I was at work when I found out about it; I bus at a local restaurant. The kind of restaurant with the fine white table cloths, and the reputation of being "fancy" despite how casual the place actually is.
It was late July, and -- like every other employee in the building at the time -- I was attempting to avoid two of the hottest places in the restaurant: the patio, which was a true testament to strength and durability with the hot summer heat bearing down all its prideful, humid glory. If your hair wasn't already in disarray, it soon would be. Then, there's kitchen. A high-stress environment to begin with, only made all the worse by the intense, blaring heat that made it comparable to stepping into the open door of an oven. In fact, the kitchen was quite comparable to what many would choose to call "Hell".
I was standing at what we call the "hutch" -- a wooden dresser of sorts that holds all supplies useful to setting tables during a work shift -- reorganzing things and making it look neat. Being in half an hour earlier, I was anticipating a busy Saturday night, biding my time until the third "busser" showed up.
I was chatting gaily -- or however happy you can be while at work -- with another employee, and a bussing partner of mine, preparing to set a table when my other companion walked in. Brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, swinging as she swept in, she immediately stopped. After a showed, curt greeting, I got into my hands the side plates and napkins I would be setting the table with, cradled against my stomach, and soon riddled my hands expertly with a clump of knives and forks, and polished wine glasses stuck between my fingers. I was nearly ready to step out when my partner says: "Did you hear about Donna*?"
I distinctly remember looking at her blankly, my brow creasing slightly as the moments passed, and murming: "No ... what happened?" though plump, cluelessly parted lips.
I knew Donna in many simple ways, primarily as her being one of the best friends to friends of mine. She was bright, happy, and one of the most faithful girls I'd known. I guess, now, thinking back, I realize how wonderful she really was: having an unwavering confidence in God and her faith, and never giving up or judging one of my guy-friends who'd had to deal with put-downs and insults all his life. Through the days following, I would reminisce, and think of her not only as the girl with a bright, infectious smile, quick wit, but also as the girl who gave me bigger confidence to lift my hand up towards the heavens during worship chapels, and simply let his love flow down through my fingertips, and straight into my heart. She didn't have to think about it, she just did.
Without skipping a beat, or putting it as gently and simply as could be, she blurts bluntly: "Donna died."
Her sincere, open face, slightly quirked smile -- as though placed there absently -- and slightly worried eyebrows, it was almost hard to take her seriously.
"What? No way. You're kidding."
No matter how many times I'd tried to get this across, the awful truth finally came about: Donna had died that past weekend, three days after her sixteenth birthday. What I soon found out later was that she died in an ATV accident. The worst of it was that she was up north on a missions trip. She'd died doing something she loved, and serving someone that she loved. The obvious thing, though, is that Donna is now truly up their with the Lord, our God, resting peacefully. She's gone home.
When I finally accepted her truth, and slouched off to set that table, it hadn't sunk it. I was just skimming along the surface of the truth, too preoccupied with what was happening to actually and truly be paying attention to the awful, bitter reality. The same reality that can create something so beautiful, yet take someone equally as beautiful away from the world. I wasn't sure why -- why, why, why -- it had to happen, only that it had. What I was sure of, though, was that this bright young thing wouldn't be bounding through the hallways next year, a carefree body so full of life that it was contagious. We'd be missing one infectious smile.
While I wouldn't feel the same hollow void that three friends would, I'd still notice an absence, and that absence in them.
Of the days leading up to the funeral, I thought a lot about death, and life, and how quickly it could all be taken away. And of how I hadn't been baptised. I know my mom had assurred me that if I believed, the Lord would take me. But what if my faith wasn't strong enough?
Then there were the lines that ran through my head, all part of the song "If I Die Young" by the Band Perry. Or what I said to myself, as a sort of reserve advice if ever my friends needed it: "Things will never be the same, but they'll get better." What I didn't realize was the strength of my friends, how tied together they were on the first day of school. How they smiled, and laughed, and were so carefree despite it all. They were so strong. I would never be that. I still cried, still queried, and doubted eve.n -- I didn't want to doubt, but it truly was there.
