Morbid Thoughts on Turning 31

TEXT HERE (1)

We are all running out of time. 

My sophomore year in high school I received a call from a childhood friend. I was living in a different state for over a year at this time, but she kept in contact with me fairly frequently to let me know how the gang was doing. This phone call was unlike any I had received up until that point.

One of my closest childhood friends died that morning.

Like many other mornings before, she got into the driver’s seat of her car with her sister in the passenger seat and they headed off to school. Less than a mile from her house, she came up over a hill and slammed into the back end of the bus we used to ride. My friend and her sister died on impact. We were told sun had blinded her vision that morning causing her to not see the bus.

I was devastated.

I still remember endless hours spent playing in her back yard and exploring her brother’s tree house. During the hot summer days, we’d swim in a kiddie pool her parents set up for us. When we wanted to get out of the sun, we’d go inside and watch “The Baby-sitters Club” movie. We giggled as we laid on her ruffled comforter talking about boys, as most little girls do, and would dream of the future and what it held for both of us.

If you would have asked us then, we would have probably told you we had a lifetime ahead of us to accomplish those things– to get married, start a family and complete our bucket lists. Turns out, lifetimes vary in length. 

It’s been 14 years since the accident.

Since then, I’ve lost others. Each one another reminder that I can never be sure how long I’ll have left on this Earth. This week alone we’ve heard of terrorists killing school children in Pakistan, terrorists taking hostages in Australia and our own local news reels reminding us of violent acts committed daily. There are people dying from terminal illnesses that sprung up just months ago after they had lived a fairly healthy life.

It’s all a mess and we’re all dying.

I had that realization 8 years ago standing over the casket of someone I love (still love) very much. I had a choice in that moment– how would I spend the rest of my days? Knowing that we aren’t guaranteed another breath, let alone another tomorrow, how would I choose to live my life? Now with another birthday on the horizon, I am asking myself those same questions.

Last year for my birthday, I wrote about what I would tell myself if I knew then what I know now.

This year, it’s a bit more simple.

Love more.

If this was my last blog post, that’s what I’d want you to know. That after 31 years, it boils down to love and how I want to give more of it away.

I wouldn’t be worried about what I didn’t get to cross off my bucket list– how I hadn’t stepped foot in all 50 states or how I didn’t get to ride in a gondola in Venice. Those things won’t matter in the scheme of things. Sure, they’ll make for great stories in the nursing home and your grandkids will make a fortune writing a book about you.

I’m not concerned about having my name in lights, I’m concerned with bringing Light into people’s lives.

Recently, I came across this quote by C.R. Bittar: “No matter how destroyed she was, she still believed in love.” That’s the type of woman I want to be. That no matter the depth of my brokenness that I would still choose to love. And love extravagantly.

Broken people become bitter people when they stop loving. I don’t want my brokenness to destroy me. I don’t want the circumstances of the day (or of my life) to dictate whether or not I love fully. I never want to second guess it or hold myself back in fear.

Whether I only live 31 years, or die at the seasoned age of 91, I want to be known as a woman who loved and who loved well.

Advertisements

My Bleeding Heart: Eight Years Later

my bleeding heart

Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Sometimes scars are left as beautiful reminders of something wonderful you once had.

August 25, 2006

“Holly, the doctors say he won’t make it the next 24 hours.”

“But they’ve said that before……right?”

“Ya.”

I hang up the phone full of faith and determination.

But God said he’d be healed. He can’t die. He won’t die.

A few weeks earlier, I’m sitting at his bedside in the ICU. His clear blue eyes locked on mine, we dream of our future together. I lean my ear close to his lips keeping his whispered words as our secret. My mind etches them in perfectly and my heart feels overcome with a love I’m sure I’ll never deserve. 

I’d always felt like I didn’t deserve him– that a man like him would never love someone like me. This insecurity led to so much wasted time….time I’d now do anything to reimburse. 

Thousands of miles away from that hospital, I lock myself in my room and throw myself down on the blue plush carpet. The tears flow unceasingly all day as I beg and barter with God for his healing. I remind God, as if He needs reminding, of prophetic words that were spoken over him. I make desperate promises. I even offer my life for his. “Just take me instead, God. Please.”

