Remembering My Brother With Compassion, Gratitude, Tenderness, and Love

This is a piece that I wrote three years ago that I am moved to share again with current dates on this 48th anniversary of my brother's death. Bless us all, no exceptions... 💜🙏 Molly

My memories of Orchard Lake go back as far as I can remember

 

 

 For John

Orchard Lake

On this 48th anniversary of my twin brother's death, I am remembering that there were happy times, too. It wasn't all trauma and loss...

All but one of the photographs that I'm moved to share above were taken at Orchard Lake where my paternal grandparents had a home. My father grew up on this beautiful lake near Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, as did his parents and my great-grandparents and my great-great grandparents. There is history here that stretches back though time. It is also rumored that Chief Pontiac was buried on Apple Island. And on a hot day in July of 1974, I was married to my first husband on that island. So many memories.

And what I remember about my brother was that he was happiest here. It was such a thrill for John when he was got his first sailboat. There was a freedom in letting the wind take hold and move him out farther and farther from shore. I treasure these memories at Orchard Lake, however impermanent, of my brother on his sailboat, happy and free. 

* * * * *

 Suicide

Coming to terms with the suicide of a loved one is among the most difficult and challenging experiences that I believe we can have. And today I know so many who have lost a family member or other loved one to suicide. These kinds of deaths of trauma, separation, and despair are tragically so common. So common...

I remember learning days later how it was that on Friday, January 27th, 1978 my brother had walked out of the halfway house he'd been staying in, leaving a suicide note behind. I also remember the phone call that I got on Sunday, January 29th from my paternal grandfather letting me know that my brother was missing once again. (My mother wouldn't let me know, but she would call my grandfather, who then called me.) I knew that each time John went "missing" that he was trying to get up the courage to end his life. This time, unlike all the others before, I was determined to not get extremely stressed, telling myself that he'd reappear again sometime soon, as my brother always had in the past. 

But this time it was different.

I arrived home from a therapy group around 8:30 on the night of Monday, January 30th. Jim, my first husband, was on the phone. He was emphatically motioning me to stay back and stay quiet. Then I realized that Jim was talking to my mother, who was calling from her home in Grosse Pointe, Michigan. Even before he hung up, I knew that my brother was dead. And Jim, knowing how heartless and cruel she could be, wanted to be the one to tell me, not my mother.

For some time it was too torturous to remember and even begin to process that my twin had died alone in that motel room after spending three days downing vodka and Valium. The motel personnel who found John after he didn't check out on that Monday morning also found a second suicide note informing them who needed to be contacted. And now John had died. And I survived by going into a kind of death of my own, spending years in my addictions and disassociating ever more deeply from my own heart.

For my brother, and countless others, death comes after a long, devastating, and tragic experience of being starved for love. John wrote this poem, which I am moved to share once again:

If Only

I love to be loved.

I need to be loved.

And I am angry when I am not loved.

And when I am angry, I am not loved.

If only I weren't angry

about not being loved,

maybe I could find

the love that I need.

— John Strong

3/25/51 - 1/30/78

It was many years into my own healing journey before I began to truly understand the trauma that John and I had grown up with and its roots in generational and cultural trauma. 

Pictures — this one of John and my mother — always tell a story.

* * * * *

 Finding the Help That We Need

John was unable to find the help he needed. It wasn't that he didn't try. But then, in the 70s, what my brother received was Valium and shock treatments and commitment to a state hospital outside of Detroit whose ward was something right out of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" — all of which only served to add to the trauma John had experienced over his young lifetime rather then help heal it.

Before that, and while still a teenager, John had also been in therapy with psychotherapist Jean Hewitt. Jean loved John. And later I came to know and love Jeannie myself and thought of her as my "surrogate" mother. 

Sadly, and so common, I would also come to later realize that Jean Hewitt was herself, like my brother and I had both been, an alcoholic who had her own unhealed trauma. Jeannie was simply unable to support my brother in coming any farther in his journey of healing and awakening than she'd first come herself. 