I cried at the funeral, despite myself. Trying to tell myself to be the rock in hard times. But what got me was how tragic it all was. How she'd never had a chance. How she'd never had to a chance to live her life fully.
I learned from her mother and father that she did, in fact, live a very full life. More full of happiness, and God, and love than could ever be had by any of such a young age. I wanted that. But I just ... dropped it all. I was too bugged by all my mundane tendencies and worries to truly devote myself to reading scripture. The days of Snow Camp were long gone, and conversations with God were just turning to echoes in my head. I couldn't figure out how to retrieve the peaceful, serene way I was able to carry on, humming the words of some worship song in my head, thinking about all the amazing that God does, how he created everything. He would truly help me to understand why he took Donna away. Was it to help us realize the power and strength of him? Or was it just the fact that it'd take such a bad event to make us all turn it around, get involved?
I questioned things, obviously, during this time. Things are still pretty vivid in those first few days of question and aimlessness, wondering what would happen if I had died. I remember running full out through the pouring rain to visit my horses, thinking about how Donna had liked running in the rain, simply recalling back an old status on a social media device. I remember feeling like such a child, carefree, beaming. It was impossible not to smile. I guess, just writing this all down, that makes me realize the grace of God. How he can make such small, insignificant things light up your entire day.
Well, the funeral came and passed. The days after faded in a melded version of everything, losing touch of the saddness I felt, and moving on already. How profound it is, to be able to simply carry on, even though it was clear that for so many people, it wouldn't be the same. She was snatched right up, just taken away. Gone. In an instant.
I wondered why bad things happened to good people. Like that saying goes: "Only the good die young". Well, it wasn't just that. Thinking about how the voice of reason, that person who's always that to gather control on you, is killed, or injured beyond belief. Or how a child's father, the one who was protecting the roads, trying to keep society safe, was killed in the line of duty; how the child would grow up without a father.
Why?
It wasn't until today, at school, at a memorial service held for Donna, that her mother really put it all in perspective. That Donna was a precious, beautiful girl, who so loved God and is with him now. How she wants us all to love God, and stop worrying about who we're dating, or what clothes we wear. She wants us to think about becoming a better "me". She asked us to ask ourselves: "If I died today, what impression would I leave upon the world?"
That got me thinking. What's tragic for me, is that no matter what happened to me, I doubt that I'd leave such a big impression on people. I remember hysterics after the funeral, thinking of how many people were touched by Donna, but by how few would probably come to mine. How it wouldn't be a celebration of my life, as it was hers, but rather thinking back about my accomplishments -- the very few that there were -- and talking about what I liked, what I was into. No one would know the "real me", how I want so bad to make a difference in the world, make a ripple in the pond. How I understand slightly how cruel the world is, and how much I hate it though I know I shouldn't. With Donna, they got a better idea -- not wholly knowing her, but her sincer personality made it easy to know that she loved God, loved people, and loved helping people and serving God.
Maybe they'd talk about how I was so young, had loved writing and reading, and loved my horses. How I hadn't had a chance to fail, and not complete the goal that I had to touch any lives at all. I wouldn't die, I would disappear. I would just become another picture memorial, not creating even the slightest ripple in the pond. And maybe I'd want that; I want to be a good person. I want to put others before me, and like doing it. I want to never ask for anything in return. I want to complete my day with a verse of scripture in my mind, some guidance to keep me going. I want to look in the mirror and love the person staring back, instead of picking out all the flaws and features that I truly despise about myself. I was made in God's image. Does that mean I hate God by hating myself?
I want to be able to stand in the mirror and say that my one-hundred and thirty-two pound self in skinny and beautiful, not yank at "lovehandles" and think about starving myself to achieve society's idea of pretty and elegant.
