Every once in awhile I am invited into a secret place, hidden in the deepest, fragile spot of a soul. I never take it lightly and sometimes I’m left, like this time, mysteriously changed. My Natalie and I stood at the headstone of her brother: 1989-1999, it read. Stark and bold. His name and these short dates hold an unfathomable story of loss, one that needed to be told again...
I’ve learned that stories shape us as they bend and turn us around and into becoming a certain type of someone. It’s true that we will gladly retell the tales of bountiful moments, full of joy when we laughed and smiled and celebrated. To be sure, if it were up to us, we would set up camp there, on days when the sun shined bright and terror felt a million miles away. Tossed upside down unexpectedly, and undone by dark clouds, torrents of rain and wind; this too is our reality. Try as we may, there is no secure shelter from such trauma, and we run, tiring, until it finally reaches and sweeps over us.
There was nothing awkward about this day. We stood, as if it just made sense to be there together. Over a year ago, she told me, with no warning, that she had lost her little brother to leukemia. Silent, I sat, looking at her eyes fill with tears and stunned that I had taught this girl for months and never knew that she had endured such a tragic loss. Conversation opened up and she shared an abbreviated version of the whirlwind that swept through the life of her family. Words never work. They don’t rightly settle the questions, emotions and raw experiences such as this one placed before me. Like a treasure, I tucked it away.
Strangely, I will admit, now and then I wander around this same cemetery only a few miles from my house. Looking up and all around, immediate perspective spins into view. Headstones to my right and left, in front and behind, rows and rows and rows, remind me that I have one life, a short time, and no warning as to when it will be snatched up. In seconds all the superficial entanglements fall away like dross. Sobering, is how it feels. Inspiring in a way, but heavy on my heart. I wanted to know where Natalie’s brother was buried and she welcomed my request to go with me and show me. Essentially I was asking her to reenter a painful place, and to allow me the privilege to step nearer to her heart. I knew she understood what I was asking, though neither of us acknowledged it initially. Saying yes to my request was saying yes to this rare level of vulnerability. Every part of me was grateful and humbled.
Her hair was back and braided, her riding boots high and to her knee, she stood with a sweet smile on her face. Leaning over she sat her Nalgene bottle on the ledge of the headstone and we walked back through the memories sealed inside of her mind, like a trap door. Five and so small, Natalie was changed, broken by loss and rebuilt over time but never who she was before. “He died almost on his birthday, “ she said. His little body seemed to bruise easily, and after tested with positive results they up and moved to Duke, living away from home, her dad taking a leave of absence from work and the whole family walking a dark road together. Natalie doesn’t remember many details, but feelings of confusion were messy yet real; something big was changing her entire family, and she was feeling the surge rushing over them. Under the surface, my sense has always been that Natalie is deep and genuine; she glides along with thoughts most people never ponder.
As I stood next to her, with all my questions and curious contemplations, I wondered if she understood what I understood: this trauma, though in some ways full of hazy details, has molded and shaped the core of who she is. Like a small seed, growing and turning around every part of her mind, heart, and soul, spreading into her desires, perspectives, dreams and fears. I told her this realization and while I did, something welled inside of me, like a rush of emotion that transported from that five year old tiny girl, and straight into me. I fought it, but couldn’t. The power of her story left a dusting over me that day. I left sad and thankful all at the same time.
Who would Natalie be if she never had this brother who came for ten short years? Her parents, who would they be? Her sister? In talking, she got it. She knows it’s true. Though so young, Natalie speaks a language no one else her age quite gets; too often she shuts it away, unless asked.
I'm so very glad I asked. It's one of the richest days that I will never forget. "I hope this crack in your life turns you toward Jesus and not away from Him," I said through my tears. "It already has, I know it has. Watching my parents handle this the way they have has been so good for me."
I’ll go back there on my own again soon. I'll pray for Natalie.
The ripple from this surge never stops. It never, ever stops.