Today I see how limited that was, and no matter how much she cared about my brother and myself. And I hold my brother and Jean Hewitt with such deep compassion and love.

What I so clearly recognize today is how many in the helping professions had and have unaddressed trauma of their own. They simply have not done their own deeper personal work. They are not trauma-informed. And, sadly, it cannot be overstated how this continues to be true today. It is more common than not for doctors and psychiatrists, teachers and social workers, therapists and others in the helping professions to be lacking in significant ways in truly understanding and working effectively with children, adults, elders, and whole communities who carry trauma. 

Because, on a continuum, we all have trauma. It is what we do with the harm — the ruptures and betrayals, the abuse and neglect, the addictions and anxiety, and all of the many losses and faces of violence we've experienced — it is how we attend to the pain and trauma that we carry and who we seek for support that matters and can make all the difference.

This has been a hard, hard lesson to learn — the critical importance of whether or not those we turn to for deep support are trauma-informed. This can make the difference between the perpetuation of harm or its deep healing, unburdening, and transformation. And for some, like my brother, this is the difference between life and death.

On a visit from Oregon with Jeannie at her Grosse Pointe home, 1977

* * * * *

 Awakening

Early in my journey of awakening, I was told by the counselor who I was seeing at that time that the inner work that we are engaged in doesn't just heal ourselves, but also heals our ancestors, our children, and generations yet to come. This I believe to be true. Because we are all interconnected in and through time, how it is that we live our lives impacts the greater whole. And truly matters.

Over the course of many years now, it has become increasingly clear to me that we are all sending out ripples, individually and collectively, which in some way add to the healing and health and well-being of ourselves and others, or increases the harm and suffering of ourselves and those around us.

At the same time, I am also humbled with the awareness of how difficult it is to extricate ourselves from systems of harm that we have absorbed and internalized. Often what is accepted as "normal" in our society and beyond is in reality unhealthy, toxic, and harmful to our individual and collective physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being. So many of us are lost to the heart of who we are.

As I speak to the prevalence of trauma in our culture and world, I am also aware that there is healing, there is transformation and awakening, and that — even in the midst of it all — there are countless examples and models, teachings and inspirations, stories and paths and resources which embody awareness, compassion, truth, wisdom, and love. It is absolutely possible to awaken. In an ongoing way, we can seek and discover resources which can assist us in waking up from the misperceptions and unhealthy belief systems that we have unknowingly absorbed and which do not serve our highest good or that of anyone else.

Especially the illusion of separateness. Dehumanization is only possible to the degree that we experience that we are separate from, rather than interrelated with all of life. And this begins with a deep wounding that causes the rupture of an internal separateness from our core essence and the strength and tenderness and wisdom of our hearts.

At our grandparents' home on Orchard Lake

* * * * *

The Ripples We Create Matter

My brother died from this delusion of a flawed, unlovable, unworthy, separate self. John was starving for love in an environment where he was not able to be seen and supported for who he was, where he remained estranged from the divine light within himself, where he was not able to find — in John O'Donohue's words — a wonderful love in himself for his self.

When John ended his life at the age of 26, he did not know his authentic self. He lived in isolation and disconnection. Truth and authenticity remained out of reach. There is no fault or blame in this. It is what it is. John left before he was able to find the support he needed to heal and unburden his broken heart and truly and deeply know beauty, joy, connection, compassion, intimacy, and love. My brother was not able to do this work in his lifetime.

But I can. And as I am coming to know more and more of the heart of who I am, and recognize the heart of who you are, I am conscious of doing this heart-work for both my beloved brother and myself. And our ancestors. And for my children and grandchildren and generations to come. And for my beloved husband and other extended family and dear friends. And for the houseless people standing on street corners who I extend dollars and granola bars and smiles and blessings to. And for countless other beings near and far.

We are not separate. The ripples we create matter. And whether we — individually and collectively —embrace, heal, and transform our greatest losses or run from them into addictions, distractions, projections, and suffering of all kinds matters. We all matter.