But will that ever happen? I don't even know where to begin. We don't go to church, but we believe. Do I start at the beginning of the bible? Should I just begin by praying, having a conversation with God? How do I have a conversation with God? So many questions in my head. And then there's that doubt the nagging one in the back of my mind when I close my eyes to pray some nights, mostly just about a request to ask the Lord for the safety and health of the people and animals in my family ... Mundane things like that. But the doubt always says: Is he really there?
I want to scream yes, but doubt questions and nags more, until it takes everything to get it out of my head. And that everything is simply dropping the prayer, forgetting about it. Taking so long to get it over with, battling with doubt, that I just stop.
In a nutshell, though, what Donna's death has taught me is all that. But, truly, what it's done is made me question who I am. Was that the intent? To get us all to turn it around, and instead of stumbling around blindly, taking hesitant steps in God's direction, and meandering around, or standing about, make us run headlong into God's arms? I've realized that, while not altogether faithless, I lack so much faith it isn't funny. And I don't even try to get back on path. I think that he'll come into my life. But what if he doesn't? I know that He's ready for me ... I just need to be ready for Him. I need to finally say: "You know, Lord. I may have accepted you into my life, declared you as my own, but now I truly want to understand you. To try and become a better person, so that one day I may be forgiven for my sin and accepted in Heaven."
Another thing that this has taught me is that I want to be strong. I want to be that rock that can mute her emotions for other people, to comfort them. But I've never had such trying winds to test my strength. Is God holding off, saving me from despairs so that I have ample opportunity to grow my faith, and that when a trying, turbulent wind comes, I may stand strong and rigid, and understand better? After all, any day -- even today -- could be the very day that God turns everything around. Is this my low? Is my spirit just craving him so much that I feel blank and empty most days, lacking and missing something?
Whatever it may be, my mind is so befuddled that only one thing stands clear: Doubt is winning if I don't push my feet harder, faster towards God. I may be turned towards him, but if I don't start moving, humanity will swallow me whole, and I will be consumed with the mundane worry of it all. Nothing but a face in the crowd.
It was late July, and -- like every other employee in the building at the time -- I was attempting to avoid two of the hottest places in the restaurant: the patio, which was a true testament to strength and durability with the hot summer heat bearing down all its prideful, humid glory. If your hair wasn't already in disarray, it soon would be. Then, there's kitchen. A high-stress environment to begin with, only made all the worse by the intense, blaring heat that made it comparable to stepping into the open door of an oven. In fact, the kitchen was quite comparable to what many would choose to call "Hell".
I was standing at what we call the "hutch" -- a wooden dresser of sorts that holds all supplies useful to setting tables during a work shift -- reorganzing things and making it look neat. Being in half an hour earlier, I was anticipating a busy Saturday night, biding my time until the third "busser" showed up.
I was chatting gaily -- or however happy you can be while at work -- with another employee, and a bussing partner of mine, preparing to set a table when my other companion walked in. Brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, swinging as she swept in, she immediately stopped. After a showed, curt greeting, I got into my hands the side plates and napkins I would be setting the table with, cradled against my stomach, and soon riddled my hands expertly with a clump of knives and forks, and polished wine glasses stuck between my fingers. I was nearly ready to step out when my partner says: "Did you hear about Donna*?"
I distinctly remember looking at her blankly, my brow creasing slightly as the moments passed, and murming: "No ... what happened?" though plump, cluelessly parted lips.
I knew Donna in many simple ways, primarily as her being one of the best friends to friends of mine. She was bright, happy, and one of the most faithful girls I'd known. I guess, now, thinking back, I realize how wonderful she really was: having an unwavering confidence in God and her faith, and never giving up or judging one of my guy-friends who'd had to deal with put-downs and insults all his life. Through the days following, I would reminisce, and think of her not only as the girl with a bright, infectious smile, quick wit, but also as the girl who gave me bigger confidence to lift my hand up towards the heavens during worship chapels, and simply let his love flow down through my fingertips, and straight into my heart. She didn't have to think about it, she just did.
Without skipping a beat, or putting it as gently and simply as could be, she blurts bluntly: "Donna died."
Her sincere, open face, slightly quirked smile -- as though placed there absently -- and slightly worried eyebrows, it was almost hard to take her seriously.
