A few days ago, I attended the funeral of one of my best friend’s dad. After the service and burial, I talked with her family and friends. I was hugged and reminded that I would always be family, too. They will always be mine. After the services, I stood beside my friend as her dad’s casket was lowered into the ground, and the dirt was placed on top. I stood beside her because 33 years earlier, she sat beside me as I watched the casket of my college boyfriend, Art, lowered into the ground, and the dirt was placed on top. Art was her uncle (he and her dad were born 20 years apart), and we were both grieving.
I haven’t thought of that day in a long time. But standing there with her last week, although we were much older than the young 21 and 22-year-olds at Art’s service, in a way, it felt like it was yesterday.
Afterward, her family, Art’s best friend, and I went to dinner. We watched her grandkids play. I visited with Art’s sisters. We talked about life now and reminisced about life back then. It was fun to hear stories I hadn’t heard before and share stories of Art looking out for each of us.
I met Art on my 20th birthday. I had told my college roommates a little about the abusive relationship I’d been in, and they decided we should throw a party to celebrate that it was behind me. We lived in an apartment on a small campus, and many people came. At some point that night, I met Art.
We went on our first date a few days later and quickly became a couple. We’d been dating for a few weeks when I drove one of my roommates to a party. I popped in with her for a bit, and one of the guys there hit on me. Nervous of what Art would think, I left soon after. In my previous relationship with Brock, I had been taught that the abuse was my fault – I always did something wrong to cause it. I worried I had done something wrong at the party to invite the flirtation.
The next evening, I had a date with Art. As soon as he arrived, I told him I stopped at the party the night before. He asked me if someone he knew was there. I said yes, and he asked me if that person had hit on me. I said yes. That was it. Art wasn’t mad. He didn’t yell at me. He didn’t hit me. He didn’t tell me it was my fault.
This was new. As Art and I dated he showed me many good qualities. He was sincere and authentic with me. When I didn’t have a car, he let me use his. He trusted me.
I had broken up with Brock the summer before and jumped into the life I thought I missed out on. I went to parties and hung out with friends. I didn’t manage my time well, and my grades reflected that. When Art and I started dating, he encouraged me to get on the Dean’s list. He didn’t shame me for having poor grades. He didn’t tell me I wasn’t smart. Instead, he believed in me; he encouraged and supported me.
Later, I did have a car and got into a wreck. I knew my parents would be upset with me, so I decided to buy myself a car. I didn’t qualify on my own, so Art offered to co-sign with me on the loan. After we bought the car, he gently said he wanted to show me a few things to help me become a safer driver. We spent a few hours driving around town while he showed me how to be a defensive driver, then had me practice what he’d taught. None of it was conveyed in a demeaning way, just a “let me help you” way.
A friend worked at a local restaurant and bar adjacent to the university we attended, and when a waitress position opened in the bar, she recommended me for the job. After I started working there, Art came in most nights. He’d sit at the bar, talk with the regulars or a group of friends, and have a couple of beers. When it was slow, I’d hang out and talk with him. Sometimes, a customer would point to Art and ask if he was my boyfriend. I said yes, and didn’t give it another thought. Art was never there in an intrusive way. A few months after he passed away, occasionally, a male customer would say something or touch me inappropriately. It was my first waitressing job, and I never realized how Art’s presence before protected me. He never asked me not to apply or work there. He never cautioned me. Instead, he supported me and discreetly was my protector.
We had a good balance of spending time together and doing things separately with our friends.
I don’t know if I would have put these words to it then, but looking back, I knew he always had my back. He wasn’t perfect. Neither was I. We had disagreements, but he was good and kind. He respected and protected me. I’m thankful to have had the experience of dating him after my high school relationship ended.
19 months after we started dating, Art rode his motorcycle with friends for the day. They often rode their bikes on the weekend, and this was the last day they would ride before the cold weather set in. He was wearing a helmet and full leather gear. On the last pass of the day, his motorcycle went down. He hit his head, his brain hemorrhaged, and he died on the spot.