And what we experience in our lives can push us to open ever more deeply our hearts, to ultimately expand our compassionate caring to all beings, and to use the witnessing of a tortured and traumatized life as the exact inspiration to live and love deeply.

And this is what has evolved for me and how my twin's tormented and tragic life and death has changed me. At first, and for many years, I ran from the excruciating pain and trauma of it all. And then the Grace — the wise support, tenderness and compassion, wisdom and Love — that I had needed for so very long began to touch and find its way into my conscious awareness and a deepening and ever abiding connection with my heart. And, over time, everything changed. Everything.

Just know that as anyone encounters and experiences loving-kindness from me today, that my beloved brother John is also part of my capacity to be love, to care, and to extend compassion to an ever widening circle of life. 

Do I weep today? Yes. Do I miss my twin today? Yes, I always will. And does my brother also live on within me? Yes. And, in the midst of my sorrow, do I also experience gratitude? Yes. After all, and as Francis Weller wisely reflects, grief and love are sisters. (https://mollystrongheart.blogspot.com/2022/12/francis-weller-grief-and-love-are.html)

And this deep gratitude lives on within me for all that I have learned from my brother's life and death. Love is the great medicine. Love is who we are. John is always with me. His heart and mine are joined. We will always be twins, bringing forth the love and kindness and caring that we all need and are worthy of.

* * * * *

Suggested reading:

 

The Myth of Normal: Trauma, Illness,

and Healing in a Toxic Culture

https://www.amazon.com/Myth-Normal-Illness-Healing-Culture/dp/0593083881 

 

 

***

No Bad Parts: Healing Trauma and Restoring Wholeness

With the Internal Family Systems Model

https://ifs-institute.com/nobadparts

* * * * *

 A Prayer

May we be at peace.

May we be supported, safe, and loved.

May our hearts remain open.

May we know the beauty of our own true nature. 

May we be healed and grounded in a path of heart.

May we be liberated from the illusion of separateness

and the roots of our suffering.

May we experience our sacred interconnection 

and oneness with all of life.

May we know the heart of who we are.

May we awaken together. 

💗🙏💗

 

With love and blessings,

Molly

 

Mary Oliver: The Journey

On this 48th anniversary of my twin's suicide, I am drawn to once again share this poem by Mary Oliver... one I deeply resonate with. While I remember my brother with such deep love, I also reflect on that summer day in June of 1975 when my first husband and I left everything we knew from our childhood and ancestral homes in Michigan and headed west, destination unknown. 

At the time, I did not truly realize how I was moving away from my family of origin in order to save myself. And, significantly, I also reflect on the profound changes and grace which began to unfold in my life several years later as I rooted into a path of healing and awakening here in the Pacific Northwest and never let go. 

Sadly, many do not choose or are unable to choose and discover that doorway through which they will be blessed with a journey of deep and transformative healing and health and wholeness. Too many will remain estranged from the beauty, strength, and sacredness of their true nature.

It is so important to do our best to not bring judgment to those who are not able to survive or thrive in cultures which are too often steeped in separateness and delusion, addictions and depression, ignorance and cruelty, violence and the many other faces of unaddressed trauma.

It is not easy to be human. May we remember to hold us all, wherever we are on our human journeys, with ever deepening understanding, compassion, caring, and kindness. 🙏💜 Molly

Photo by Molly

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice–
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do–
determined to save
the only life you could save.

  — Mary Oliver

EXCELLENT!! — Dr. Stacey Patton: Black Jesus vs. ICE: A Sermon for Christian Churches in Bed with Empire

WOW!!! THIS!!

AMEN!

🙏 Molly

By Dr Stacey Patton

Jan 25, 2026

The doors of the church are open. Good morning, Saints!

Beloved children of the sun, I want you to turn to your neighbor and say, “Neighbor… Jesus was a troublemaker.”

Because make no mistake about it, Saints . . . Jesus did not come to Earth to bless the comfortable. He did not come to pacify the powerful. He did not stroll in saying, “Can we all just get along?”

