Sometimes we break things

Originally posted to my Facebook on  Monday, August 10, 2026 

I've no idea what my brother Max was feeling those days (or weeks) before he took his own life. If it is anything like I've been feeling the past two weeks, I sure hope it is all out of my system by tomorrow (for his birthday). I could use a little hope and light right about now. It becomes less cathartic as I go (writing these mental health posts)(if it ever was). I think it's referred to as 'sitting with your feelings' - and that is a bad place sometimes (for me).

You know when you get yourself into a situation.

Yes, that is intentionally the full sentence.

Sometimes we break things.

And we can't fix them.

There aren't any apologies that soothe, no salve that heals, no repair that binds what is broken . . .

if there are even any shards left to pick up and glue back together.

Sometimes

it is just that bad.

Or at least,

for all we know,

it is.

So, we hold out hope for a Savior of the World to fix what we royally screwed up (once recognition hits - our place in it).

That is the through line for Max's logic, at the time, I think.

I didn't know it at the time.

I can completely relate (ok, let's say, I just imagine that I can).

I am not the best sister

(Jason could vouch for the truth of this statement - he has better sisters - another story, another day) . . .

or the best friend.

When Kambi and I were in 6th grade, we had different regular classroom teachers. For several years though, we'd been in the ELP (Extended Learning Program) for 'gifted' (or unusual) kids. I left my classroom during English (I guess they call it ELA now) and went to the Library where there was a glass room. It was the southwest corner of the school library, where the room was partitioned with solid walls at the bottom and glass windows from about the 4ft mark to the ceiling. I'm guessing there were about 15 of us, maybe more. I remember some of their names.

I persuaded Kambi that after our math lesson in ELP (which if I remember correctly, at the time consisted of some pre-Algebra), our regular classroom teachers wouldn't miss us, and we could go home early for lunch. Provided, we showed up back on time when everyone was returning from recess. Both of our moms had signed passes with the office allowing us to walk home for lunch. The library staff wasn't any wiser, when we waved and said we were headed back . . . and simply left campus. The story of the ELP teacher, Mrs. Potter, would need an entire post (or three), but to keep the timeline less muddy, she would tell us to finish our equations, turn us over to the library staff, and take her lunch break. So, we just took our lunch break too . . . after finishing our homework.

I know lying to the library staff when you are in 6th grade seems fairly harmless. Kambi hardly knew the nightmare I'd drawn her into. Over the next 6 months, we spent a minimum of an hour together daily, discussing what was hard and silly about life. We also attended church class together on Sunday, and probably something during the week as well. She became the friend who understood me, at least I think she really tried. She didn't realize she'd have to stand between me and the web of my own making.

Let it be said, people on the Autism Spectrum don't make the best group partners, especially if there aren't clear directions and understood expectations about roles . . . along with an intermediary when stuff inevitably falls apart. The social studies curriculum for 6th grade in Mesa Public Schools at the time called for learning about foreign cultures of the world. Kambi and our other partner had relatives that lived in Mexico for a period of time (serving missions for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints). Small groups of students would set up booths, give presentations, and the other kids would tour them - along with the parents on a specific day.

I don't know what my specific problem was, but I didn't like ELP. I didn't like the teacher. I struggled to get along with my peers (except Kambi). And Mrs. Potter wrote in my report card evaluation that if I wasn't able to conform and follow the rules, it might be time for them to exit me from the program.

It occurs to me now, that was the same year Max was born, 1981.

To make an intensely unhappy story short, I was a bad group participant. I argued. I hurt people's feelings. Our third group partner was an incredibly gentle girl, and I made her life living hell - quite literally. She was miserable. She cried. And it didn't stop there - she started having physical symptoms of stress . . . and it didn't last just that year. It went on and on (like, post HS graduation - the symptoms, not my active torture).

Poor Kambi, she was stuck in the middle; but fortunately the church had seen more growth, and the three of us were soon in different wards (church congregation boundaries). So at least Sundays weren't quite so uncomfortable.

