A Ripple Frozen in Time

2018 was a year that will stay firmly stamped in my brain for so many reasons, but mainly I will remember it as a year of death and rebirth.

The first time I had a year like this was in 1997. It was a year that should have been dominated by the thrill of my high school graduation but was instead marked by death and struggle. Not only was I kicked out of my parents' house at the beginning of the summer (long story) but three adults that I knew closely also passed away. It started with the death of my former math teacher, a man who was one of my mom's best friends. A man we considered family. I wrote a poem to honor him and read it at his funeral even though the lump in my throat was so large that I felt suffocated by its presence. This was followed by the death of one of my parents' closest friends, a death that was hard for their friend group to grasp because they were all still so young and vibrant. The illness that took Bev descended on her like a rapidly encompassing dark cloud and killed her in a period of time that was so short that it was terrifying to think about. At her funeral I watched my dad--my calm, stoic, dad--lose himself in a grief so unabashedly palpable that my heart ached for weeks in its aftermath. And then the following month, the father of one of my best friends passed away. I will never forget the sound of her voice on the other end of the house phone and how hollow her tone was when she breathed from her lips, "My dad just died." Even though his death wasn't a shock, the wave of confusion and sadness it created was almost unimaginable. As I watched my friend and her sisters grieve, I couldn't help but feel terribly selfish for the petty fight that had driven me and my parents apart. I swallowed my hubric pride and moved back home to my parents' house, a mere two weeks before I packed up again and moved to college.

In 2018, I lost two students. Both were beautiful and fiercely passionate and independent 19 year old young women with nothing but sunshine to add to the world. Hannah perished in a horrific plane accident while on vacation with her family. I will never be able to explain the wave of emotions that passed through me when I woke up to the news that she and her whole family were gone. In the midst of my blinding grief, the only thing that brought me any sense of peace was that they were all together. No one was left behind. But at the same time the reality that no one was left behind was almost too much for me to bear. 4 beautiful souls. 4 people I had laughed with and learned from. Hannah had a passion for conservation and activism that was inspiring. Ari's musical talent was truly incredible for a young man of his age. Leslie's smile and laugh were contagious (she always loved the snacks in my office), and Mitch had a deep, soulful voice that sounded like smooth caramel and prompted me to joke with him that he needed to leave his job as a physician and become a voice actor. Why would God take them so soon?

Two weeks before I received the news of Hannah and her family, a student near and dear to my heart fell ill. Lauren spent a lot of time in my office. She was one of the hardest working students I have ever met and never complained about how hard she had to work to reach the level of success she desired. I first met her when she was a sophomore in high school. Since she lived in a different city, we Skyped weekly as I helped her prepare for her standardized tests. Our relationship continued as she worked on her college applications and sought my advice for what college she should attend. And after she chose to attend college just 20 minutes from my office, she became a permanent fixture in my life. She always showed up with a cup of coffee and a smile, and when she left, she always thanked me and hugged me with the type of warmth that can't be faked.

About 10 days before midterms, Lauren started to not feel well. She was dizzy and had a hard time concentrating. Within a few weeks, she found out she had cancer. I was getting ready for church when I received the text from her mom. It literally knocked the wind out of me, and I lost control of my legs and hit the ground. I was sobbing so hard that I couldn't even articulate to my husband what was going on. When I finally found coherent words, he held me and told me he was sorry as I cried and blubbered repeatedly into his sleeve, "But, I love her. But, I love her."

She passed away 8 months later.

It was during her funeral that a life changing moment happened. It was a ripple of my existence that will forever be frozen in time. It was a small moment that has created a tsunami of change in my life: a tsunami that has created a boundless sea of regrowth in its aftermath.

I attended the funeral with my daughters because my husband couldn't leave town with me and I didn't want to go alone. I sat in the funeral feeling lost. Feeling beaten down. Feeling angry at God  and confused. Feeling like my legs had been cut out from underneath me. Feeling like no matter how hard I tried I couldn't breathe.

And then her mother spoke. And as she did, both of my daughters grabbed my hands. I could feel their stares piercing into me as they watched an infinite stream of tears roll down my cheeks. As her mother spoke, I couldn't help but be inspired by her strength. Instead of crying and lamenting over a young life full of promise that was lost too soon, she spoke of love and God and family. And then like an unexpected bolt of lightning that I never saw coming, she took a moment to give advice to every parent in the room:

"Never miss a moment that you don't have to."

And as her words settled into my brain, the whole world stopped moving and a ripple frozen in time took a hold of me. And I knew that even though I was a damn good wife and mother, I could be a better one. And in that moment of time, I gave myself up to God and recommitted myself fully to my family. To my baby girls who so strongly held me and comforted my pain. To my son who lacked the right words to say during that time so instead said it all with his eyes. To my husband who had long taken a back seat to my desire to have more "me time" and rarely complained as I struggled to find balance in my life. To myself who decided to grow from these tragedies instead of letting grief drown my soul.

It has been 4 months since those words, those simple words spoken by a mother who lost her one and only child too early, caused a dramatic shift in my persona. I am not the same person I was in 2018, and I never will be. I have learned that my focus needs to remain on my family because soon, all too soon, my babies will be grown and gone. And when they are, I will have more "me time" than I ever could have imagined (and probably won't even know what to do with). And since I have been more present, I have found that the "me time" I long sought exists when I am surrounded by my husband and children and can bask in the glory of their actions when they don't even know I am watching. I love hearing my son talking to his friends. I love the sound of his hockey stick scraping the driveway as he takes practice shots. I love hearing the sounds of my girls giggling in their bedroom and in the shower. I love watching them sing to their favorite songs-- their heads bopping underneath headphones that look too big for their tiny bodies. I love the smile on my husband's face when he is watching hockey or how he slides around on the floor in his socks or how he looks at me when I am helping the kids with their homework. And I know that I will never again miss a moment that I don't have to. This is the message that God sent me through these beautiful young women, and I will forever honor their legacies with my whole heart and soul.