Ohhhh, y’all not for Rev. Dr. Staceypants’ preachin’ on this snowy morning in Amerikkka.

Black Jesus rattled cages. He shattered sacred silence. He walked straight into the places power said were “off limits” and he claimed them anyway. He put his body between the boot and the neck. He told the truth even when the truth had a price on its head. He loved the dispossessed so fiercely that Empire called him a threat. He confronted those who had built religion into a shield for injustice. Wherever there was hypocrisy, wherever there was bondage, and wherever there was corruption, there was Jesus stirring up trouble.

Jesus was a preacher who pissed off priests. He scandalized the Pharisees. He made the rulers of Rome nervous. He was the kind of good trouble that makes the oppressed stand up and the oppressor shake! If peace comes from justice, then Jesus made trouble on purpose because he came to undo systems that keep human beings in chains.

And the Bible says in Luke, the fourth chapter, that when Jesus stood up in the synagogue and read from the prophet Isaiah, he didn’t choose a soft, comforting word. He chose a liberation text. Church he said, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because He has anointed me to preach good news to the poor, to proclaim release to the captives, recovery of sight to the blind, and to let the oppressed go free.”

Church, that was a declaration of war on every system built on domination! That was Jesus announcing, “I didn’t come to make you comfortable. I didn’t come to play y’all. I came to set folk free.”

And when he finished reading, the Bible says the people in church got so mad they tried to throw him off a cliff. Because liberation preaching always gets labeled “disruptive” by people who benefit from the chains.

Somebody say Amen.

Because Saints that story, ancient though it is, isn’t just a Gospel memory. It is a prophetic pattern we see lived out right here in our own country.

Last week in St. Paul, Minnesota, a group of protestors did somethin’ that made headlines across this nation. They walked into Cities Church and interrupted Sunday morning worship. They walk into the sanctuary to confront the pastor who is also serving in leadership for ICE, the very agency carrying out violent immigration enforcement and killing people in the Twin Cities.

Saints, the Bible has a word for ‘shepherds’ like Pastor David Easterwood

Jeremiah 23:1 says, “Woe to the shepherds who destroy and scatter the sheep of my pasture, says the Lord.”

Did y’all hear that, church? He didn’t say woe to the sheep. Not woe to the broken. Not woe to the protestors. WOE to the shepherds who use their position to aid in the scattering, the terrorizing, and the hunting of the flock.

And Jesus backs it up in Matthew 7:15 when he says, “Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravenous wolves.”

In other words, everybody who stands in a pulpit ain’t a pastor. Everybody who says “Lord, Lord” ain’t a shepherd. I’m a whole Black atheist and even I know that some folk look like they guardin’ the flock, but they’re workin’ for the wolves. Some folk wear a collar on Sunday and a badge on Monday. Some folk break bread in the sanctuary and help break families in the street. Some folk anoint with oil in the morning and enforce terror by night.

And Jesus says, “You will know them by their fruit.” Not by their sermons. Not by their seminary degrees. Not by their titles. But by their fruit. And if the fruit is fear… If the fruit is deportation… If the fruit is detention… If the fruit is breaking up families…If the fruit is detaining 5-year-old children … If the fruit is blood on the pavement… Then the Word of the Lord says, “WOE!”

And when the Bible says “woe,” that ain’t a polite church word. That’s not a gentle suggestion. “Woe” is divine smoke. “Woe” is some shit is ‘bout to pop off. “Woe” means god is ‘bout to flip the table.

“Woe” means judgment is locked and loaded. “Woe” means you done crossed from correction into consequence. “Woe” means the Lord has put your name on the docket. “Woe” means you’ve been weighed, measured, and found triflin’.

“Woe” is god saying, I see you. I’ve been watchin’ yo’ evil ass. And this ain’t gonna end the way you think it is.

