Two Years

I’m sure that everyone can name at least one person who has held a place of influence in their life. Some people are fortunate enough to name several, or many. I consider myself to have known and loved some truly fantastic people in my day, but there are those special souls—those comet-like individuals—that shoot through the sky of your life and light it up with wonder. I was changed by a little light named Clara Quinn Phillips.

Today marks 2 years since that precious light left this earth, but not a day has gone by since that I have not mourned her passing and been grateful for the joy and laughter she brought to others while she was here. When she was just a little bit of a girl (not even a year old), I had a near shrine to her hanging in my cubicle at work; her smile was THAT infectious. Every time I felt even the slightest bit stressed out, I would just look at her face and remember that there were much better and more important things to think about than worrying about some meeting or project deadline. I don’t think there was a Facebook picture or video of her that I ever missed seeing (or liking, or commenting on); her cuteness was unparalleled, and I was a huge fan. She was her mom’s little snack-eating sidekick, and she was always a part of our interactions and stories, whether she was physically present or not.

Since that day 2 years ago, I have experienced a lot of joy in meeting and growing to love Clara’s baby sister. I have laughed and looked at hundreds of photos and shared stories and memories in my times with her mom. I have also cried a lot of tears, and I cry even more as I write this now. Clara’s name is never far from my tongue, nor her face from my thoughts. I have a birdcage decoration on the wall of my bedroom, and on it hang a few little artifacts that remind me of the things I want to focus on. Clara’s picture is front and center. Because more than just mourning her death, I want to continue honoring and celebrating her life with how I live my own. One evening in early spring of 2017, after a long visit with Clara’s mom and dad, I drove home in the darkness, tears streaming down my face. The sadness was almost too much to bear. I knew that, on some levels, it would make sense in the face of so much grief to protect my own heart from any further pain or discomfort—to dial in to ‘business as usual.’ It was a pivotal moment for me, though, because I also knew that being broken open like this was an opportunity to head in a new direction with my life...to stop being afraid of some things and to make some real and lasting changes, to get my priorities in order. This one thing I knew for sure: I owed it to Clara’s legacy to run headlong into the unknown and risk failing and being hurt for the possibility that I might find something much greater in front of me. 

And I did just that. Over the next few months, I chose to dedicate some efforts in my life to Clara—things I may share publicly at some point, and some I may never tell another soul. But in my heart, I know that Clara knows. She inspires me every day in the way that she loved her friends, her mom and dad, and even her dog Miller. She loved to dance and be silly. She loved music and singing. She wasn’t afraid of who she was, and she was living her best life. She deserved the very best. We all do. 

Clara’s mom told me one day a few months after Clara’s passing that she and her husband had been taking a walk in their neighborhood and had found that Clara carved her name on the stop sign at the end of their road, where she used to wait for the bus. I kept that little detail tucked away and recently stopped one day after a visit to see if I could find it. I admit I was hoping to catch a glimpse of her, and I was both thrilled and pained to see her name written there. Clara made her indelible mark in that place—in this place. She left behind pieces of herself, of her spirit, in this world, and I like to think that some of those pieces are inside of me now, too. 

Clara, sweet girl, I’ve made many promises to you over the last 2 years that I won’t let you down—that I’ll be there for your mom and dad, that I’ll be the best friend to your little sister, that I’ll never, ever forget you and do my best to ensure that no one else does, either. You’ve changed me for good, little light. You’ve left an indelible mark on my heart. I will always carry you with me, and with sadness and joy, I remember you today.

Love always, Sarah

On Grief and Loss: Springtime Edition

March came in like a lion and brought with it more sadness and death. I swear, this whole year so far has been a series of obituaries and hard news. I'm not trying to be negative; it's just true.

And as ever, I'm sitting here just trying to process it all. My heart breaks at least once a day (but often many more times over) and tears are not often far from me lately. I feel like that raw place that you keep skinning again and again that never quite heals over.

Now, to be clear, I'm not saying all of this as a complaint—far from it. I really do consider it an honor to 'mourn with those who mourn' (Romans 12:15), but it is a reminder to me that every time you open your heart to love anyone (or anything), you also open yourself up to loss. And sometimes, that's a really hard pill to swallow.

I have a friend who keeps most people and most feelings at a distance from himself, and though he's never overtly shared with me why he does this, I know that he has deep hurts and wounds that have never healed over. He's felt safer retreating into a shell than opening himself up to more loss and hurt, but in doing so, he's also missed opportunities to really give and receive love in a deeper way.

It is quite easy in the face of profound grief, hurt, and loss to understand why someone would pull away and allow those wounds to scab over (though I would submit that true healing can only come from really going through the fullness of our experience rather than running from it). It's terrifying to think of enduring the kind of pain that will last a lifetime.

But then, what is living, really, if we avoid any feeling that might lead to pain? What is the meaning of our time here if not to love and experience all the richness that life offers—even if some of that richness hurts like hell?

Every time I am tempted to wall my heart off and cloister myself in a tower of numbness, I am reminded of a favorite poem by Edgar Lee Masters:

George Gray
I have studied many times
The marble which was chiseled for me—
A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.
In truth it pictures not my destination
But my life.
For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;
Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;
Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.
Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.
And now I know that we must lift the sail
And catch the winds of destiny
Wherever they drive the boat.
To put meaning in one's life may end in madness,
But life without meaning is the torture
Of restlessness and vague desire—
It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.

If I'm being honest, I have fears, too, of losing what I hold dear and of being hurt. Is there anyone who doesn't, on some level? But I am convinced that to try and avoid pain really causes more loss than plowing ahead with abandon and taking your chances. Though everyone's time here reaches an end eventually—and those who are left behind are changed forever as a result—it is important to remain undeterred from the quest to lift the sail in our own lives. It may end in madness, in grief, in realizing your greatest fears, but it may also end in your heart getting what it really needs: a way to fill that hunger for more.