A couple of months ago, I was doing my final sweep of my dad's house, making sure that I hadn't forgotten anything. A big move makes you forget the conveniences of email, Fedex and UPS (I don't think I need to speak on why I'm leaving USPS out of this list). In those moments, we feel a deep stress and need to identify and claim everything we need to take with us. My frenetic quest to claim all things Clint took me to the basket on the top of the refrigerator. In my family's home, the basket has two layers. On top are the prescriptions. For many years now, my little brother has consumed a potpourri of pills regulating his seizures and his behavior. If we had this basket at our old home, surely this is where my mother's sometimes potent cocktails of drugs designed to fight her leukemia would have resided. The second layer in this basket is comprised of various oddities and items we no longer think about or need. It was here that I found something that made me slow down and reduced the insignificance of being sure that I had gathered all of my things.
I very nearly dismissed it. The girly handwriting bordered on portraying the writer as juvenile at first glance, but as it came into better focus, it communicated more of an innocence. As I looked for another moment, it's contents engulfed me. It was a list of recommended natural supplements to aid in dealing with cancer and chemotherapy. The contrast between the handwriting and the contents was disquieting. It felt incredibly unjust that a young woman who possessed this handwriting also possessed such a deep knowledge of an insidious, destructive disease.
Allie Frymoyer was an intern with HOPE two summers ago. I remember the day standing in HOPE's kitchen, a common meeting place, discussing my mother's sickness. Right now, I can't recall the exact circumstances, I think I have willfully forced bits and pieces of my mother's physical degradation out of my heart and mind. We talked about how my mother was going through treatment. Allie asked pointed questions about my mother's process and condition. She spoke with the kind of care that only a deeply compassionate person who had experienced the same level of suffering could communicate. I remember her smiling sweetly during some of the difficult conversation. Her facial expressions showed the same sort of defiance toward the subject matter that her handwriting did in the note I found on my desk the next day, accompanied by her favorite vitamin fortified juice which helped her through her chemo. I was taken by her thoughtfulness and also by the fact that an unpaid college intern would find room in her budget to give a $6 bottle of juice away.
Another day, Allie and I were talking over lunch. The subject was engagement. I had recently bought a ring and was preparing to propose, she had just gotten engaged. I wanted as brief an engagement as possible, I was ready to be married. Conversely, Allie was looking toward a year long engagement. I really don't know much about the intricacies of Allie's life at the time, but I do know that she was still sick. She would miss days at HOPE from time to time and I think was even admitted to the hospital at one point during the summer. The idea that she would want to take her time and have a normal if not extended engagement was odd to me. Although her sickness loomed, she was in no rush to claim what was hers in this earthly life. Again, she had a peace about her that completely betrayed her circumstance.
Allie was at peace with her sickness. It was through her acceptance of it's physical existence that she was able to reject much of it's emotional and psychological impact. Allie remained fresh when she could have been jaded. She lived in and made the most of the moments she was given rather than rushing to or hoping for better ones. She cared for my mother, whom she never met. Allie's presence and actions communicated a deep, abiding peace.
I woke up this morning, rolled over and grabbed my phone to do the typical email/text check. Mixed in with a number of other messages, was a brief email informing HOPE staff of Allie's passing. Since my mother passed last year, I don't cry much. My theory is that my emotions just got overloaded and kind of stopped responding. When I read this message, I immediately felt the old but familiar sensation of warm tears running down my face. When I weep for people like my mother and Allie passing, I don't cry for them. I cry because it feels a travesty that this world should be denied the presence of people like Allie Frymoyer and Sandy Barnes.
Allie, thank you for pulling these tears out of me. Thank you for a smile and a handwritten note that stood in stark but quiet and humble defiance of the worst this world has to offer. Thank you for showing what Hope in God truly looks like. It's my prayer that in the wake of losing you, your defiant peace will resonate in our hearts and bring us to a similar place.
I very nearly dismissed it. The girly handwriting bordered on portraying the writer as juvenile at first glance, but as it came into better focus, it communicated more of an innocence. As I looked for another moment, it's contents engulfed me. It was a list of recommended natural supplements to aid in dealing with cancer and chemotherapy. The contrast between the handwriting and the contents was disquieting. It felt incredibly unjust that a young woman who possessed this handwriting also possessed such a deep knowledge of an insidious, destructive disease.
Allie Frymoyer was an intern with HOPE two summers ago. I remember the day standing in HOPE's kitchen, a common meeting place, discussing my mother's sickness. Right now, I can't recall the exact circumstances, I think I have willfully forced bits and pieces of my mother's physical degradation out of my heart and mind. We talked about how my mother was going through treatment. Allie asked pointed questions about my mother's process and condition. She spoke with the kind of care that only a deeply compassionate person who had experienced the same level of suffering could communicate. I remember her smiling sweetly during some of the difficult conversation. Her facial expressions showed the same sort of defiance toward the subject matter that her handwriting did in the note I found on my desk the next day, accompanied by her favorite vitamin fortified juice which helped her through her chemo. I was taken by her thoughtfulness and also by the fact that an unpaid college intern would find room in her budget to give a $6 bottle of juice away.
Another day, Allie and I were talking over lunch. The subject was engagement. I had recently bought a ring and was preparing to propose, she had just gotten engaged. I wanted as brief an engagement as possible, I was ready to be married. Conversely, Allie was looking toward a year long engagement. I really don't know much about the intricacies of Allie's life at the time, but I do know that she was still sick. She would miss days at HOPE from time to time and I think was even admitted to the hospital at one point during the summer. The idea that she would want to take her time and have a normal if not extended engagement was odd to me. Although her sickness loomed, she was in no rush to claim what was hers in this earthly life. Again, she had a peace about her that completely betrayed her circumstance.
Allie was at peace with her sickness. It was through her acceptance of it's physical existence that she was able to reject much of it's emotional and psychological impact. Allie remained fresh when she could have been jaded. She lived in and made the most of the moments she was given rather than rushing to or hoping for better ones. She cared for my mother, whom she never met. Allie's presence and actions communicated a deep, abiding peace.
I woke up this morning, rolled over and grabbed my phone to do the typical email/text check. Mixed in with a number of other messages, was a brief email informing HOPE staff of Allie's passing. Since my mother passed last year, I don't cry much. My theory is that my emotions just got overloaded and kind of stopped responding. When I read this message, I immediately felt the old but familiar sensation of warm tears running down my face. When I weep for people like my mother and Allie passing, I don't cry for them. I cry because it feels a travesty that this world should be denied the presence of people like Allie Frymoyer and Sandy Barnes.
Allie, thank you for pulling these tears out of me. Thank you for a smile and a handwritten note that stood in stark but quiet and humble defiance of the worst this world has to offer. Thank you for showing what Hope in God truly looks like. It's my prayer that in the wake of losing you, your defiant peace will resonate in our hearts and bring us to a similar place.
No comments:
Post a Comment