So when Jeremiah says, “Woe to the shepherds who destroy and scatter the sheep,” that’s a warning shot across the bow. That’s god telling fake pastors, corrupt leaders, and holy-looking wolves in clerical collars: You might have a badge and gun on earth, but you ain’t got protection in heaven.

Beloved children of the sun, those protestors stepped into the sanctuary and raised their voices. They broke the script. They refused to let sacred silence hide the pain of the families whose loved ones have been hurt, terrorized, and killed by federal immigration agents. The church service was interrupted. The flow of worship was shattered. And the powers that be, the politicians, preachers, and pundits, they all said, “That was wrong. That was disruptive. That scared the children. That disturbed people trying to worship.”

And Saints, I stopped and said to myself …. “Now that sounds real familiar.”

Because every time god’s justice crosses a line that protects the powerful, somebody calls it disruption. Every time the cry of the oppressed speaks into a sacred space, somebody insists we maintain comfort. Every time truth walks down the aisle instead of tiptoeing around the pews, somebody says it’s out of order. Every time the Gospel names the sin of the state instead of soothing the conscience of the church, somebody says it’s political. Every time Jesus shows up as liberator instead of mascot for Empire, somebody says, That’s not the right Jesus.

Every time we refuse to separate worship from the world’s wounds, the same voices rise up to say, “Not here. Not like this. Not now.” And yet, just like Jesus, the Gospel always shows up where injustice hurts the least able to bear it.

Hallelujah.

But I came to tell you this morning, Jesus has never been in the business of protecting false peace. Jesus is not the chaplain of Empire. Jesus is not the mascot of respectability. Jesus is not the security guard for unjust systems. Jesus is not the PR agent for state violence. Jesus is not the quiet accomplice to suffering in the name of order. Jesus is not the decoration on the wall of a church that has made peace with oppression.

The Bible says in Matthew 21 that Jesus walked into the temple and drove them out. He didn’t ask them politely. He didn’t wait his turn. He didn’t fill out a complaint card.

Nahhh.

He overturned tables. He scattered coin. He shut down business as usual. He disrupted worship that had gotten comfortable with exploitation. And he said, “My Father’s house shall be called a house of prayer for all people, but you have made it a den of thieves.”

Church, Jesus was sayin’, you cannot sing hymns on stolen breath. You cannot shout hallelujah while collaborating with systems that crush the poor. You cannot wash your hands in holy water while your policies spill innocent blood. You cannot lay hands in blessing and then help put handcuffs on the vulnerable.

You cannot pray for peace while profiting from terror. You cannot quote scripture on Sunday and enforce suffering on Monday. You cannot preach “love thy neighbor” and then help build cages for your neighbor. You cannot call Jesus Lord while standing guard over a cross still being built. You cannot serve god and the state at the same time.

Now hear the irony. The same administration that shrugs when federal agents shoot and kill people, the same politicians who stay silent when immigrant families are terrorized, detained, and deported, suddenly found their moral voice when a church service got interrupted.

They weren’t outraged about blood in the street. They were outraged about noise in the sanctuary. They weren’t alarmed by people dying at the hands of ICE. They were alarmed that worship got uncomfortable.

But Jesus always stands where blood cries out. From Abel’s blood crying from the ground, to the Hebrew babies drowned by Pharaoh. To the bodies hanging from lynching trees. To the crucified Christ outside the city gate. To the people shot in American streets. God has never been confused. God has taken sides. The Bible says in Exodus, “I have heard the cry of my people, and I have come down to deliver them.” Not to lecture them. Not to pacify them. Not to tell them to wait their turn. I have come to deliver them.

So when folk say, “Jesus would never disrupt a church,” I say, “Read your Bible.” Jesus disrupted the temple. Jesus disrupted the economy. Jesus disrupted political power. Jesus disrupted false peace. Now imagine Jesus walking into that church in St. Paul. Not slipping into the back pew. Not waiting for the benediction. But walking straight down the center aisle, eyes steady, voice firm, spirit burning.