"What? No way. You're kidding."
No matter how many times I'd tried to get this across, the awful truth finally came about: Donna had died that past weekend, three days after her sixteenth birthday. What I soon found out later was that she died in an ATV accident. The worst of it was that she was up north on a missions trip. She'd died doing something she loved, and serving someone that she loved. The obvious thing, though, is that Donna is now truly up their with the Lord, our God, resting peacefully. She's gone home.
When I finally accepted her truth, and slouched off to set that table, it hadn't sunk it. I was just skimming along the surface of the truth, too preoccupied with what was happening to actually and truly be paying attention to the awful, bitter reality. The same reality that can create something so beautiful, yet take someone equally as beautiful away from the world. I wasn't sure why -- why, why, why -- it had to happen, only that it had. What I was sure of, though, was that this bright young thing wouldn't be bounding through the hallways next year, a carefree body so full of life that it was contagious. We'd be missing one infectious smile.
While I wouldn't feel the same hollow void that three friends would, I'd still notice an absence, and that absence in them.
Of the days leading up to the funeral, I thought a lot about death, and life, and how quickly it could all be taken away. And of how I hadn't been baptised. I know my mom had assurred me that if I believed, the Lord would take me. But what if my faith wasn't strong enough?
Then there were the lines that ran through my head, all part of the song "If I Die Young" by the Band Perry. Or what I said to myself, as a sort of reserve advice if ever my friends needed it: "Things will never be the same, but they'll get better." What I didn't realize was the strength of my friends, how tied together they were on the first day of school. How they smiled, and laughed, and were so carefree despite it all. They were so strong. I would never be that. I still cried, still queried, and doubted eve.n -- I didn't want to doubt, but it truly was there.
I cried at the funeral, despite myself. Trying to tell myself to be the rock in hard times. But what got me was how tragic it all was. How she'd never had a chance. How she'd never had to a chance to live her life fully.
I learned from her mother and father that she did, in fact, live a very full life. More full of happiness, and God, and love than could ever be had by any of such a young age. I wanted that. But I just ... dropped it all. I was too bugged by all my mundane tendencies and worries to truly devote myself to reading scripture. The days of Snow Camp were long gone, and conversations with God were just turning to echoes in my head. I couldn't figure out how to retrieve the peaceful, serene way I was able to carry on, humming the words of some worship song in my head, thinking about all the amazing that God does, how he created everything. He would truly help me to understand why he took Donna away. Was it to help us realize the power and strength of him? Or was it just the fact that it'd take such a bad event to make us all turn it around, get involved?
I questioned things, obviously, during this time. Things are still pretty vivid in those first few days of question and aimlessness, wondering what would happen if I had died. I remember running full out through the pouring rain to visit my horses, thinking about how Donna had liked running in the rain, simply recalling back an old status on a social media device. I remember feeling like such a child, carefree, beaming. It was impossible not to smile. I guess, just writing this all down, that makes me realize the grace of God. How he can make such small, insignificant things light up your entire day.
Well, the funeral came and passed. The days after faded in a melded version of everything, losing touch of the saddness I felt, and moving on already. How profound it is, to be able to simply carry on, even though it was clear that for so many people, it wouldn't be the same. She was snatched right up, just taken away. Gone. In an instant.
I wondered why bad things happened to good people. Like that saying goes: "Only the good die young". Well, it wasn't just that. Thinking about how the voice of reason, that person who's always that to gather control on you, is killed, or injured beyond belief. Or how a child's father, the one who was protecting the roads, trying to keep society safe, was killed in the line of duty; how the child would grow up without a father.
Why?
It wasn't until today, at school, at a memorial service held for Donna, that her mother really put it all in perspective. That Donna was a precious, beautiful girl, who so loved God and is with him now. How she wants us all to love God, and stop worrying about who we're dating, or what clothes we wear. She wants us to think about becoming a better "me". She asked us to ask ourselves: "If I died today, what impression would I leave upon the world?"
