I walk into my closet searching for a photo album. It’s a 10×10 scrapbook-sized album, but I can’t find it. I start rummaging through the piles of important things in my newly organized closet, wondering why I ever decided to clean anything at all. No luck.

I make my way over to the bookshelf, also in the closet. Why do I even have all of these books and notebooks? Still nothing. I search the top shelf of the closet, thinking the album is so big I might have put it up there… nothing. I head toward the pantry/closet in the house, where our extra pictures live. I really don’t remember where I put it, but at this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if I put it somewhere so random, you know, looking for the safest spot possible. Not there. I should also mention that this album is bright pink. It is hard to miss. Now I’ve been on the hunt for a full 5 minutes, and I’m starting to get worried. Not that worried; I know it’s here, but I need to read the letter today, and I want to find it now.

Back to the closet I go. I sat down on the floor and started pulling things off the bottom shelf of the bookshelf I had already rummaged through earlier. Still nothing, but I make a mental note because that shelf really does need to be organized, and I don’t think I need half of what’s there. I load everything back on the shelf, and the pink cover catches my eye. Peeking out from a small crack between the bookshelf and the dresser next to it is the precious album that had been playing an unkind game of hide-and-seek. I breathe a sigh of relief. I found it. I sit back, get comfortable, and search for the letter.

I casually flip through the large plastic sheets filled with letters. I read a couple and look at some of the included pictures, turning page after plastic-covered page until my eyes find the page I’m looking for. I look over the pictures of my childhood and try to remember each captured memory with as much detail as possible. I look at the letter and scroll to the signature first, as I always do: “Love your brother, John.” Tears sting my eyes, and I go back to the top to read it in its entirety. I read it slowly, pausing to take in each word, each sentiment, each sentence, trying to remember what it was like when he was still here. I let my thoughts wander, taking me back to the time when those words left his marker and landed on the page. I try to remember what it felt like the day that book was gifted to me and the way my brother’s hug felt as he wished me a happy 30th birthday, a birthday he himself wouldn’t see. He died not even a year later.

I find this album only a couple of times a year, which is probably why it takes so long to find it each time I look for it.  I read this letter he wrote to me on the day of his death and on his birthday, but I’ll also pull it out when I want to feel close to him, when I want to talk to him, or when I need to be reminded that he did really love me. That may seem strange, but because John died by suicide, this is a real question I have asked myself. Did he love me? Did he know how much I loved him? Why wasn’t that enough?

I don’t have all the answers, and I won’t attempt to answer them. Instead, I will treasure the precious gift of this letter on the harder days, cry when I’m sad, laugh when I remember silly moments we had together, and be so very, very glad that God chose me to be his sister.

Today, on John’s birthday, I read the letter one more time and then neatly tuck it back into the crack it now calls home, assuring myself that I won’t forget where it lives.

Grief finds its way into so many different areas of our lives. It can show up in a picture, a song title, a phone number in our contacts, a line in a movie, a date on the calendar, or in a pink album. It’s been so many years, and yet grief is still here. I guess it always will be. I choose to grieve with hope. I grieve with the comfort only God can provide, and I’ll always look for ways to comfort others in the same way.

If you’re grieving alongside me, I’m praying the same for you, too.