Imagine him standing before a pastor entangled with the machinery of deportation and detention. Imagine him saying what he always says to religious leaders who make peace with Empire: "Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You give a tenth of your spices—mint, dill and cumin. But you have neglected the more important matters of the law—justice, mercy and faithfulness. You should have practiced the latter, without neglecting the former."

And yes, saints, he would get loud. Loud like Amos crying, “Let justice roll down like waters.”

Loud like Isaiah saying, “Woe to those who make unjust laws.”

Loud like Jeremiah standing in the temple gates saying, “Do not trust in lying words while you oppress the foreigner, the fatherless, and the widow.”

Did Y’all hear that word? The foreigner. That’s Bible language for the immigrant, the migrant, the undocumented, the one without papers but not without god.

And now, in Minnesota, another man is dead. And the same system that demands silence from protesters offers no repentance for spilled blood. It offers lies. But Jesus does not bless a silence or the lies that protects Pharaoh. Jesus does not sanctify a peace built on fear. Jesus does not anoint a church that refuses to stand with the hunted.

And if worship cannot make room for the cries of the oppressed, then worship has become a performance for Pharaoh. So hear me, beloved children of the sun. Jesus would have walked into that sanctuary. He would have confronted the pastor. He would have exposed the hypocrisy. He would have declared, “My house shall be a house of prayer for all people.” Not just citizens. Not just the documented. Not just the comfortable. All people.

And he would have said to the church what he said to the rich young ruler: “Go and sell what you have, lay down your power, and follow me.” In other words, you cannot follow me and fund the systems that crucify my siblings.

And then, because Jesus never leaves us without hope, he would have turned to the weeping, the afraid, the undocumented, the grieving, the ones living under the shadow of raids and guns and detention centers, and he would have said, “Blessed are you who are poor. Blessed are you who are hunted. Blessed are you who are mourning. Blessed are you when they revile you and persecute you and say all manner of evil against you falsely for righteousness’ sake. For yours is the kingdom of god.” Not someday. Not in the sweet by-and-by. But now.

And saints, the question before the church is not whether protest is disruptive. The question is whether we will follow a disruptive Christ. The question is whether we will be a house of prayer for all people, or a sanctuary for Empire. The question is whether we will stand with the crucified or remain comfortable with the cross as decoration.

Because Jesus is still walking down aisles. Still flipping tables. Still calling out religious complicity. Still announcing release to the captives. Still standing where the state spills blood. And he is asking the church today what he asked Israel in Egypt, what he asked Judah in exile, what he asked the disciples in Caesarea Philippi: “Who do you say that I am?”

If he is Lord, then no border is above him. If he is Savior, then no badge outranks him. If he is King, then no empire gets the last word.

So let the church rise, not as chaplain to power, not as curator of comfort, but as the body of a crucified and resurrected Christ who still proclaims, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me… to set the oppressed free.” And if that disturbs the peace, then church, let peace be disturbed until justice rolls like mighty waters.

Let us pray.

God of the crushed and the captive, god of the hunted and the hemmed-in, god who heard the blood of Abel cry from the ground and still hears the blood crying out in Minnesota and across this nation, we come before you with trembling hearts and clenched fists.

We lift up the names of those killed by ICE. We lift up the sons, the daughters, the mothers, the fathers, the workers, the neighbors whose lives were cut down by the machinery of deportation and state violence. We lift up the families who woke up to sirens instead of good mornings, to court dates instead of birthday parties, to coffins instead of embraces.

Cover the victims with your justice. Cover their grieving with your comfort. Cover the terrified with your protection. Cover the protestors with your courage. And trouble the conscience of every system, every leader, every church, and every soul that has made peace with bloodshed.

Make us a church that does not whisper where you are roaring. Make us a people who do not bow where you are standing. Make us a body that follows the troublemaking Christ all the way to liberation.

In the name of the Black Jesus who flips tables, breaks chains, and still sets captives free, we pray.

And let the church say, Amen, Amen, and Amen.

Please go here for the original article: https://drstaceypatton1865.substack.com/p/black-jesus-vs-ice-a-sermon-for-christian