex as we lined up
and waited for further instruction.
“Follow close,” they said
and we were off.
We carted across the stark runway that backed up to a beautiful sky,
one that had occasionally showered us with tears
as we had waited,
but that now lay open and lovely as it wrapped around us.
We eased our tense and dreaded anticipation
by amusing ourselves with the colors of our caravan:
silver car, silver hearse, silver van, light gold van, maroon van, blaze orange suburban...
Muonio style.
We went through a tunnel
and wound past luggage carriers
until we came to a stop beside
an open space where Noah’s plane
would park.
We got out and stood together beside our cars,
waiting hand-in-hand.

We saw the plane approaching,
it carefully pulled into its place
and was still.
I am sure there were noises around us,
but once they opened the small door at the bottom of the plane,
I didn’t hear them anymore.
We stood together,
silently,
with our breath caught inside our chests,
hands grasping the ones beside us tightly,
and our eyes locked on the little opening.
Floating on the air
sat the question we knew needed to be answered
but which we longed was just a terrible mistake:

“Is this really real?”

What would we do when the doubt met truth?
What would we feel when reality was revealed to us?
Would we stand or would we fall?
Could we bear the weight of what we were about to see?

And so we stood
together in our dread
without a word
or a breath among us.

Then it happened;
a man appeared,
and following him came the front of a flag-draped coffin
And the silence was broken
as a collective wail of pain rose
in a crescendoed chorus from our lips;
it cracked the air where the question rested
and shattered it,
even as our hearts fell to pieces.

Foot-by-foot we watched the coffin slide across the narrow opening
until we had seen the white stars, the blue,
and the length of the red stripes had disappeared on the other side.
It came back into view as they turned it
and carefully set it onto a belt
that slowly began to move,
presenting our new reality to us in full
as Noah’s body completed its journey from Ohio to Minnesota.

There it sat before us,
what had gone out standing
had returned in a flag-draped coffin that rested in a shallow wooden box.
My father and my brother stood in full salute
as the Honor Guard marched forward
for the noble task of carrying our Noah’s coffin
to the waiting hearse.
They faithfully did their duty,
in spite of the wooden box that fought back.
Sway by sway
the flag moved across the tarmac
and disappeared into the silver hearse.
The raised arm of my brother fell
as he crumbled in a heap
where we knelt with him,
partners in the heavy sorrow
he could not stand beneath.

We wept together,
as we had so many times already,
with a common understanding of
a deeper pain
and the even greater tasks that awaited us.
And as they called us to return to our cars,
we lifted each other up
and carried each other to the cars that would take us away.
Then the caravan of silver, gold, maroon and blaze orange
retraced the path we had come in on
until we had reentered the real world
that would never be the same.

And from our lips
fell yet again the words we’d marveled over
every time they were spoken:
“We survived that.”

The heavy coffin that was ours to carry.

I woke up this morning thinking about
carrying your coffin.
There was a finality to the moment
we watched our parents close it.
My final words to you
had come out in a slightly panicked cry,
“Goodbye, my Noah Boa. Goodbye, my Noah Boa,”
as I clumsily brushed my hands across your chest
and kissed the top of your head one last time.

Your coffin was so heavy, Noah.
I don’t think it was because
it was made out of an element resistant
stainless steel
or that you were a full grown man.
I think it was because
my arms were ill-prepared
to carry it
and my muscles,
atrophied by sorrow,
had trouble lifting even myself.
As soon as I set my hands
on the metal bars,
lined up beside our brothers and sisters,
my heart crumbled.
Sobs burst out from the depth of me
as we lifted you,
pulsating through my body with each painful step.
We carried you to the hearse
which sat open before us
ready to bring your body to your final resting place.
Weeping,
our family’s cries accompanied you.
Together we bore the weight,
knowing we should never
have had to carry another coffin,
knowing we could never
have carried it alone.

Noah, the man.

One of the things that struck me the most was on day 5 of our Noah week, the day I looked into his coffin for the first time. My very first thought was, “He looks like a man.” I don’t know what I expected to see; maybe the big sister part of me expected the first response to be a lament over the face of the littleness of a boy I had cared for from birth (that came at other times), but instead, I felt a surge of pride as a big sister looked into her little brother’s face and knew that he had truly become a man.

When I mentioned that Noah looked like a man to my aunt, she said, “Is that a new thing?” Yes. It was a new thing. Joining the Air Force did that to Noah.

My favorite part about our day in Ohio (the Air Force flew our whole family out for a memorial service for him) was visiting the place where he worked. I know they went to great lengths to allow us the privilege of seeing what he did day-to-day and meeting the men and women he worked with, and I am so grateful they made that happen for us. He was involved in important work, work that not only impacted the people and place where he sat at his desk, but the United States as a whole. He worked with brilliant people and fit right in. He not only did what was required of him, but brought insight and information that was above and beyond, and stood out as a man of great potential who was (and would continue to grow in) having a huge impact.

As we talked to people he worked with, I was filled with gratitude that they saw him; Noah was always someone who was content with being invisible, and even in his place as tallest peak in the Muonio family mountain range, he would shrink back from drawing attention to himself (unless there was a statue nearby, in which case he would unhesitatingly pose with it). But at the Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Noah didn’t hide. He stood with confidence and did his work to the best of his ability...and his abilities were great. He rose to the challenges placed before him, and as one who always sought to do his best, he was recognized, his giftings were nurtured and, as a result, he became the man he was made to be.

