On the afternoon of April 30th, we got word that our brother-in-law Chad had died peacefully with my sister Amanda and his family by his side, in the house they had made a home. This day, marked the end of the highs and the lows, the pain and the suffering, and all the unknowns that accompanied two-years of cancer treatment. An end for one, a continuation of such for those left behind. Chad’s wife, his daughter, his family, his friends…into an unknown.

A brother-in-law is a brother with a few extra “dashes”, and like the brothers we are raised with, there are varying levels of commonalities and personal interests amongst us all. These commonalities and interests often serve as a catalyst for closeness. Like attracts like. So it goes.

Such is the case that the commonalities and interests between Chad and myself were few, but I knew he loved my sister. Perhaps that commonality is enough? What I knew of Chad is sometimes all one needs to know about their brother-in-law, or just a good man in general. I knew he was a fiercely devoted husband and father that worked hard to build a good life for his family.

So when I think of Chad, which I’ve done often over the past few months, I think of those commonalities and interests. I think of his encyclopedic knowledge of classic country music, that was faster than a Google search. I think of the way his entire body would shake as he smiled, and silently laughed. I think of these things, I think of a life that was well lived, but one we all wish would have had more time.

More time around the campfire. More time to have and to hold his wife, and his daughter. More time to live the life he loved.

To live and to love is to experience the loss of people we care for, it’s part of the deal, part of being human. Death is an unavoidable aspect of life, and whether that death arrived unexpectedly or fell within a medically prognosed time-frame, it takes life and leaves grief. It leaves a gap in the lives of those that go on living, a gap whose depth and breadth will fluctuate through time. Fluctuate, but never fade completely.

When Dawn and I got word of Chad’s passing, Dawn said, “Would you like to go for a walk?” So, together we walked, hand in hand, with heavy hearts and tears in our eyes. Tears for his passing, tears for my sister, for our niece, for our family and his.

It was a breezy day, and as the clouds moved hurriedly from west to east, occasionally the sun would find a gap and I’d feel its warmth on my face. A warmth, like my wife’s hand in mine, I was grateful to feel. Grateful I had this time, but regretful that Chad’s time to experience the sun on his face and his wife’s hand in his had passed.

As we navigate this gap in our life, as we wait for the sun to shine again, as we oscillate between grieving our loss and being grateful for the time we shared with the one we’ve lost, life goes on. The life Chad was a part of goes on, and, along with it, so will he.