Every July 20th, I think about my brother.

This year Jordan would have turned 36.

People sometimes ask if grief gets easier. I don't know that it does. It changes.
Some days it catches me by surprise. Other days it's as simple as watching my
own kids play and wondering what kind of uncle Jordan would have been.

I still wonder what kind of father he would have become.

Those thoughts never really leave.

What has changed is me.

For a long time, I thought I understood strength. Growing up, I wanted Jordan to be tougher. More outspoken. More like me. I thought I was helping him.

I wasn't.

Jordan was the gentlest man I've ever known.

Before cancer ever entered our lives, I remember standing on a golf course with Jordan, before leaving for college and I finally admitted what I'd known for years. I hadn't been the brother I should have been. I apologized through tears. He forgave me without hesitation.

It was never brought up again.

Not long after that, we found ourselves at Oral Roberts University together. For the first time, we weren't just brothers. We became friends.

Before Jordan left for Tanzania, I questioned him pretty hard. I'd seen mission trips that looked more like vacations than ministry, and I wasn't afraid to say so.

He listened.

Then he smiled, and told me I was wrong.

He didn't argue. He didn't defend himself. He simply knew what God had called him to do.

Looking back, I think that's what faithfulness looks like.

Not having every answer.

Just knowing Who you're following.

Shortly after that trip, the cancer was diagnosed.

I wish I could tell you I understood what God was doing.

I didn't.

I was angry. I prayed God would give me the disease instead. Jordan stopped me almost immediately. Somehow, even in unimaginable suffering, he was still thinking about everyone else.

Cancer took almost everything from him.

It never took his peace.

The last words Jordan ever spoke to me were simple.

"I love you. I love you. I love you."

He looked me in the eyes when he said them.

I've carried those words with me ever since.

Romans 8:28 has become more than a verse I quote. It's become something I continue learning. Not because everything happens for a reason I'll understand, but because I've watched God redeem what I thought could never be redeemed.

Cancer was not good.

Death was not good.

But neither one gets the final word.

People sometimes think Jordan Lewis Missions exists because we don't want people to forget Jordan.

The truth is almost the opposite.

Jordan never wanted people to remember him.

He wanted people to remember Jesus.

The mission didn't begin with Jordan.

It won't end with our family.

It has simply been entrusted to us for a little while.

Today that looks like clean water in places that have never had it. It looks like women finding freedom. It looks like churches being planted in the thousands. It looks like a library rising on a university campus in India where generations of students will have the opportunity to learn, grow, and hear the hope of the Gospel.

Those aren't Jordan's accomplishments.

They're reminders that God is still writing the story.

Every one of us has been entrusted with something.

A family.

A gift.

A calling.

A season.

The question isn't how long we'll hold it.

The question is whether we'll be faithful while we do.

Jordan taught me that faithfulness outlives a lifetime.

Our prayer is simply to be found faithful with what has now been entrusted to us.

Thank you for praying with us, giving generously, and carrying this mission alongside our family.

With love and gratitude,

Christian Lewis