You know, I had always referred to Noah as my unlit firecracker, full of potential and waiting for the right spark to set him ablaze. It brought me much joy to know that while I never had the pleasure of seeing it, my firecracker’s wick was burning when he went to his grave.

The cross on the side of Ohio State Route 444

Dearest Noah,

Nathan made a cross for us to put in the place where you died.
 

I carried it for you...
from my house and through the airport
onto the plane and to Ohio
to the hotel and finally
to the place where you died.
It was an honor to carry your cross.
I wrote your name on it.
I wanted people to know
that it wasn’t just a bicyclist
who died there on Ohio State Route 444...
it was you:
Our brother, our son, our uncle, our friend
It was Noah David Muonio,
an incredible human being who we are deeply grieving the loss of.

I saw the place where you died, Noah.
I cried.
I saw the mark your tire made on the side of the road
I saw the place where you body landed
some 20 feet further.
I saw the position of your feet, carefully marked
with orange spray paint;
"RF"
"LF"
I saw the grass, discolored and matted down
where your body lay
alone on the side of the road,
the place where you took your last breath
and where,
in a piercing moment
we lost you.

It was healing to lay our hands
where your heart had been.
Every single one of us
longed to have been there
beside you
to hold your hand.
We reminded ourselves that
you were not alone.
You did not die alone
even though you died without us.

We love you.

We pounded in the cross
I carried for you
from my house and through the airport
onto the plane and to Ohio
to the hotel and finally
to the place where you died.
Your brothers faithfully
pounded it into the ground with a stone
that God had left there for us.
It is a small memorial
a simple, unpolished
cross of rough wood
written on with a sharpie...
you deserve much more.
But raw and present is what we could give you
and I know our efforts
would have pleased you.

We stood
and knelt
and held each other there.
We prayed, Noah
maybe you got to listen with the Lord
in heaven.
We gave the Lord our sorrow,
we asked Him to heal our broken hearts
and bind our wounds

because He is the healer.
We wept as we prayed blessing over the woman 

whose car took your life,
we asked Him for the greatest blessing
we could...
salvation and an eternity with Him
because “God SO loved the world
that He gave His only Son”
and whoever believes in Him
will not perish
but have eternal life.

We prayed over the breadth of our emotions

and all that was to come.
We prayed that God would help
us make the daily choice to say,
“Blessed be the Lord,
Who gives and
Who takes away.”

And then we sang a song
for you
“It’s one of those times when I really miss you...”
Our voices stumbled
through sliding octaves and warbling notes
but still we sang
because you loved to sing
and so do we.

When it was determined that
“In this earthly realm, some of us need to pee,”
We left our tears and blood
on the side of the road
and climbed back into
our caravan of government vans
and left behind
the orange paint,
the wooden cross,
the mark of your body,
and the details we will never know.

While it is true that
for now,
we have lost you
it is for forever that,
we will love you, Noah David Muonio.

Thoughts of a grieving woman:

I lost my little brother, Noah David Muonio (aka Noah Boa).

I am grateful that he let me call him my Noah Boa...I think potty training someone gives you the privilege of calling them whatever you like, right? Maybe he agreed. :)

I miss him.

I love him.

He was so kind, so very kind. He was gentle and unassuming and a selfless servant. His quiet manner and pleasant presence had behind it a bundle of potential that I was so excited to see unveiled.

I used to call him a firecracker that was not yet lit...but that, when the right fire touched the wick, would light up this world and take away the breath of those of us who had the privilege of watching his life unfold.

But I don’t get to see this.

He’s gone.

Planning your brother’s funeral is a strange thing.

The grieving process in general is strange. We have traditions for death and grief. I didn’t realize that was unusual until my sister-in-law Jess said to me, “I hate that you guys have traditions for funerals...I can understand weddings or graduations, but no one should have to have traditions for deaths.”

We really have lost a lot. As a family we are seasoned grievers together.

Every once in a while I look at us and think, “And then there were 9.” How did we get down to the single digits? We’ve always been the family with the dozen kids.

As a family, I feel like God has really taught us how to hold His blessings in loose hands. He gives and takes away and blessed be His name. I am grateful that we got to have Noah for the short time that he was here. He is our brother, a part of our family...we got to have him. He was our gift. Lucky us. :)

I’m dreading Wednesday.

Wednesday we are going to meet his body at the airport. An honor guard from the Air Force will be accompanying him. Wednesday we are going to be confronted with Noah’s death head on. We are going to look into a coffin and see his lifeless body; and every strand of “this isn’t real” is going to be torn down and we are going to know that this is real and undeniable. And I don’t know how I will be able to stand.

But more than my own confrontation, I am going to look upon my family confronting this reality. I am going to have to watch their hearts break in front of me all over again, I am going to have to hear and see them weep. And I can’t do anything about it; I can’t take away their pain or carry their grief; I can’t mend their broken hearts or lift up their crushed spirits...all I will be able to do is hug them and weep with them and love them and our tears are just going to flood the place.

I’m dreading Wednesday.

But will that be harder than Saturday?

Saturday I am going to bury my brother. We are going to honor him at his funeral and carry him to his grave. Then we are going to bury him and walk away from a pile of dirt.

And I won’t get to see him again this side of eternity.

And I miss him.