Life After Death

"But. I have class." That was actually one of my first thoughts when I got the call that Mary Clare, Stephanie's two year old daughter, had passed away. 
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"I have class."

I was in northern California finishing the last courses of my Masters. I sat on a twin bed in someone else's room holding a phone I didn't know what to do with. Who is this again? What are you saying? What do you mean? How do I hang up now? I can't remember how to hang up. 

I don't know what I said to the person who had tracked me down under Stephanie's orders. I don't know if I said anything at all. I can't remember. 

It's interesting the thoughts that come. Little ways to protect yourself maybe. Concentrating on what doesn't matter-- I have class-- to keep from crumbling under what matters most—she died in her sleep and we don’t know why.

I didn't have kids at the time.

And I thought I knew what crushing was. I thought I was in tune enough to, you know, imagine. Now that I do have kids, I know that I cannot imagine. Even now, with them in front of me-- their questions, their arguments, their demands, their jokes, their summer skin-- picturing them ripped from me is not an accurate picture. Now I just know more about how much I don't know.

For approximately 11 years this photo of Mary Clare has been on the front of my refrigerator. 

I see her everyday. I put her there for my benefit. Mary Clare slows me down. I tend to get in a hurry. Maybe it's a physical hurry. Maybe it's an emotional hurry. Whatever the case, I often dive into life and just start passing things by. Recently I was getting ready for a wedding and packing for the night away. The baby was crying and Blaise was helping himself to a bag of chips that I knew were going to be all over the floor in seconds and I couldn't get my hair to stay no matter how many bobby pins I used and I needed to finish packing and we should have left five minutes ago and the baby wouldn't quit crying and when my little girl who was watching her mama get ready suggested that I forgot to tie my dress, I snapped at her and said "I KNOW!" 

Right after that I went to the refrigerator to get Blaise a cheese stick instead of chips and caught sight of Mary Clare's pinky held just so. 

I walked back into our bedroom, scooped up our little girl, and apologized from down deep for being angry and stressed out and short sighted. I apologized for missing the big picture that my sweet girl was trying to help her mama, who never gets dressed up, get ready for an important night. I'm so, so sorry. 

Mary Clare slows me down. The twinkle in her eye, that wispy baby hair, her open mouthed smile. Mary Clare.

From time to time, I feel a need to tap into Stephanie's grief. As if that could ever be done. And there's always one thing that she told me only in passing that can bring me to my knees. One day Athan, her oldest, was riding his bike and he came inside and saw that Stephanie was teary eyed. When he asked her why she was sad, Stephanie gently explained that she was upset because Mary Clare never got to ride a bike, and it made her sad because she really wanted to know which kind she would have liked. 

I wonder how many everyday griefs have never occurred to me to grieve. How Matt and Stephanie must wait for her name to come up and grasp any story of her. How they must study her face desperate to never, ever forget. A few seconds of video, the clothes she wore, an old scribble. 

Stephanie is always on my mind. As I appreciate the long days and short years of raising babies, Stephanie and Matt and Mary Clare are always on my mind. How do they cope? Does it ever get better? What could possibly make it better? 

In the end there is probably only one answer. Their story isn't over. 

God still has work for Matt and Stephanie to do. There are still owies to kiss and pictures to take and fish to catch and mountains to climb and birthdays to celebrate and teenagers to transform and bad dreams to chase away. The dog still needs walked and Allison still needs advice. 

“I’m not asking ‘why’ anymore,” Stephanie told me one day. “I’m asking ‘how’. And there’s an important difference.”

Mary Clare’s life came and went and we may not ever know why but there is still peace to pursue and joy to be had. So Matt and Stephanie wake up the next day, celebrate Mary Clare’s Spirit, ask her to pray for them, and find new ways to work without her because their story isn’t over.