The Angels in my Path (5/25/12 - 5/25/15)

Sometimes I wonder how many situations I've been in where I've been unkind to people. Sometimes I wonder about it, and then sometimes I actually THINK about it, and when I actually think about it, what I come up with can be quite depressing. Perhaps many of my Seaman friends reading this will remember the pain that May 25 holds for us - or maybe you won't, because I know in my brain, things seem to be fuzzy and kind of in a weird order. Maybe you have certain parts of your memory that are especially vivid and you don't want them to be, or maybe you have some that you've struggled to remember for three years and have only faded more. Many of my memories from May 25 have started to fade, or are completely gone. But what I do remember after three years: the Jimmy John's guys and the lady from the news station.

Three years ago yesterday, my life felt like one of those thousand piece puzzles that you just finished and is resting peacefully on your kitchen table. I felt like all of the things in my life made sense - I had my high school diploma, knew where I was going to college, knew what I wanted to do, and was excited about my future - a future still distant enough that I didn't need to be nervous for it.

Three years ago today, it felt like someone took that puzzle and dumped it, face down, and I watched the pieces scatter as a big wind picked up. The next two and a half years were spent picking up the pieces and figuring out where they went. I was at work when I got the phone call that Brenna had gone missing - but unable to leave, as the time passed, I felt more and more weary about the situation at hand. My phone continued to buzz from friends who were in the same situation - trapped at work and worried sick, wondering if anyone had any more information. I was able to leave work early and I joined hundreds of others as we walked up and down streets, searching through ditches, fields, and shrubbery, alternating between being sad, but then going back to talking about college because we were sure this wasn't real. By the late hours of the evening, hundreds of people had migrated slowly to the caution tape that had been posted where her glasses had been found on the side of the road. The feeling of hearing police yell into an abandoned building for my friend and seeing a helicopter swoop low over the field to search for her when she had sat the row behind me at graduation just days before is engrained deep into my brain, but also my heart.

I remember vividly getting the phone call from my mom where she told me that Brenna was gone. My phone was on it's last leg of battery by that time of night and there were surely close to 1000 people out searching - making it near impossible to stay near my parents. I was, quite literally, knocked to my knees and I only remember hitting the side of the truck that was parked next to where I was standing. I remember getting through the sea of people and the only two people on the planet I wanted to see were my parents, but it felt like it took hours to find them - when in reality it was probably only a few minutes. As we stood in the field that was filled with my best friends, I watched them, one by one, get similar calls from their own parents who would show up shortly after. Many staff from our school were out there and I saw my best friends fall sobbing and shaking in the street.  The next morning, I woke up and it took all the energy I had to move myself to the couch. My mom came in and she made a comment how it was probably time I try to eat something - I truly admire her for her patience with me during that time of convincing and the car ride across town. I know 17 year olds can be unpleasant, but I know for a fact that day that I had long surpassed the grounds of 'unpleasant'.

Please note that I do not share this so that anyone has to relive it, or that I think these are important details three years later. What I do think matters, however, is the boldness of the situation compared to the seemingly small acts of kindness that follow it.

It wasn't until we walked into Jimmy John's that day until I realized that I was still wearing my pajama pants, hadn't combed my hair, and my eyes were still swollen with tears from the night before. The guys at Jimmy John's that day showed only genuine kindness - continuing to comment on the beautiful weather, asking about our plans for the weekend, and seeming to not notice that we were probably very unkind, and possibly very checked out. When my mom paid for our sandwiches, they made manual change and never touched the register. With her questioning look, he responded that the shop wasn't actually open - but they had bread ready and were happy to serve.

It is possible that them making our sandwiches outside the normal store hours meant nothing to them; they weren't intending to be especially kind, or maybe they were but it was only because the weather was gorgeous and they were in a good mood. Maybe they and seen the news. Maybe they guessed who we were, or maybe I had a Seaman shirt on. Maybe the pajamas and tear stained face gave it away. All I know is that they didn't have to, and they did.