In an instant, my whole world changed. At 21, I went from being in love and dreaming of a future with Art to grieving the loss of someone I loved deeply, and was a big part of my life. I moved through the next few days with his family. I stayed at his sister’s house, sleeping with my arms wrapped around a shirt that still smelled like Art. I sat with them through the funeral service, still trying to comprehend that he was gone. That I would never see him again.
I went back to college. We had a good group of friends, and they were grieving Art’s loss, too. As comforting as it was to be around people who were experiencing the loss too, the pain of moving from loving to loss was unbearable. I had trouble sleeping. When I tried to do my homework, I had trouble concentrating. I didn’t know what to do with the great loss, the immense void I felt. I’m grateful for my roommate, who endured my tears during her senior year.
I tried counseling. In the first session, I talked about my high school relationship and Art dying. Then I cried the entire 45-minute drive back to school. I didn’t want to be that sad and didn’t go back to counseling for many years.
Art died in November, and I didn’t want to face the long Christmas break without him, so after Christmas, I flew to Seattle and spent two weeks with my uncle and his family. It was nice to be away from the memories, and yet, if I wanted to talk about Art, the accident, or missing him, they were ready to listen. It was the gentle break I needed. I thought about transferring to a college in WA to avoid going back to Texas and a school that was full of memories of Art. But I knew that would be running away. I’d be escaping the pain rather than healing from it. And so, in mid-January, I flew back to Texas.
It was hard as the new semester started, but I was glad to have my friends beside me. Together, we started to get through the loss. We mourned, we cried, we laughed, and I began to live again.
I was sad when I saw an ambulance and always prayed for the paramedics to be able to help the person they were taking care of. I carried a sadness I didn’t know how to move through. As I went through my days, going to class and work, a prayer asking, “Why, God?!?” was constantly in my heart. And then, one day, I heard, “It just is.” And I started to let go. I started to accept.
I surprised everyone, including myself, by dating someone new a few months later. We grew close, and after a few months, we said we loved each other. I liked our companionship. But I hadn’t healed from either of my previous hurts. We broke up after 6 months.
I continued school, worked long hours, and drank when I wasn’t busy with work and school. I graduated and got a new job. I celebrated with my friends as they got married and started families. I was always the one without a +1. I accepted job transfers out of state because I wanted the promotions and opportunities that came with the transfers. It took me away from the friends and family who were important to me, but it gave me an escape as many married their college sweethearts, and their lives moved forward together. In hindsight, it also allowed me the opportunity to stand on my own.
Eleven years after Art died, November 10th came and went without me remembering the date beforehand and holding my breath as it approached. I moved back to Texas, closer to the friends who were dear to me. I had dated some over the years. Nothing long, and nothing serious. Now a relationship became serious. I got married, knowing Art would want me to be happy, but also wondering what he would think as I moved on. I gave birth to two amazing children. I got divorced. I started a career, and then a non-profit. I help others.
Today, after the funeral of my friend’s dad, and Art’s brother, the pain, the loss, feels fresh. I went on a walk and wondered if this is what life is. But as soon as I whispered the thought to God, I knew it wasn’t true. I was reminded that God comforts us.
When Art passed away, someone found a picture of him standing in front of the university chapel, with the words “Lo, I will always be with you” (Matthew 28:20) inscribed on the wall. Those words comforted me for a long time, as I believed that Art was looking down on us and I’d see him again someday.
Many years later, when I read the Bible, I saw that Jesus said those words. After Jesus rose from the dead and talked with the disciples, he ended by reminding them that He would always be with them.
Have I healed from the loss? I read through the stages of grief – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I’ve walked through them all. I’ve accepted that I won’t see Art again this side of heaven. I’m thankful to have met and loved someone who loved and supported me. I’ve experienced much joy in the years since he died. Occasionally, I still think of and miss him.
But as I read through the stages, I realize they end with acceptance. It doesn’t say ‘whole’ or ‘healed’. I think that is healing; we’ll always carry a piece of someone we love with us. There will be moments and occasionally days when we miss them and wish they weren’t gone. But we move forward, changed by the experience, but not broken.
When the moments of missing him come, I’m thankful for friends who hold my hand, talk, or cry with me. And I’m grateful I love and try to follow a big God. A God who holds my hand and comforts me, who reminds me I’m not alone, who reminds me to draw near to Him.
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