consider the daisies
Lately it seems my thoughts have been focused on children. You might think that this would be the norm with me, since my full-time job is all about youth, and then I also work with them in a volunteer capacity in a variety of settings. But I guess sometimes, to my shame, I find myself going through the motions and not really engaging in what it is that I am doing. I call a child and have a conversation so that I can check a box on my monthly contact log. I type a name into a computer so that a file is created in my client tracking system, but I don’t always pause to consider that the name represents a small life, full of pain and joy and tears and laughter.This past weekend I was reminded again and again of how precious life is, especially when it is found in small bodies and young hearts. On Saturday, I spent the day with a group of kids from church. I found myself in a canoe for several hours with two little girls named Courtney and Jordan. They are sisters, and they are living through moments and days that no child should have to experience. They ask questions and make statements that hurt a heart as big and supposedly strong as my adult one. While paddling along a river, we talked about God and about families and about things that we fear. Both of these girls told me that when they are home, they really don’t feel “at home” … they said that their lives are “crazy” (yes, an 11-year-old actually said this) and that sometimes they wish things could just be normal. They don’t have a dad, but it’s ok because they have a pastor that they like. They are sometimes scared of going to sleep at night, because they wonder if things will “be ok” when they wake up in the morning.
This was my first time meeting them, so I didn’t pry for more details on some of the more sensitive topics, but I got the sense that these little ladies deal with more on a daily basis than some adults ever even think about in a lifetime. We made it through the day, and it seems that I made at least one special friend as a result of that time … but I also now have two little lives on my heart, and I am asking God to show me what to do to help them know that they have every right to wake up and expect things to be “ok”, for the rest of their lives.
Yesterday I ended up thinking about youth in a totally different way. In the afternoon, while driving past a cemetery, I noticed a big church van parked there, and a group of seven or eight kids filtering out of the van. Curious to know more, I pulled over and watched as the group gathered around a tombstone, and linked hands. They were obviously praying – some of the teens fell to their knees, while others seemed to be comforting each other. I wanted desperately to walk over and ask them the story behind their actions, but I very strongly felt the desire to respect their privacy and space in that moment. I waited until they walked slowly back to the van and pulled away, and I drove over to the area where they had been. I got out and carefully walked over to where I had seen them, and scanned the tombstones for some kind of an explanation for what I had just witnessed.
And then I saw it: the grave marker for a 14-year-old girl. There was a picture of her lovingly taped to the marble stone - the scotch tape wasn't holding too well, and the color on the photograph was faded and yellow. There were various stuffed animals and trinkets piled around the stone, and as I looked at the date of her death, I realized it had been exactly one year before the date on which I stood there. I knelt before the stone and carefully poked through the objects, and I found a tattered piece of notebook paper. The writing (obviously that of a teenage girl) was faded and some words were impossible to make out, but I got a sense that this death had been the result of an illness. I don’t remember all of what was written, but this is what I jotted down in the notebook that I went and got out of my car:
Dear Lindsay,
You’ve only been gone for a week, and I miss you so much. I saw the prettiest daisy the other day, and I picked it for you, because I know that is your favorite flower. And then I realized I wouldn’t be able to give it to you because you’re gone. I went back home and I cried when I thought about how you wouldn’t be here this summer to splash in the pool, or to stay up late and eat ice cream with, or to laugh and joke about the boys in school with. But I feel better when I think about your body and how it doesn’t hurt now. Your pretty blonde hair is there again, and your legs are strong now. You’re running and jumping around and laughing way more than you ever did here, and if I close my eyes I can almost hear your crazy laugh. When I start to feel sorry for myself or to worry about things, I think about you and how strong you were, and I know that I can do anything I set my mind to. I went out this morning and picked a whole bunch of flowers and put them in a vase in my room. I will keep on doing this to help me remember how you lived your life, and I won’t be able to be sad anymore. Thank you for being my friend.
Love Always,
Kelsey
I sat by that tombstone and prayed for a while and thought about how I had just been blessed and educated by someone half my age who wasn’t even in this world anymore. I ended up calling the church and leaving a message on the machine … I am hoping to be able to make contact with an incredible girl named Kelsey and share with her how much her words meant to me, and how much I know she must have meant to Lindsay.
This morning, I experienced a different spin on my reflections on youth and the invaluable lessons that they offer. I read an article about a family in Lebanon that has suffered tremendous loss, and is continuing to undergo extreme difficulty. I am sure this story is just one of many, but given my experiences this past weekend, this story impacted me greatly. Apparently this family of six had set out to enjoy a vacation on the beaches of Lebanon. Their plans understandably changed a bit when all of the fighting broke out, and they were heading north to flee from danger. An Israeli bomb or missile slammed into their car, instantly taking the life of the father and wounding all four of the children. The account that I read takes the reader to the hospital, to the bedside of 8-year-old Mahmood, whose little body is covered with severe burns, and who has blood coming from his eyes. Lying in the bed beside him is his 8-month-old sister Maria, who is also badly burned, and is screaming her little lungs out. Their mother stands by, helplessly wailing at the state of her children and awaiting news of the hopeful success of the intensive surgeries of her two older children, whose fate is unknown.
Today I am tempted to close and lock my office door and spend all day talking to God about Jordan, Courtney, Lindsay, Kelsey, Mahmood, Maria, and hundreds of thousands of other children who experience things that you and I can’t even imagine. I feel convicted, burdened, undeserving, helpless, confused, and a little bit upset … but I also feel hopeful, grateful, assured, and comforted as I look up and realize that God is still in control. Through the hurt and the tears, the shrieks and wails, the life-consuming illness and the excruciating pain, God is still perfect. His ways are incomprehensible. He loves these little ones and He draws them to Him. I don’t understand the “how” or “why”, and I’m not sure I ever will … but I don’t need to. I know the “who” and maybe right now that is enough.
I walk away from this weekend and this morning with a new perspective – I want to walk up to children I don’t know and pick them up and squeeze them and tell them I love them. I want to somehow let them know that it WILL be ok … God, please show me how to do this.
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