There are things I can't fix for Kambi. The scarred relationship I caused between her and that other little girl (and her entire family). Whatever she should have learned in class, while she was off playing hooky with me. The road of deceit I led her down, which possibly made cutting class in HS much too easy. I'm still in touch with Kambi. She accepts my apologies with a laugh and a smile. (She knows where my demons hide)

The other little girl . . .

imagine a vessel that breaks into so many pieces that all you have left is sand.

I can't tell the story from her point of view, only mine, which is incredibly blind. I am a bad person - in this story (and others).

I do know one thing, God knows his children.

With the help of her parents (and Heavenly Father), she became an even more determined and pure soul. She is one of those people, if you met her, she sort of glows from the inside. Her parents were both that way.

So, when it became apparent that my being 'okay' with Max's death was very not 'ok' with my siblings, I really tried to do better.

I stopped talking about stuff that wasn't necessary. I prayed about what I could do better. I asked for forgiveness from Heavenly Father for hurting my family's feelings by being insensitive.

And

perhaps stupidly,

I sincerely asked

if Max had a message for the rest of them, that maybe

because they were hurting so bad,

they just couldn't hear it.

Maybe they ('heaven') could send it to me.

I don't know what I was thinking.

As if that would make anything better.

Maybe I thought if it came from him, it would be more comforting than all the stuff that so 'freely' comforted me (which I then blabbed about).

It certainly wasn't earth shattering.

But it came.

Max wanted our family to know he was ok.

He wanted our baby sister to know he was sorry he wasn't the big brother she deserved.

That part of the message seemed very insistent.

He wanted her to know that she should have had a big brother to protect her, and be her friend, and watch out for her.

This wasn't a message I 'saw' - like the other dreams (in pictures) - it was more like words and ideas, except for one.

He knew he was supposed to be there when she got to high school, to put his arm over her shoulder, be the 'big brother', tell her about 'life', and defend her from 'boys' . . . And now, he wasn't there to do any of that, and wouldn't be in the future.

(image: walking up/down the east ramp at MVHS with Max's arm over our sister's shoulder, like they are best buds, laughing and confiding in each other).

He was very clear, there was a big difference between what he should have been for her, and what was.

It seemed . . . uneventful . . . maybe less than what I was expecting?

Maybe I thought my closest siblings (Nikki & Jason) should have received something a little more personal, considering how deeply they were grieving. Or perhaps, for Stefani, Paul, or my parents - something family-centric, or soul soothing - a balm of Gilead, perhaps. Even James, the closest in age, maybe a wink or a nod, a laugh to indicate . . . anything.

But that was it.

And nothing after that.

The scroll rolled up and the heavens closed (or the other way around), and there hasn't been anything since (. . . related to Max).

Mandi was 11 the year Max died.

The same age I was when he was born.

At Max's funeral, I don't remember if it was our dad or Pres. Smith (our one-house-over neighbor) that said,

Christ (or someone) most likely took Max aside (in the spirit world) and pointed to his life, and said (in essence):

'This is where you departed the path (at death), and this is where you need to go (the destination). You can't go back and get on the path, and it is going to be harder without a body, but not impossible . . . '

I probably mangled that a bit. It's probably in the book

Mourning with those that Mourn: Latter-day Saints Share Experiences and Perspectives on Grieving

chapter eight, Max will always be my brother

I've personally wondered (sometimes in a bit of agony), why we have to be on the verge of being completely broken . . .

or in my case, nearly out of my living mind . . .

before

answers (like this- dreams, something concrete, a real message) come.

Why do we have to beg, and even then . . .

Is it really us (like we're instructed at church)?

That perhaps we are too busy, things are too loud, we're too hurt, or distracted. We aren't humble enough, or prepared to hear the answer that we need - such that we couldn't receive it,

if it did come. ? ! ?

If I didn't think it might make me a little beyond reach (forever), I might call b---s--- on that (philosophically).

I know Heavenly Father knows and loves His children.

I don't believe Heavenly Father (or Jesus Christ) are 'testing' us to prove anything to them. They already know we are amazing beyond comprehension - worthy of making a world for us to come and nearly destroy each other . . . we are so good.

But, if we have something to prove to ourselves, here on earth, I guess I have a way to go

to believe (and see)

what they see.

Keep on, keepin' on

little brother.

I'll see you on the other side,

whenever that day comes.