Later that day, people flooded in and out of my house to make scrapbooks and watch the news together. Among those people was a woman from a local news station. I don't remember her name, or what news station she was from, or really anything else about her. What I do remember about her was her genuine care for our situation. We had been contacted by several other stations over the course of a few hours to be interviewed, and none of them struck me as anyone who cared about our hurt for more than anything but a good news story. What I liked about her was that she asked several times if I wanted her to leave, or get out of the kitchen, and she asked politely more than once if it was okay we be interviewed. When a few of us agreed, she patiently moved all of her equipment to the front steps per our requests to give us our privacy in case a breakdown occurred. Her questions revolved around our memories, giving us a chance to share the things we loved most about Brenna,  not the case, the situation, or any opinions of things that would have made a better 'story'.

To the blonde woman from the news station who covered this story three years ago - thank you for your genuine care for my friends and me. Thank you for not pushing us, and truly caring to develop the story of my friend as a person and not just as a news story. I never thought that would be hard to find, until I was in that situation, and I realize we were very lucky.

Over the course of that summer, it was easy to see hundreds of cars throughout the day with the letters "WWBD" printed in the back - the letters we had picked a day before her funeral after finding out the the Phelps had decided to protest. the phrase "What Would Brenna Do" became a sign to be printed on cars, among other things, to show a member of our family, and someone that you could catch a smile with in a parking lot - knowing that you had shared the same pain only a few weeks before. I now know how important the example set by the Jimmy Johns guys and the lady from the news station really was - Brenna wasn't a miracle worker, barely had her high school diploma, but she definitely would have made someone's lunch when having the ability. She definitely would have gone out of her way to treat them with kindness. And she definitely would have taken extra and gentle care for their situation, even if she didn't understand it.

People always say that the first year of a loss was the hardest. If you prove to yourself that you do everything once, then surely you can do it again. For us, though, the first year, or at least the first nine months, just meant getting past the legal side - It was not until January of 2013 when it was truly 'over' and I came home from work that day to read an article on CJ Online that tore me to pieces - but I could also breathe a sigh of relief because there would be no more court dates or hearings - it was finally over. Additionally, when the grief journey came to an abrupt halt in October with the loss of our sweet Luke, I felt like raising the white flag with God. The sweet boy who had won my heart with his life sized imagination and our shared love of Starburst jelly beans was suddenly gone - two people who loved life with their whole hearts - suddenly gone in five months of each other. God, where are you in this? I knew this meant that our 'one year clock' was potentially starting over - but this time, I didn't have much confidence in it's ability to keep ticking.

I wish I would have known in those really terrible first months with the court dates, another funeral, and days when seeing a K-State rowing shirt on campus nearly ruined my day that the best really was yet to come. I wish I would have known that grief would not always have such a stronghold on my life, and that I would eventually make it to the other side and would eventually lead a bible study, find the best group of friends I'd ever had, and be a part of a mission team to Hong Kong the summer after my sophomore year of college where I met a family who continues to impact on my life and journey with Christ. I wish I would have known that helping write an obituary in a yearbook for my friend would have helped fuel my love for writing three years later.  I wish I would have known that the Jimmy John's guys and the lady from the news had it right all along.

To the guys at Jimmy John's that day, and to the lady from the news station who covered our story - Whether it be considered a 'random act of kindness', just going out of your way to make an extra sandwich when you didn't have to, just the way you did your job, or true care for a hurting group or kids, I still appreciate that three years later. I know for a fact that the actions of complete strangers got my day started off on the right foot - the first day on a very long road of emotionally draining days. Your kindness was the very first of many footprints of the angels in my path that has helped me accomplish so many things that I could have never, ever done on my own. To the guys at Jimmy John's and the lady from the news- thanks for starting out that journey with a perfect example of how to make it through. Nothing big, nothing hard, but definitely something important.

