I've been thinking about Mark a lot today and the ache of missing him got a little worse than it's been in a while. I always know he's not here anymore, but sometimes it just kind of--hits me. Like a ton of bricks. And I realize that I'm not going to see him again, as long as I'm living here on earth. Mark will never make it past 19. He'll never play with Joshua or get a chance to be the amazing uncle I know he would have been. He won't come and visit like he said he would. I can't just phone him up when I want to talk. I can't set all my little projects aside for him to fix for me.
I was trying to untwist a slinky today- I didn't know those things could actually get knotted up. And I found myself thinking, as I yanked at it in frustration, "Mark could have fixed this." I'm sure there are a lot of people who could fix it. But Mark loved projects like that, where he had to figure things out and find solutions. If it took an hour, he would see it through.
Loved. I hate using past tenses when I speak about him. It wasn't supposed to be this way. We used to talk about growing up and having families and visiting each other--
Derek, Mark and I once pooled our money together to buy another "Adventures in Odyssey" CD for our collection, and I remember Mark asking, "Who gets it when we're not living at home anymore?" The question never got answered; it just wasn't important. Today, I don't even know where it is. Maybe Derek ended up taking it, or maybe my mom has it packed away. When Joshua's older, I may ask where I can find it. Maybe Derek will beat me to it, but we can always share. We did before. But I wish we were still sharing with Mark.
I found Mark's Christmas present. Why do I always find his first? It's not like I can give it to him. (No, I don't buy it). I hate when that happens, as though to remind me that with all the Christmas shopping that I'll do, I won't be able to get something for Mark.
I can't write anymore, right now. It hurts too much. What a gift it is, to know that Mark is in Heaven. With Jesus. So eventually, when the ache dulls again, I can wipe my tears away and smile for him.