That got me thinking. What's tragic for me, is that no matter what happened to me, I doubt that I'd leave such a big impression on people. I remember hysterics after the funeral, thinking of how many people were touched by Donna, but by how few would probably come to mine. How it wouldn't be a celebration of my life, as it was hers, but rather thinking back about my accomplishments -- the very few that there were -- and talking about what I liked, what I was into. No one would know the "real me", how I want so bad to make a difference in the world, make a ripple in the pond. How I understand slightly how cruel the world is, and how much I hate it though I know I shouldn't. With Donna, they got a better idea -- not wholly knowing her, but her sincer personality made it easy to know that she loved God, loved people, and loved helping people and serving God.
Maybe they'd talk about how I was so young, had loved writing and reading, and loved my horses. How I hadn't had a chance to fail, and not complete the goal that I had to touch any lives at all. I wouldn't die, I would disappear. I would just become another picture memorial, not creating even the slightest ripple in the pond. And maybe I'd want that; I want to be a good person. I want to put others before me, and like doing it. I want to never ask for anything in return. I want to complete my day with a verse of scripture in my mind, some guidance to keep me going. I want to look in the mirror and love the person staring back, instead of picking out all the flaws and features that I truly despise about myself. I was made in God's image. Does that mean I hate God by hating myself?
I want to be able to stand in the mirror and say that my one-hundred and thirty-two pound self in skinny and beautiful, not yank at "lovehandles" and think about starving myself to achieve society's idea of pretty and elegant.
But will that ever happen? I don't even know where to begin. We don't go to church, but we believe. Do I start at the beginning of the bible? Should I just begin by praying, having a conversation with God? How do I have a conversation with God? So many questions in my head. And then there's that doubt the nagging one in the back of my mind when I close my eyes to pray some nights, mostly just about a request to ask the Lord for the safety and health of the people and animals in my family ... Mundane things like that. But the doubt always says: Is he really there?
I want to scream yes, but doubt questions and nags more, until it takes everything to get it out of my head. And that everything is simply dropping the prayer, forgetting about it. Taking so long to get it over with, battling with doubt, that I just stop.
In a nutshell, though, what Donna's death has taught me is all that. But, truly, what it's done is made me question who I am. Was that the intent? To get us all to turn it around, and instead of stumbling around blindly, taking hesitant steps in God's direction, and meandering around, or standing about, make us run headlong into God's arms? I've realized that, while not altogether faithless, I lack so much faith it isn't funny. And I don't even try to get back on path. I think that he'll come into my life. But what if he doesn't? I know that He's ready for me ... I just need to be ready for Him. I need to finally say: "You know, Lord. I may have accepted you into my life, declared you as my own, but now I truly want to understand you. To try and become a better person, so that one day I may be forgiven for my sin and accepted in Heaven."
Another thing that this has taught me is that I want to be strong. I want to be that rock that can mute her emotions for other people, to comfort them. But I've never had such trying winds to test my strength. Is God holding off, saving me from despairs so that I have ample opportunity to grow my faith, and that when a trying, turbulent wind comes, I may stand strong and rigid, and understand better? After all, any day -- even today -- could be the very day that God turns everything around. Is this my low? Is my spirit just craving him so much that I feel blank and empty most days, lacking and missing something?
Whatever it may be, my mind is so befuddled that only one thing stands clear: Doubt is winning if I don't push my feet harder, faster towards God. I may be turned towards him, but if I don't start moving, humanity will swallow me whole, and I will be consumed with the mundane worry of it all. Nothing but a face in the crowd.
***
It was cold; the kind of cold that chills your entire body from the inside out. I was bundled up in an orange-and-white ski jacket, and winter boots that came just past my ankles. My breath was visible every time I sighed, my feet crunching against the hardened, icy snow every step I took. Memory does not serve me well, who I was with when I was heading there. What path even I took when I was heading there. What faces I saw when I stalked towards the large Hangar that was the chapel.