To The Nostalgic High School Senior

I remember my last week of high school very vividly - starting Monday morning thinking about how this was probably the last time my mom would ever make my lunch, and how it would be exactly how I liked it, before I started having to eat the 'dreaded' dorm food, before living in a room the size of a coat closet, and before sharing a bathroom with 40 other girls. I remember going to my senior breakfast where we 'tailgated school' and played frisbee in the parking lot, my last day of dance team where I got to hand down my treasured job of co-captain and prayer leader before each game. I remember riding my bike to school with 30 or so other seniors on my last day, and crying my way through the halls as I found each individual teacher to get my infamous 'yellow sheet' signed stating that I had no unreturned books, missing assignments, or unresolved squabbles and was good to go for Sunday at 4:00.

I remember driving home from my last graduation party on Sunday night around 2:00 and seeing the sign at Mother Theresa Catholic Church that simply read 'Congrats to the Grads" - it was dimly lit and one of the letters was crooked, but as I finished my drive home, I realized how incredibly content I felt with my life at that very moment. That week I started working for the summer at my favorite job - not too concerned about college, mostly worried about what that evening or weekends' plans were. But I remember, as August crept closer, feeling more nervous. What would happen to the family that I had been apart of for 13 years? Would it feel different to go home again? Would I still be close to my sister? I had been saying that I was 'ready to move on' for months, but what if I didn't like college?

To the nostalgic high school senior; I promise it will all work out. That dorm room you are about to move into seems small now, but within a few days it will seem like the homiest place in the world. That bathroom may seem scary, but I promise you will be forced to bond with those other girls by brushing your teeth in the morning together or trying to figure out why there's a red velvet cake on the floor in the bathroom (yes, that happened). You will meet your RA and they will be your 'mom away from mom' when you need them, but your real mom will still always your number one phone call away, and trust me, you will utilize that. You will learn to appreciate your car when you have to park it three miles away from the dorm and that run to the store is unavoidable at 2 a.m. because you NEED Chinese (and it's probably pouring down rain). You'll learn how little time it actually takes you to get ready in the morning when you've been up since two studying (or listening to your roommate talk about her date last weekend)

To the nostalgic high school senior, your high school will always hold a special place in your heart, and trust me, nothing is as special as reuniting with your high school friends and catching up on significant others, who has changed their major the most, and who hasn't actually ATTENDED their sociology class this semester. It will feel different to go home, but it will feel like the most comforting thing in the world - after being away for a few weeks, Betty Crocker couldn't make anything as good as your mom can and suddenly YOU are the one annoying your younger sibling because you want to spend time with THEM.

To the nostalgic high school senior, suddenly, your college friends become a part of your family. When you run out of gas, suddenly they are a lot closer than your parents. The first time you really, really mess up anything on your own, they are the ones you run to. And when the fire alarms go off every hour and a half because of a leaky pipe during finals week, THEY are the ones who truly understand your pain.

To the nostalgic high school senior, I promise you that the best part about college is choosing your own niche. Choosing the people you hang out with, the classes you take, the way you spend your weekends. Your freedom dictates your happiness and success, and you have the opportunity to choose whether or not you will 'like college.' I promise you that your professors are nothing like the English version of Professor McGonnagal.

As I'm writing this post, I'm sitting on the floor of the library, drowning in my own physics and neuroscience notes. I have dishes from dinner three hours ago that need to be taken home and washed, a cup of sweet tea that's getting me through tonight, and a Royals game to watch with some friends that I'm pretty excited about later. College is a little less predictable than high school, we just got kicked out of the library for an hour because of a 'leak' (whatever that means) with nothing but our phones. But, hey, memories, right?


To the nostalgic high school senior, I promise it will be okay. You will make friends, some for keeps and some not so much. You will make grades, some for keeps and some you could have done better. But I promise you that the memories, whether it be a college game or a Chinese food run at 2 a.m., will be well, well worth the nerves.