I met Kristen in Sunday school at our little Episcopal church. Red headed, fair skinned with a beautiful smile. We chatted over Easter Egg hunts, children with baskets running around, reenactments of Jesus last days on Earth, kids and adults all dressed up in shawls, in the hallway while our girls had choir rehearsals, with coffee in hand before parenting class, over lunch at the Square Root.
We understood the need for good pure eating, no sugar, processed stuff, little to no wheat & dairy. We understood each others conflict of 'eating perfect' and 'living free.' She got my battle with Multiple Sclerosis even tho it hasn't raged it's head in a few years. I groaned with her over her looming battle with cancer. 3 years cancer free and now a scan showed it was back. In the brain.
We shared a love of children, of the great outdoors, of being with family and of sitting in our beautiful stone church. We talked of getting together to make candles, of letting our girls glory in glitter and glue and art. We talked of hiking as families. But never got around to those things. We actually put it on the calendar but something came up, pulled us away.
Kristen was a fighter. She was strong and brave and present. I only got to know her in her last two years of her 40 here on earth and I admired her. I wish we had more time. I wish her story had more chapters to be written, even the coming hard preteen ones with her daughter... looming decisions with boyfriends, college and career.
Yes, that is where it pierces me deepest. That this little family has lost its Mother and Wife. That her light in their home, her warmth of body and soul will be there no more days makes me want to hurl basketballs in God's face. The thought of Sam and Lily there in their home without Kristen doing and being all the things she did and was to them rips me to my core.
It is times like this that I appreciate all the more C.S. Lewis work in the Chronicles of Narnia. The character of Aslan, the lion who suddenly shows up here and there with a fierce strength, tender love and wise words has always comforted me. He is a picture of God, as Father and Mother to the children in the story. The line I love the most is "Aslan is good, but he is not safe."
The night I slept walk into the hallway when my sister asked who was calling me, I know it was Kristen. And Aslan. He knows me like a book and knew my heart had been aching the last few days over Kristen. I had spoken with her Mom only 5 days prior to her being in the hospice house and was planning on coming to be with her once she was home from the hospital. She never came home. She went directly to the Elizabeth House to be medicated to comfort, to allow her organs to shut down and her body to stop working.
And I. I walked around my life with 4 happy children chasing chickens & riding bikes, I watered my gardens and picked tomatoes, I chopped salads and set out 6 plates for our full family, lively supper while my mind and heart felt pierced with no band aid big enough to comfort. Then the weekend came and her Mom said they weren't allowing visitors. My chance to see her one last time and say goodbye was gone.
I chose on a whim to go to Hickory to surprise my sister for her birthday, savoring the chance to be present and to celebrate the life of someone I loved. But, the pain followed me and even haunted me. So as I drove home on Sunday after my sleepwalk in the night, I knew I needed to go be near her. Yet, I didn't want to upset the family's ask for no visitors and I am a rule follower. How loving of Aslan that Kristen's Mom called me for another matter in that moment. I was able to share with her my pain and desire to go sit outside Kristen's room and say goodbye. She blessed me in doing so. What a gift!
As I walked the hall to her room I was jolted more into the reality of her coming death, of all of our coming deaths really. Mine included. "Oh I don't want to do this" I kept saying. "This is too hard, turn around & just drive home Amanda." But something beckoned me to go talk to her. Was it for me or for her sake, I don't know. But after journaling a letter to her outside her room a kind nurse came by and asked if I wanted to see her as she opened the door to check on her. I did and I didn't. I walked in, pierced with deep throat tears, told her how sorry I was this stupid cancer was taking her away from the life she loved, but told her it was OK to fly on to Jesus, asked her to hug him for me and told her that I was sure it was grand living there in a way we never tasted here.
She died the next day. After tucking my children in bed I checked email and read the news. Crying on the couch with my husband I said, "We were just sitting behind her on the front row in church on Easter Sunday chatting it up, our girls exchanging flowers." "Yes" my husband said, "And now she is experiencing Easter."
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