Mid-February Shouldn't Be So Scary

When I walk around cemeteries, I am always fascinated by the headstones. Some are modest, little plaques that say nothing more than a name and a date. Some are crazy large monuments. Others are strange symbolic figures that are comparable to abstract modern art. But, no matter what they look like, they are a very real signifier that beneath the stone - and my feet - lays a person who was once loved - is still loved - by many.

This plaque above will be on the back of Jamie's headstone.

His headstone. Did I just type that? It still feels unreal. I'm still waiting for him to send a text that says "JK everybody! Did you miss me?" I wouldn't even be mad. I had this sinking feeling in my chest as they closed the casket over him - would he be lonely? Was there enough space? Can I see him just a moment longer? When they put him in the ground, I had similar thoughts: would it be too cold for him? - It became very real. He was gone, and it was time to say goodbye. I just hate(d) thinking about him being under the ground when he belonged above the ground. With his wife. With his friends. Flying planes.

I let myself slip into denial from time to time. Maybe it's not healthy, but it's true. Sometimes, I just want to pretend he's still around. That I can send him that text. That he will still be taking my brother to lunch in the near future. That we will see him and the wife at conference and we will all play conference bingo together.

So, seeing the plaque brings me both joy and sorrow. Joy that we have all made it this far. Sorrow that we had to make it at all. It makes me sad that people may stand over his headstone, doing what I do so often when I walk through the cemetery... they will wonder what happened to this young man. Where are the people that love him? They will wonder at what his middle name was, and they will always be wrong because they won't know that it only ever was D. It makes me sad that people will pass by his headstone but not know him. They will not know his love for cherry dipped cones. They will not know his funny laugh. They will not know that he loved Firefly or Tomcat F-14s or F-18 Super Hornets. They will not know about how he proposed to his wife. They won't know about Lolita or his mission to South Korea or any of his funny sayings: Make all 100's! Remember who you are! Don't embarrass the family! Now - get out of my car!! They will not know that he achieved his dream and they will not know the pure love and joy this man embodied. His selflessness. His spontaneity. His steadfast faith in God.

Instead, they will simply know his name.

They will see his plaque. They will wonder - and then they will do what so many of us will struggle to do for the rest of our lives: they'll move on in a different direction.

I suppose that I'll have to visit him sometime. I know the story. I won't have to wonder. Not about this man. I will be able to stand at his headstone and know - remember.

And it is a beautiful plaque to be mounted aback a beautiful granite headstone that will appropriately mark the beautiful resting place of a truly beautiful human being who, to use the word one more time, brought a love of beautiful things to my life and the life of many others. So, this headstone brings me sorrow. But it also brings me joy. Sorrow that the world lost a truly righteous, honest, loving man and joy that, in this moment, I get to remember him...and Him...in such wonderful and powerful ways. Joy that I ever had such a friendship, and sorrow that it will be such a long time before we see each other again. Joy that the plaque brings a comfort, marks a milestone, signifies a wonderful life lived. Sorrow that comfort is needed, that milestones are being reached and that his wonderful live isn't still being lived.

So it is bittersweet. But it is beautiful. Just like he was.

Sometimes, you just need to talk about it.

Life is full of various traumatic events.

Being potty trained.
Learning to walk.
Falling off a bike.
Being bitten by a dog.
Getting stung by a bee.
Getting hit by a car.
Losing a friend.
Losing a best friend.
Losing a family member.
Being robbed.
Being assaulted.
Paying taxes...

etc...

The list is infinite. There are strange, weird, unexpected things that happen to us all the time that traumatize us on one level or another.

I need to talk about one. I've been in denial or shock or something for about a month now - and it needs to come out. I decided this last night, when I realized it was the 6th or 7th time I'd bawled myself to sleep over this event. I'm in need of a comfort of sorts, a hug, a "I'm so sorry you went through this" or a "is there anything you need?"

I suppose it's too late for those kinds of things. I'll just tell you what happened.

I drove from MN to UT on July 18th so that I could get home in time for my parents and brother to go on a trip. I was going to watch the kids and hang out with one of my best friends. I was on a freeway leaving Nebraska/just entering Wyoming. It was dark because it was night... it was really late, but I don't remember the exact time. There hadn't been anyone on the road for miles and miles and it didn't look like anyone was going to be joining me on my late-night expedition through the midwest. No one, save the fireflies. It was my first time ever seeing them with my own eyes, and I was definitely in awe.

I was driving fairly fast... 75 or so, when I saw a large semi up ahead. Because I am deathly afraid of semi trucks, I instantly slowed down. I looked down to change the radio, and when I looked up again the semi had managed to do some sort of acrobatic move and was now colliding with an RV that had been driving in the same lane.

Both went spinning uncontrollably, and then both tumbled off the road. The semi was swallowed by the darkness and the RV rolled and rolled... but not before launching the driver (or maybe the front seat passenger) out of the windshield. Everything felt like it was happening in slow motion. The RV joined the semi in the abyss of what I can only assume were vast corn fields. The man, launched through the windshield, was now face-grinding the pavement. Meanwhile, I was pulling over as quickly as possible. I threw my car into park and ran full speed toward this now motionless entity laying on the pavement. I stood there, looking down at him, hoping he'd move. I looked around for others - no one. No other drivers. No other passengers. I called the police... although I think one of the vehicles had a first response system because they told me police were already on the way.

I knelt down toward the man, and gave him a shove so that I could see his face. I don't lie when I say there wasn't much left of a face at all, just a bloody mess and lots of crud. I couldn't tell if he was dead or alive, but either way I couldn't leave him. If he was alive, I couldn't let him suffer alone. If he was dying, or dead, I couldn't let him die alone - a bleeding mess on a freeway.

I sat/squatted down on the road next to him, rubbing his arm almost as if to comfort myself more than anything. I held him as best I could (he was heavy, so I mostly just cradled his arm) and waited until finally an officer arrived. He asked me what I knew (for contact info and the likes), and I told him everything I saw. He evaluated the man and looked at me with a very sad face. He told me to get in my car and go, that more help was close behind, that I didn't have to stay there any longer unless I wanted to. I feel like I looked at him for a very long time, although it was probably only a few seconds, and walked over to my car. I sat. I cried. I drove and cried.

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Sometimes I feel like the world asks you to keep these things kept inside. "Don't burden others with your grief."

Sometimes, you can't grieve unless someone else helps ease the weight of the pain.

Sometimes, you just need to talk about it.