Who Will Tell Their Story?—25th November 2012

                I awoke in a puddle of tears, long before I had to start my Sunday. I awoke from a dream that was painfully beautiful—a prayer. I awoke in pain—snippits of the dream reminded me of its premise—that death and hurt are real, pervasive. My mind and eyes flooded by memories, questions, anguish. Pain for those, I guess I have to include myself, who are missing people around the holiday celebrations. Whose smiles are accompanied by glistening eyes that unmask of the pain of missing the person who died in new and tangible ways—an empty chair, a gaping hole in the holiday pictures. Loss is painful. It changes you in a million inexplicable ways—and is a frustrating whack-a-mole in the knack it has for catching you off-guard with a vengeance and with memories. It is a process.

                When I dried my tears—oh let’s be honest—I’m still a dripping faucet, but proverbially dried them—looked over old letters, and resigned myself to the reality of feeling THIS, now; I was able to look a bit past my pain and to be thankful.

                I was thankful to be alive—to have the voice of my pen, my family here, and memories. I relieved memories of mundane details and snapshots of monumental events. I was brought back to simple and profound moments—from classroom memories to trips and events. I was thankful for photographs—yet resigned that they never do a person justice. Like C.S. Lewis articulates, they are only an icon—never measuring up to the real thing. They often shock you with the thought “well now, they didn’t look quite like that…not really”.

                Simultaneously I was burdened. The dream reminded me of the importance of legacy living. Many of those who I know who died this year had such legacies—of faith, friendship, families, and joy. I am thankful there is solace in remembering; in sharing stories and in “keeping them alive” by not letting their impact stop just because their heart has. I heard once that most people are forgotten within 50 years after your death—or maybe that only 25 people will remember you that long after. Maybe the cyber world is changing that—facebook reminds me of people I’ve lost by bringing up their picture at random times, but anyway, the point is—no one wants to be forgotten.

                But who will tell the stories of those who are lost in obscurity? Their life is just as important. Who will put into the “cyber vault” the stories of those who lived purposefully in a poverty we as westerners cannot grasp? I will.

                I will tell the story of a precious girl from Kibera I only knew for eight weeks. A girl who had seizures and possessed a smile that lit up a room. A girl who embraced her life, her classmates, and her school in the way she was able—she was present. She smiled, waved, and was included by her peers. She had a joy at learning to make paper airplanes and tossed them with glee. She shared her plane and her joy with me—wanting me to throw it and thanking me with her eyes. She shamelessly learned from and loved her peers who cared for her—unasked and willingly helping her through the daily routine. I will remember. I will feel. I will speak. I will write. Loss is painfully and powerfully purposeful. I don’t want to waste it.