It’s December and this month is always especially difficult for my family. My oldest brother, John, was taken from us on Dec. 15, 2005. It was something we never expected, nor could have prepared for in a million years. Alivia, now six, was four months old when her Daddy went to Heaven.

I remember answering the phone that day as I walked back to my dorm at Temple University after taking a final exam. My mother’s words, “Your brother John died,” ripped me to the core of my gut. My eyes filled up with tears, but I didn’t say anything; I continued walking to my dorm, quietly packed up, and drove home to my family.

From then on, I watched my parents navigate the foreign and treacherous pathways of grief. I watched them manage the practical while feeding the spiritual, and saw them consistently “look up” despite fluctuating emotions. I didn’t realize it then, but I was learning how to handle heartbreak. I was learning how to get up even when you feel like staying down, and how to look for purpose when you are surrounded by devastation.

By every human standard, hope should have died that Christmas with my brother John. But because of our faith, we knew that hope was still very much alive. I witnessed firsthand God’s gifts in the storm and watched Him carry our family through sorrow and set us on solid ground again.

On Jan. 7, 2012, it will be two years since I’ve been here in prison and the words “The other driver is deceased” still haunt me daily. That same disgusting feeling in my gut and the tears that often follow are only a flashback away, every moment of every day. But I know now that in the midst of despair, and no matter how dark it is, hope is still alive. And there have been gifts in this storm, also.

One such gift, in particular, was a visit I received in prison. The warmth and compassion that I felt from this complete stranger in the visitor’s hall confirmed that hope is, indeed, very much alive. George’s beautiful daughter, Amber, had been killed by a drunk driver and he came to visit me—a convicted drunk driver—to thank me for what I’ve been doing and encourage me to keep telling my story. People like George Pizzo and my parents remind me to keep looking up—and to keep looking for purpose—even when you are surrounded by devastation.

I get encouraging letters from people of all ages and walks of life, some from far-off places I can’t even pronounce; these are my reminders to keep walking forward, just like my parents did that December day when the celebration of a birth was replaced with plans for a funeral.

If I could take it all back and bring Mr. Kap back to his family again, I would gladly give my life to do so. But because of my reckless choice, I am here in prison and an innocent man’s family will celebrate the holidays without him.

So I pray for the Kap family every day, for healing and supernatural peace as they move forward without a grandfather, father, brother, uncle, and friend. I will continue to honor him in all that I do.

(ED. NOTE: The author, of Court House, is serving five-and-a-half years in state prison after pleading guilty to manslaughter and driving while intoxicated in October 2009. Matt’s blogs have been read by over 100,000 people in every state, 114 countries, and in 67 different languages. www .themattmaherstory.com)