On a late July morning, it was time to take our oldest two to church. Instead of Sunday morning worship, though, they were headed to youth camp.
For a few years up to that point, our church’s youth group went to a camp held in Glorieta, New Mexico. As is the case for any truly good road trip, they needed to hop into the vans in the pre-dawn hours to kick off the 12 plus hour drive ahead of them. Usually, excitement over the coming camp rose through bleary-eyed exhaustion in the wee hours of the morning.
But this year hit differently as it would have been Isabel’s second year to go to camp. Since returning last year from her first camp experience, she eagerly looked forward to going back with her friends and brother and sister. As it turned out, though, only two campers in our house instead of three were ready to go that morning.
We woke with heavy hearts that day just missing our girl.
“Babe, I can’t believe she’s not here…that she’s not going with them,” my wife turned to me in the dark.
“I know, my love…I know.” What else can you say during a time like this?
“I don’t know if I can do this,” my wife continued.
“Hand-in-hand, my love,” I replied. For a minute, we laid there crying, holding each other, then praying.
Our hope that morning was to bring the older two to church, get them situated, and then leave before the group did. Our hearts couldn’t handle watching the vans depart and not see her smiling face in the window, waving goodbye to us.
Joshua and Aby, needless to say, were somber that morning. Dressed in as comfortable of clothes they could find, pillows under their arms, and bags packed, they stood ready in the kitchen. My mind flashed back to the year prior when all five of us stood in the same spot, huddled together to pray and give one last family hug. We loved huddling together like that as a family. Most of the time, one of the girls would vie for the center of the huddle to be all squished in. Sometimes there was poking involved or just plain messing around in the huddle. But always it was a way for us to feel closeness as a family of five.
However, this year, only four stood in generally the same spot at around the same time of day. Because we just lost her, we couldn’t huddle up together without Izzy. Her glaring absence made it too sad to do some of the same things we used to, so instead I grabbed Aby and Jill grabbed Joshua separately while we prayed and cried. This camp would be another first for Joshua and Aby to face one month since losing their sister, another first of many others to come.
For this trip, we decided that since the kids would be away, we did not want to face an empty home, yet. Jill and I reserved a cabin in northwest Arkansas set in a remote mountainous area amidst a forest of trees in hopes of finding some sort of respite. So, we grabbed the kids’ bags, our bags, plus Janner (our family pup) and his things to put it all in the car.
Bags, dog, and all four of us loaded up, we pulled out of the garage and drove down our driveway heading to church. Nearly sunrise, the sky slowly lit up the neighborhood and roads. A lightening gray pall began to release its hold over the streets early that morning while most of the houses in our neighborhood were still dark for a Friday morning.
Our car was a little more quiet than usual during the fifteen-minute drive to church. The silence was broken here and there with some instructions and lots of checking in with our two to make sure they were ok. They both agreed they were, but we knew their bravery mixed in with incredible sorrow. Joshua and Aby, like us as well, felt an increasing resolution to life’s events moving us forward. As if to counterbalance the mood, the only one among us truly excited was our dog who wouldn’t stop pacing around the car and slobbering all over everyone and everything.
By the time we arrived, a few families milled about the parking lot of our church. Other campers with pillows in-hand, dropped off their bags at the vans, then congregated in pockets of groups. Their parents either did the same or sleepily watched from their cars (still too early to socialize).
Our entrance meant “that family” arrived. You could feel something like a collective breaking of hearts from the families around. Some unsure what to do or say, some who walked right up to hug and comfort, but all lovingly caring for us and genuinely sad, knowing the monumental sorrow we were facing in that moment.
Our family got out of the car, grabbed our luggage, but left the dog to bark his head off inside. Friends came up bringing hugs and tears, handshakes and knowing smiles. My son took his and his sister’s bags over to the vans and checked in with the youth pastor. A dear family in the church walked around handing out bracelets they made for everyone to wear at camp – yellow sunflowers strung from yarn in a row. The one I’m given I would not take off for over a year. From what I could tell, everyone wore their bracelets as soon as they had them which demonstrated to this brokenhearted father that Izzy’s friends, her whole youth group, had not forgotten her.
Looking around, we see we are not alone in our sorrow for there are tears and broken hearts worn on faces. It’s only been several weeks since losing Izzy; and though the experience of camp usually brings excitement, this year is marked with great sadness by everyone there. One thing that’s amazing about the body of Christ is we all share in each other’s burdens. Not only in the way that we try to shoulder another’s load, but our sadness is their sadness. Paul told the church in Galatia to, “(b)ear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.” (Gal 6:2) We’re learning in new and fresh ways what this looks like more richly and fully than ever before since losing our little girl.
The sun continued to rise, bringing a July warmth that will heat up the day. The morning breeze filtered through the crowd of youth and parents while we circle up to hear instructions from the pastor. As he prays, he remembers Izzy and asks the Lord to bring His grace and help to all of our hurting hearts. It’s not lost on Jill or me, nor even our pastor friend that a chickadee[1] chirps almost throughout the entire prayer.
God’s kindness in such small reminders – even the small, familiar chirp of a chickadee while praying through our sadness – these loving reminders of His love comforts our broken hearts.
We give final hugs and kisses to our older two, say our goodbyes, then get back into our car to head out.
The reality of loss stings in so many different ways and at numerous times. There are so many different situations in life when the remembrance of your loss comes to smack you in the face. Simple situations like waking, daily chores, holidays, gatherings, and even big events like summer camp that was so looked forward to by your loved one come around and bring a fresh wave of grief. Izzy was really looking forward to camp this year and to not see her in the middle of her friends in the parking lot or on the van, to not kiss her goodbye and tell her to be careful, to not watch her hand wave at us from the window was too much to bear that early morning.
These experiences of loss are always so hard to endure.
Back in the car and leaving the church, I held my wife’s hand as the tears flowed along with the questions and stunned realizations that we’re living a worst nightmare. In those moments, we’ve learned that all we can really do is lift it all up to the Lord. What else can we truly do? We don’t understand all of this and there’s nothing to fix it. So, we pray and ask the Lord for help. Please keep the kiddos safe at camp, keep us safe as we head out on our time away, help us, oh God, in this great sadness, and be glorified in all we do.
By God’s grace, He does just that.
(To be continued…)
[1] Isabel’s favorite bird was the chickadee. She loved birds and could identify several species just by their song. A few months before she died, she painted 3 watercolor paintings of different birds…the chickadee was used as an insert in her funeral bulletin. Many families in the church and even around the world have this hanging up in their living rooms. If she only knew…
Till We Are Home 
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