Forward From Today

"Rise to her knees in the morning again
Giving herself to the sky
Searching for answers to all her regrets
Wondering, should she even try
But the hope it shines like pearls in her eyes
She asks are you giving up on me
Not today, not today"
 - Not Today, by Andra Day 


This past May, one of my closest friends nearly died. I've known Lindsey for over 12 years now. She's seen me through the whole process of going to the mission field: learning a second language, raising support, moving to Ecuador and starting a life here. I've seen her through engagement, marriage, building a home, and becoming a mother to three children.

After a rare and serious complication following the birth of her son, Lindsey went into a coma and was unable to breathe on her own. From over 2,000 miles away, I wept when her Mom posted a photo on Facebook of Lindsey, unconscious beneath a network of tubes. My friend Rachel, who has seen me cry countless times, told me over and over, "She's going to be okay," not as a platitude, but because she believed it. She was right.

Though Lindsey has fully recovered, able to breathe on her own at last and slowly waking and regaining the ability to speak and walk, it still makes me catch my breath, thinking of loosing her. It's the same with thinking about my brother HJ who was born blue, or who had a sudden febrile seizure when he was three. Or when my sister was caught on a boogie board in a series of waves which slammed her against the ocean floor, nearly drowning her if she hadn't been able to gasp for breath and call for help. Or about the Casa Adalia girl, Ana, who attempted suicide. Even, sometimes, about the car accidents siblings and friends have been in which could have ended in death. My heart stops, then races, full of thankfulness that they are alive, along with a shot of fear-based adrenaline at the thought of them being no more.

I don't want to live in fear. That is one of my biggest mantras. Be brave. Be strong and courageous. But feel the rest as well; the grief and sadness, even the fear, as long as it doesn't paralyze but spurs onward towards thankfulness. Not that I can help feeling these things. I'm wired to cry when I see someone cry, to cry at a kind gesture or compliment, to cry at a moving story, to cry for no other reason than that I feel the ache and beauty of the world mixed up in a way which doesn't make sense. Some people understand, some people assume something is wrong, yet always I find it's easier to apologize than fully explain.

In thinking about Lindsey, I picture it in two halves: the grief and fear of losing her, of seeing her in the hospital and not knowing if she'd speak or walk or live, and the flood of thankfulness and joy that she recovered and is fine. The truth is, the second can't come without the first. For that reason, I don't want to forget. I'll take the painful pause of remembering, simply because it accompanies the rush of relief. I hope too, to be reminded of thankfulness for everyone in my life, whether or not I know of any near-death experience they may have encountered. I think that in this life we don't know of all the times we may have been spared, just as we don't know why others were not. Had Lindsey died last May, a lifetime of people would have begged, "Why?" in confusion and grief. Yet when someone lives, no one asks why. We are merely grateful; normally, no answers needed. May we then be thankful without near-death experiences, and within the most painful ones. May we be brave, strong, and courageous, knowing what there is to loose and stepping forward anyway. May we learn from fear and not be shaped by it. May we be okay to cry when needed. May we remember well, hold onto joy, and live with hope.