I was likely thinking about how cold it was, how it seemed to nip at my nose and chin and cheeks with each passing second. But when we stomped off out boots inside the Hangar, it all seemed worth it.
Every body made the entire place all that more cozy, despite its massive size, and maze of teenagers, all anxiously anticipating the sermon ... and the band. They, too, I do not remember. They were just the music that took us through the journey.
I was told after that Saturday was one of the most emotional nights at snow camps. Understanbly, after it all had happened. My eyes were turned hazel with all the tears I shed, yet the smile couldn't be wiped from my face, nor the song from my head. That night was one of the most peaceful nights I'd ever lived in my then-Sixteen years of life. The serenity I felt was like the warmest of blankets, and now I know it was God -- I probably did then too.
The band started if I remember correctly. They played quite an extensive number of songs that night. I know that music is one of my favourite ways to worship God. I love music. It feels good for the mind, body, and soul. I might not be able to sing well, or play music well, or be able to compose well, but I appreciate music, and all the people involved in music. God created music.
Although surrounded by people of Christian faith, left and right, I got so far as simply singing the song, trying to sound as best as I could. I closed my eyes now and then, only for a few hesitant seconds, and bobbed around in the dark room, lit only by the bright lights that flashed on the stage.
It was only then when the song "Our God" came one was I truly touched. Some invisible courage swept through me, urging me to try it. Just try it!
I wasn't hesitant or careful in the process of it all. I simply went ahead and did it, unlike my friends who stood alongside me. I raised my hand up towards the Heaven's, obviously blocked by the roof of the Hangar. As the chorus rang out, all I felt was the sweetest rush of warmth through my body, better than any high or sugar rush could ever be (though I'd only ever felt the sugar rush!)
"Our God is greater/ Our God is stronger/ Lord you are higher than any other ..."
I was belting it out by the end of the song, out of tune and off pitch, for sure, my voice raspy. But the moment I put up my hand, I knew that God, in his tiny way, had touched my soul. I don't know how small the deed was to Him, but I knew that it felt huge to me. The warmth that I felt, him rushing through my veins, was better than any love I think I could ever feel. Tears prickled at my eyes until I was sobbing. I remember blindly hugging friends, them asking if I was okay. And I was. Better than okay. Way better! I explained to them just how happy I was. That the tears were just tears of joy!
The closest thing to a proper baptism I came to was delcaring myself. I knew. God knew. But this was some sort of justification that made me feel great for the rest of the weekend. Every time I thought about it -- and still now -- a prickle of a smile touched the edges of my lips, lifting my spirits.
During the sermon, we nail a cross together. And we were asked to declare ourselves to God, if we hadn't already. We didn't have to. But I wanted to. After much hesitation between a friend, Todd* and I, I went -- teary-eyed and red-faced -- up to the friend, where they gave us time -- to some music -- to sign the cross. It wasn't excessively busy at the time, but more and more were gaining the confidence. I signed my name, just once that time, but found myself signing it a second time, to the words and theme of that week: "I WILL SHINE!"
And while I still have yet to shine more, I know that opportunity is there, I just need to reach out and get it.
After declaring myself by just simply writing my name out with a sharpie, I recieved so many hugs, all sobbing with me, encouraging me, proud of me. I got the best hugs that night (and gave the best ones, too, not being a particularly "huggy" person as it is!)
But why am I sharing this? After such a muddled up month or so, trying to figure out who I am and where I want to be, looking back at such a wonderful night gives me a sort of peace. Just thinking about how amazing God is, and that he's there, really makes me teary-eyes again. I do feel at peace, no matter how tired I may be from school. That simple act of just reaching out to the sky, truly felt so good. And that's what God's love and God's grace is.
I might not know where I'm going from here, and that doubt always clouds my mind, but this simple memory helps me to realize that he's there, and that he wants me to know that he is. I just have to ask.
***
More or less, I'd just be happy to hear all your responses, and stories about your faith, and your steps towards God. I'd love to have the advice, and how to get closer to him. How to become the person I truly want to be.
***
* Names have been changed to protect the innocent, and the deceased.
