Death & Life, unedited

This week I have hardly written anything; nothing here, for this blog, and very little for my other work. The week has been a whirlwind and much more so for those around me than for me. About ten days ago one of my dearest friends found out that her sister-in-law has cancer that may require a hysterectomy. She is twenty-two. That would be the most extreme treatment, but it is a possibility and the idea of not being able to have children before you really even begin to think about it is heartbreaking. On Monday, another of my friends found out that her brother had passed away that morning. He was twenty. And so we have all prayed quite a bit more fervently than usual, I’d say. The result has been a pervasive sense of peace that is almost tangible.

As we were waiting in line at the funeral home, one of my girlfriends commented that she had only really been to funerals for very old people who had lived long and full. That has not been my experience. I recall six funerals I have attended; two came at the end of many, many years. But the other four came after only eighteen, twenty-five, twenty-two and twenty years. I don’t know what to do with that.

The first was Jarian and he was healthy and vibrant and eighteen. But he had a heart attack during our senior year of high school. While I did not know him well, I had known him since we were children and his death was in a long line of many from his high school. I look back on his funeral and I remember how it was joyful and heart-wrenching, simultaneously. I distinctly recall sitting in the pew on the east side of town and deciding I would not regret decisions in my life. I did not want to say “no” to something because it was scary or out of my comfort zone. I want to call that moment pivotal, though I think tendencies towards adventure have always been written on my heart.

During college it was Nathan, who I’d also known since we were children. His death seemed senseless and unfair; he had struggled with himself for a long time and was then living brilliantly for Jesus when he suddenly went to glorify Him forever.

Just before we graduated, Jason was hit by a car and the entire community of UNC-Chapel Hill prayed and rallied around him, hopeful. And when he died, his organs saved the lives of four people and his story was told throughout the world. Jason was one of the most authentic people I have ever known. He asked questions and challenged ideas and even when he didn’t get what the heck God was doing, he loved Him, served Him, sought to know Him.

Last week, Luke died and I watched a family I’ve known for years as joyful and full of laughter, suffer immense grief and pain. But you know, even in that pain, they showed us laughter and when my friend and her mom stood to speak at his funeral, you could feel the peace upon them.

I know that each of these deaths has affected me in small ways, and in ways that have changed the way I make decisions. When I piece them all together, I realize that I internalize this sort of thing more than is probably healthy. I didn’t know any of these people intimately or in deep friendship. I have yet to lose a grandparent or close friend. I am fortunate that I have been spared that particular grief. So what do I do with these peripheral deaths? I tell myself I will not live without taking risks. I take risks and when they fail or fall flat, I resolve not to regret those choices.

I want to be known and remembered as a person who takes risks—for love of family and friends, and for love in general. I want to take risks for the sake of experiencing life in a way that is adventurous, daring. I want the feeling of sitting in a chair with the sun on my face and the breeze in my hair to be equal to the thrill of galloping on wide ranges on horseback. I want to appreciate a small conversation with another human being as the chance to realize the creative and glorious nature of God. I want to live in and for relationship. I want to share my life with a man who loves God more than he loves me, who I can talk to and laugh with and who will create a family with me. I want to bask in the laughter of our children. I want to make enormous floury messes in the kitchen baking Christmas cookies. I want to find glitter on the floor in July, leftover from the Valentine’s cards we made for friends and family. I want to hold my children when they cry and I want to watch them learn how to love. I want to wake up next to my husband every morning and feel gratitude for a life with him, gratitude that we are always growing together, changing and growing again. I want to stand beside him and watch the gray hairs begin to outnumber the others as we teach our kids about love and push them out into the world to take risks of their own.

I think that when we grow as human beings, it is miraculous. When we see our faults and our failures and we make the choice to change, to move beyond those places where we have fallen. When we understand that we cannot change on our own, that surrender is where the greatest strength is found. There is one heart that is dearest to my own, and I am watching it daily soften and change its shape and grow and then ask for more. It is like witnessing a miracle, and yet I’m not surprised at all. When I consider the way of God, I stand amazed.