reflections on Heather's passing

As a kid, I presumed that people I went to school with, we'd all grow old to some agreed-upon ancient age -- an uninterrupted timeline.

Heather and I performed together in many plays through junior high and high school. That's how we met, and became friends. She handled a variety of roles: farcical invisible person in one play -- coming-of-age newlywed named Emily in 'Our Town' -- prophetess in another short story. 

Heather oozed an easy clarity and simplicity on the stage. Offstage, she was friendly, cheerful, buoyant. A warm, welcoming presence in the high school hallways. She volunteered as a manager for the varsity football team. She spoke at graduation.

As they always seem to say, her future shone brightly. I lost track of her after graduating.

Two years later: I was at college. My high school friend Anne lived in the same res hall I did. She called one Tuesday evening. She asked if I'd heard any news from home. I said I had not. She told me to come up to her room right away.

When I got there, I saw Anne's facial expression as flat -- though she knew she had to share something horrible -- and forced.

Heather. Our friend Heather was dead.

Dead from a highway car accident while driving home from college. A truck driver had fallen asleep, crossed the median, and hit her car.

Anne's voice sounded to me like she was talking while underwater -- this extra ambient noise flooded my ears while my eyes welled with tears. The news made me feel sad, tired, cranky, like I didn't want to eat -- and incredulous with disbelief. "What? How??!? Who -- OUR Heather? Are you sure?!? WHAT??!?" We sat there, crying, running out of what to say without repeating ourselves. 

Heather was the first person I knew who'd died this young.

Of course, we share connection to the people  from our high schools, our elementary schools, our middle schools. That common bond means something different for everyone, but it means something.

It's an awkward sort of grace to muck through the shared struggle of growing up. It helps to do so around others. We grow accustomed to the faces that comprise this backdrop, these months and years spent hustling to and from our lockers, forever speed-walking to get to our next class, or to lunch, or to practice, before the bell rang.

A part of me  hoped the world should at least slow down a bit -- as a small gesture of respect -- to honor this awesome person now gone from our sight. The world did no such thing.

My school assignments never stopped. Deadlines still loomed. Laundry kept piling up. We all still moved through the days of life too fast, not cherishing enough all the blessings before us.

Friends of mine said awkward stuff, trying to console me. I'm sure many of you have experienced this. At the time, I remember feeling supremely frustrated with their fumbling ineptitude. In retrospect, I not near as frustrated. They were trying.

Young, familiar faces filled the funeral service, which was at our high school. I wanted to be there, and also wanted to be anywhere else.

These years later, it still feels unfair.

It feels unfair that Heather's smile doesn't get to gradually collect the creases of age and life that we see in each other's faces at reunions. Sure, it still pains to be reminded of her absence, but it hurts differently than before. I also smile at recalling those slapdash plays we performed in so long ago. Good times, and some cool memories. Some pain remains, but the memories bring some grace too.

My pastor often says that to be sad is an act of sanity. It's proportional to feel sad about sad things. This makes sense to me, and relieves me. I haven't found a way to get over the sadness of losing Heather. And yet, we've had to unhurriedly learn to live with it.

To this day, a memorial marker for her stands at the entrance to my high school's football field. 

Heather's unfairly forever 19 years old.