I fall asleep sometime during the early morning hours– my pillow stained with tears, my fingers clutched tightly around the edges. 

August 26, 2006

It’s early. The house is quiet. 

I pick up the phone and call his mom. She answers and I quickly apologize for calling so early, but my heart is frantic and I just need to know everything is ok. That he is ok, but she stops me mid-sentence…

“I’m sorry, Holly, he didn’t make it.”

Standing on my porch doing my best to stay composed, I tell her I’ll make arrangements to fly back and she promises to call in a few hours with the details. The call ends and I walk through the back door where my roommate is staring at me looking for answers, but all I do is collapse onto the floor.

I have no words. No air. Nothing but pain coursing through every inch of my body. She wraps me in her arms and we sit in a pile on the floor. 

A few days later, I sit staring at him in his casket praying he’ll stand up and this nightmare will be over, but he doesn’t. Instead, they close the lid and lower him into the ground. My heart buried with him, six feet below. 

August 26, 2014

Today marks 8 years without him.

2,920 days.

70,080 hours.

4,204,800 seconds.

I’ve counted every second. Every minute. Every day. Those are the moments I’ve lived through– the heartbeats I’ve felt since losing him. Each beat reverberating in my chest reminding me that I remain here. And he is gone. 

Where is the redemption in all of this I’ve repeatedly asked God. What good could possible be found in all of this grief? He hasn’t replied until recently:

You’ve continued to love despite having lost.

That may not seem like much to you, but in all of the sadness, lost dreams and brokenness there’s still this hidden treasure of hope. I love. I love deep and I love strong. I love even when it isn’t returned or reciprocated.

So, I’ll continue to remember. To grieve. To celebrate a life, a love that I was able to embrace for a season. And most importantly, I’ll continue to love.  

 

To be known.

It’s been almost 2-weeks since I received the phone call.

The phone call that no one expects, but secretly dreads. The phone call that changes the course of your day, your week, your year. The phone call that leaves you in shock and denial and anger all rolled up into one.

It was a wonderful Friday afternoon spent with my best friend and her daughter. We had been giggling and shopping and enjoying the things that girls (little and not so little) enjoy. We were just sitting down to dinner when I got the previous mentioned phone call.

It was during that phone call that I was told a friend had died unexpectedly. The same friend I had shared dinner with just 3 nights previous. The same friend who had remarked on how he liked my dress that evening and I jokingly retorted that he liked my legs in the dress. The phone call was brief, but packed with emotions and questions like those types of phone calls usually are. The next few days, were full of friends and love and comforting words. We lived in a weird state of flux from tear drenched faces to mouths full of laughter. Each moment a different memory and yet a continual phrase repeated, “We miss him”. Our world seemingly stunned by grief and yet everyone else’s unaffected.

A few short days ago, we stood in a not so short line to offer our condolences to the family of our friend. I’d never met his family before since it had only been a a few months since he entered our lives. His entrance was swift, but cemented instantly. He was easily lovable and a true joy to have around. And he thought I was funny– that’s usually all it takes for me to call someone a friend. Standing before his mom, I struggled to get the words out as I shared how much we loved her son. She wrapped her arms around me and in the midst of her kind words she said something simple and meaningful.

“He told us so much about you!”

Sitting on the hard, wooden pews waiting for the memorial to begin I wondered why that small statement made such an impact on my heart. Then, I realized, it was because I had been KNOWN. He claimed me as a friend.

One of the greatest feelings in the world is to be known. To be claimed. To be recognized.

It’s a wonderful feeling to know your friends and family love you, but how much more intoxicating is the fact that the very Creator of the universe knows me. I am, in a very literal sense, His dream come true. I was His idea. His creation. His handiwork. He not only knows all about me– the fact that I enjoy Starbucks white chocolate mochas, hugs, sarcasm, scarf wearing weather and Jane Austen books, but He knows me intimately. He knows every dream I’ve longed for. Every whispered prayer. Every bitter restrained comment. He’s been there for every heart break. He’s captured everyone of my tears.

He knows me.

There’s nothing more fulfilling than that. To you, I may just be another girl lost in the crowd, but to Him I’m a special treasure and a target of His love.

The person who loves God is the one God knows and cares for. (1 Cor. 8:3)