Broken Halos

This wasn’t how I hoped we’d finally meet.

A mutual friend, Kristin Potler, randomly connected us on an ordinary day, years ago, and the calls, audio messages, and texts between us just kept flowing. A friendship was forged but the opportunity to meet in person hadn’t presented itself until today.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, exactly.

We were invited to a celebration of life in honor of little Sammy at their tiny church tucked away in the lush, rolling hills of Virginia farmland.

As we crested the last hill, an old parish hall came into view. The chippy, white wooden building stood out against the brilliant blue sky.

We couldn’t have asked for a a more beautiful spring day to gather, I thought.

There were cars, so many cars, everywhere! The church lot was so full that vehicles were spilling out onto the street, and the grass to find parking. My heart rate started to rise as I wondered if I’d even get to see Alison amongst the crowd of well wishers. I was in awe of the turnout. Why does it often take a death to see just how many people were impacted or loved by someone?

Just as my husband turned to navigate into a grassy lot, there she was! All dressed in white. Her dress billowed in the breeze and lapped against her floral cowgirl boots. The golden hoop in her nose caught the sun, and I caught my breath.

She was so much more beautiful than any screen could capture. She was real! My treasured, virtual friend was real!

She caught a glimpse of me through the car window as we drove past and she lit up like a candle!

My pounding heart started to settle, and it felt warm.

I wasn’t sure what to expect, exactly.

Would Alison be tearful, reserved, glazed over with grief?

No. Not here, not now. She was radiant!

I watched her climb the hill from the lot to the church, her youngest on her hip, embracing everyone in her path. Nobody slipped past her.

My friend was living a literal nightmare, experiencing the worst pain imaginable. Yet, here she was welcoming us as if we needed it more than her. It’s almost as if seeing her would ease our own pain, a bit. If she was okay, maybe we could be too?

She wasn’t okay, but she made a compelling case for being so. There was a stillness and grace about her today that transcends my ability to articulate into words. Our first real hug was so special! My daughter, typically very shy, wrapped her arms around mine and Alison’s legs as we embraced, as if she’d known her forever! That moved my mama-heart. When Alison talked to me, she made me feel like I was the only one there. I watched her drift amongst the crowd, laughing, crying, hugging, listening. To bear the emotions of that many people in the aftermath of her own release of Sam is nothing short of incredible. I was exhausted, for her.

We ascended the grassy bank and entered the parish hall. The room filled with the sound of friends and family, gathered to remember Sam. Photos of him graced the room. His favorite things were peppered about, here and there. A blanket, a book, a stuffed animal. Snapshots of a beautifully ordinary childhood cut short. One of his sisters appeared at my side and delighted to tell me about each item. There was good food, beautiful flowers, and a postcard view of spring beyond the big wooden doors, and just outside the old windows.

There was a podium set up with a book for guests to sign and leave encouragement. There were tables set up for children to enjoy coloring, play dough, and puzzles! One of Sam’s sisters even bravely performed “Amazing Grace” on her violin and moved us all to tears. Everything was simply perfect.

I found Alison again and asked her to introduce us to her husband, Zach. I’d only ever seen him in photos too, but I spotted him a mile away. Zach is a big, tall guy who gives equal parts grizzly and teddy bear. He has a stature of strength but a countenance of kindness and safety.

What a wonderful type of father to have, I thought.

I remembered how Alison said that, while sick and scared at the hospital, Sam usually only wanted Zach to hold him, and I could understand why. He looked like the type you wouldn’t wanna mess with, but also the first one you’d run to for help.

I watched my husband exchange a few words with him, and I was marked by my husbands face. He was so eager to convey just how much compassion he had for this fellow father, strangers until today, but united in their love of family and God. I watched these two grown men talk and marveled at how they were both just little boys themselves. Aged and seasoned by life, but still, young boys just raising younger boys.

Zach, a boy without his boy.

I felt those hot, blinding type of tears begin to build again.

I turned away.

There was a lovely, serene prayer garden out back that we meandered to. We gazed at the Stations of the Cross in passing as we traveled around a picturesque pond with a babbling fountain. Jesus, arms stretched open in welcome, stood in the center. My husband touched His outstretched hand and said “I am so glad you’re not confined to this cold, marble statue, Lord!” I couldn’t think of anything I desired more in that moment than to melt into the warm, real embrace of Jesus. Other than to carry my friend Alison and place her into His embrace instead, if given the chance.

We wandered back to the church, as kids frolicked in vast countryside. “…well boys were on the planet first you know!” We laughed out loud at their childish banter, as we passed.

I found Alison sitting on a hill, overlooking the scenic expanse where the children roamed. A few other women joined her. We all just sat there, not saying much. Tears came and went. A thousand things came to mind but I couldn’t get a single one out! I needed to believe that just being there was what mattered then. The words would come later. We are both writers. The words always come, eventually.

As I prepared to leave, my daughter found us with a plastic cup full of freshly plucked dandelions. She shyly approached Alison and handed her the cup, still sticky from the lemonade it contained earlier. Once again, my mama-heart was moved by the compassion of my toddler. Children have a remarkable capacity for the spiritual, and this was a glaring example to me of how her little heart has been affected by Sam’s journey too. She recognized a hurting mama, and wanted to offer a cheerful gift.

I am home now, pondering it all.

I’m reflecting on all the ways Alison’s faith has influenced my own. The ways she’s impacted me are too vast to impart here.

If I could go back to that hill, sitting with our dresses draped over grass and dandelions, I’d beg you, Alison, to never stop writing. I’d tell you while you’re experiencing a magnitude of suffering that few of us will walk through, you’re also experiencing a magnitude of the miraculous most of us can only dream of! Take us along for the wild ride, friend! Just as you always have. Don’t stop now, when the pain crashes in waves that threaten to pull you under. Grab the pain by its throat, wrestle it into words, and hold it up for us to bear witness! You’ve already pointed more eyes heavenward than I think you can see right now. None of this is fair, but in all of it God is working for your good. He is so proud of you, and He’s holding your boy to His chest until you get there too.

I hope these words find you, Alison, in the blurry days of the aftermath as your family treks onward. I hope they give you some strength, and leave you feeling loved and seen. Because you are.