A Life Remembered

There's a story in our family that bides deep in my soul. I cannot think of it without fighting back tears. It has probably made me far more morose than I should be about dying and death. It is the story of my husband's birth mother.

She was the only child of a kind, sentimental farmer and his diligent and cheerful wife. She grew up on a farm but was spoiled and adored. She was smart and sassy, valedictorian of her senior class. They married young and had a big bouncing boy a year later -- my husband. Two years, a second beautiful boy was born, his brother Kirk. With a toddler and a four-and-a-half month old newborn in her arms, she came down with a sore throat that quickly escalated into pneumonia. Within days she was dead, probably from a strep germ that was unreachable with the antibiotics they had at the time. Twenty-four years old, with her whole life in front of her. How utterly impossible, how cruel. The boys stayed with the grandparents, as their Daddy was still in the military. A few years later, he met a tender-hearted woman who embraced the two boys and raised them as her own. Dad's employment always took him away, first in construction and then truck driving. She bravely jumped right in and never looked back. She never referred to them as stepchildren and did not view them as anyone's but her own. They eventually added a sassy little girl of their own and lived quietly on a street in Smyrna.

I met my husband and he told me he had three sets of grandparents and told what had happened to his birth mother. I, being too curious for my own good, wanted to see a picture of her. He had never seen her. He and his brother spent summer breaks, holidays, visits with his maternal grandparents, but had never viewed his natural mother. He knew nothing about her. When he did venture to ask questions, he was met with choked words, brimmed eyes. It was too much to bear. Better to pretend it didn't happen, than to open that infernal gate. In many ways, it was as if she never existed, though the wake that the tragedy left behind nearly emotionally bankrupted Ken's grandparents and others. That tore me to my heart. How could you leave someone's life to the grave and not remember them to their children? The black hole that is left when a parent loses a child defies description. And this was their only one.

We cling so tightly to this life. The barren holes that are left by death are viewed as something to be feared and avoided. We don't want to look into them, to travel them. It is too deep, too scary, too unknown. As we age, we see more of the holes. We live our lives avoiding the subject, but there it is on the sidelines, looming ever closer. We're just lucky it wasn't us, and if we speed by quickly enough and stay distracted enough, maybe we won't have to acknowledge it. Grief doesn't take holidays, though over time the storm becomes a regular pattern of waves, sometimes easier, sometimes not so much.

I think of her sometimes, still, when I'm thinking about the purposes that God has for our lives. It seems that a large part of hers was simply to have those two babies. They've now grown into grandpas who have raised wonderful families and are now handing off to the next generation of babies. My husband didn't know her, my children or grandchildren certainly didn't....but her life mattered. God had a much larger purpose than even she could have imagined. 

Isn't that the way it is for all of us? One little light shining on a hill dispels so much darkness. Darkness is easy...just blend in. But light is always a choice, takes the extra step, burns, sparks... Let us look around us, get outside ourselves, give way, love. Stand for what is good and right. Find the noble things, the honorable things that matter the most in this life...and live our lives to make a difference. What's this got to do with a 24-year-old woman who died young and is still held dear? Simply that old cliche: that every day counts and that we're not promised tomorrow. Live.