One of my students died last week. I don’t have explicit permission to share her story, so all I’ll say is that she had a freak medical incident that spiraled to the point that she was kept “alive” by a machine rather than her own organs. She was 18, had just graduated, and was headed to college in the fall.
One of my last memories of her comes from driving back from our annual field trip to the state capital. She and one of her close friends kept me amused by applying the brand slogan “It’s Nerf or Nothing” to thorny situationship issues in which one should just “send it” and “shoot your shot.” It was hilarious. She was hilarious. She was also kind, ambitious, deeply connected to family and friends, and had an enduring faith that was evident to all who met her. I’ll miss her a lot.
We’ve lost some recent alumni in the last few years, but this is the first time that I as a teacher have lost a student directly. Those of you who have been in the profession longer and have taught thousands of students likely have lost several more, and some of my colleagues have lost many. What they tell me is that while some novel student things eventually become routine, losing a student is one of those experiences that is always sharp and never easy to accept.
We held a memorial service for her in our chapel, and it was a full house. The high numbers were not just because she was a well-liked stellar student. There were many friends, family, alumni, and staff in attendance, but also plenty of students who I know probably never had a conversation with her in their lives. They came up to school on a rainy July evening because it’s hard (impossible?) to make sense of things like this, and one of the only salves for confusing grief is to grieve in community.
We had a photo slide show. There was time for prayer. Our socio-emotional counselor set up a place to write notes, letters, or memories, and then everyone was invited upstairs to see her locker (which had been decorated with flowers and photographs) to place their words where her backpack and softball cleats once hung.
Our Chaplain / Dean of School Culture shared a message with everyone towards the end. He had the difficult task of saying what is hard to say, of expressing what is impossible to fully encapsulate in a 15-minute word to those assembled. A young girl, full of life, has died. How do you console, comfort, and counsel those, especially the other students, who are feeling shock or anger over this loss?
He reminded us of what is true.
It is true that the seeming early death of the young feels unjust and wrong.
It is true that her loss leaves a gaping hole in the life of family and friends.
It is true that these things often lead us to question why, simply put, “bad things happen to good people.”
But he used the story of Lazarus, from John 11, to point out that these things are also true:
Those who are in Christ will be resurrected, re-united, and redeemed in him (v.25).
Jesus wept (v.35).
The first of these truths is a long-run comfort, but the second is more immediate. I don’t have the exact quote in front of me, but in his book The Infinite Fountain of Light, James Marsden makes the comment that whatever explanations we come up with for the problem of pain and evil, they don’t fully satisfy the sense of injustice we feel after something like this, no matter how theologically sound those explanations may be. The primary comfort, then, is knowing that Jesus is in pain and grief alongside us, just as he was when his friend Lazarus died. Sometimes that’s the only comfort we get.
At the end of the service, my student’s mom stood up and thanked everyone for coming. Then, she said this:
“This has been absolutely devastating. But our family’s faith is strong.”
If you’ll forgive me, I’ll quote myself from something I wrote last summer:
Jesus, the son of the creator God and co-equal member of the Trinity, is everything to Christians. There is no true joy except for joy in him. A friend of mine just lost his 53-year-old son-in-law to a heart attack on Father’s Day. His response? Joy amidst grief. It seems impossible. I know a woman at my church who has battled horrific cancer that has taken so much of what she has valued in her life. Her response? Peace amidst suffering. I know another woman who sends care packages to the murderer of her sister. Why? Love amidst anger. Another man sufferers from a degenerative auto-immune condition, and his life depends on new treatments being discovered every 18 months or so. How does he live out his days? With purpose amidst uncertainty.
I will add this grieving mom to that list of those who pursue Hope amidst Grief, from a place of strength that only comes through an enduring faith.
I took the picture at the top on the day my student died, though I didn’t know it then. I was out on a lake in Texas, when this rainbow appeared ahead of a big storm that swept across the water. I think it’s fitting. The rainbow is there, beautiful and shining, but the skies are still dark and the waves choppy. Yet, our eyes are drawn to the resplendent color, as a reminder that we have much hope to look to in the midst of sadness.