Where Are We Now?

I’m starting with all my cards on the table. Today, Friday, March 3, 2023, is the first time I’ve returned and read through these pages since I wrote them in late winter/early spring 2021. I should have reviewed them sooner to identify and fix some glaring writing errors, sorry. I have been thinking about writing a reflection now that more time has passed and Phil’s death is less raw, but I have also been avoiding these pages. I have not desired to relive the memories or fully reflect on my mental and emotional state of that time. But avoidance isn’t a permanent solution.

You may question, “Why did I write in the first place if I was just going to ignore it, like it wasn’t there?” There were several small reasons for writing that eventually conglomerated to convincing me to write. The two predominate reasons were to cope and to apologize.

First, it was a coping mechanism. I kept replaying the same memories in my mind in the months following Phil’s death. I kept grieving, fearful my memories of his friendship and the values he stood for would slip away. I kept ruminating on the same regrets. They dwelled in my head, either being the primary thing I thought about, or lurking in the back on my mind and impacting other thoughts. Writing forced me to work through my memories, thoughts, regrets, and grief. I had to process through my anger, resentment, guilt, frustration, and fear to articulate them in writing. I also experienced some freedom by writing about the memories. I no longer felt the heavy burden trying to remember it all.

Second, it was a form of an apology to those around me. I was easily agitated. I was worn down. I felt like a shadow of myself. I know my grief impacted my interactions with family, friends, co-workers, co-leaders, and anyone else in my sphere of social influence. I was frequently aloof and not present with those around me at the time. Writing was a way for me to say, “yeah, I know I’ve been off. But I’m trying to get back.”

My mind begins to race when I reflect on what I’ve learned, and I’m not confident on how to best structure this. I hope these thoughts are communicated in a manner that are organized and simple to track. The remainder of this reflection is divided into sections on grieving, support, and growth.

Grieving

First, the grieving process is unique per person and situation. Proverbs 14:10 says "The heart knows its own bitterness, and no stranger shares its joy." Only yourself and God fully know the emotions you experience. We can know the facts about the experiences of others experience, but we cannot feel their exact emotions. We attempt to describe our emotions, but we are limited in our ability to share emotions. The best authors, poets, and song-writers are those with the ability to effectively and cleverly communicate the depth of an emotion, but these all fall short.

The Kübler-Ross model identifies five stages of grief as people experience traumatic events: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. I experienced all stages during Phil’s battle with cancer and eventual death. For example, I did not go to Phil's visitation in Omaha, and instead only attended the later funeral outside Sioux Falls, South Dakota. There were a couple reasons why I didn't make the short drive to the visitation in town, but it predominantly stemmed from denial. Deep down it felt as if me not going to the visitation wouldn't make his death absolutely true yet. I also knew the Omaha visitation had a much higher likelihood of bumping into former college and high school friends, and I didn't want to see them. I knew they would want to talk with me to learn what Phil had been up to at UNO, but I didn't want to have those conversations. I knew I wouldn't be able to hold myself together once I started reminiscing. So, I avoided the visitation. That is a decision I regret.

My behavior of denial through avoidance was a common trend. In the weeks following the funeral, Phil's dad reached out to us former college roommates of Phil asking if we'd like to talk with him. We had a day and time set up to meet him in Lincoln. However, something popped up close to the date and it had to be rescheduled. I did not put much effort in to find availability for the rescheduled time. In the end, only one of the old roommates were able to go talk with him. Not meeting with Phil's dad in the months after the funeral is another regret. I did not want to have the conversations, but they would have been good in the long run.

However, I spent the most time in the anger and depression stages of the Kübler-Ross model. I was frustrated at Phil for not being more transparent about his condition. I was frustrated at myself for my lack of intentionality to check in and talk with him over his final weeks. It felt like my friends and I failed him by not spending time with him during his last couple weeks. I was frustrated with my poor friendship over the years and the many times I was frustrated with him for reasons that were no longer significant. I was frustrated with God for the apparent unfairness of his death. It felt like a cruel joke for someone to live only six months following graduation before being diagnosed with stage IV cancer. I was frustrated with unanswered prayers. I was frustrated with those around me for a perceived lack of empathy. The frustrations simmered inside for months.

There was also a long period of sitting in depression resigning to the feelings of guilt and regret. My own physical health took a toll in the weeks and months following his death. I lost my appetite and wasn’t eating much. I’ve typically been on the slimmer side, but I dropped 10 pounds in the weeks following his death to reach my lowest weight since sophomore year of high school. There were stretches of very little sleep. I worked on projects obsessively long past midnight, both on weekends and weekdays, as outlets to distract my mind. I’d wake up exhausted, drink a bunch of caffeine throughout the day, and then do it again. I was simply trying to get through the days.

The grief also lingered. I attend a church in Omaha and one Sunday in May 2021 the sermon was on Matthew 7:13-14. The verses are:

13 “Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. 14 But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it."

The pastor opened the sermon by sharing a personal story about attending the funeral of a close college friend in the prior week. This close college friend had passed away after a battle with cancer. He explained how the funeral, while tragic, was still inspiring because the individual had lived their life given to the narrow way referenced in the passage. This person used their time and energy working for a non-profit Christian organization to share the Gospel. The woman's life was well lived by living Jesus' way. The pastor described a woman eerily like Phil. Someone who was so passionate about God and his love for us, that they devoted their time, money, and skills to serve his kingdom. A wonderful person whose life was cut short by cancer. I sat in my seat with tears welling in my eyes once again, trying to hold them back. Then unsuccessfully having them drip from my eyes into the covid-19 facemask. This was 10 months after Phil's death, and a brief, 3-minute story had me in tears again.

I hate crying. I like to think that I have a fairly high pain tolerance and rarely cry. I cried a couple times my sophomore year in high school over the stretch of my grandmother being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and then passing away a couple quick months later. I shed some tears at my grandfather's funeral when he passed away when I was in college. I cried a little while petting my childhood dog before the vets came to put him to sleep. I cried in the locker room and sitting in my car after losing in districts to end my high school and competitive basketball career as a senior in high school. Maybe not the manliest reason for that last one, but I was still heartbroken. But Phil's cancer and death led me to tears in 2020 and 2021 more than any of those prior experiences combined. At home, in the car, during work, at church, even once in a meeting with community ministry co-leaders when I lowered my head, trying to use the brim of my cap to block others from seeing the drops welling in my eyes. I was so frustrated that I couldn't shake the tears.

Some things just strike a nerve. For example, Super Bowl Sunday marks the anniversary of the last time of hanging out in person with Phil. I've kept an internal tally since the last trip. This was year three. It's something in the back of my mind over Super Bowl weekend. The nerve is still there. I cried again while re-reading the first five pages today before writing this reflection as emotions came seeping back. The sorrow is not as fresh, but still exists.

During the anger and depression stages, I also felt what I'm going to call "Replacement Syndrome". I'm confident there's a real, scientific name for my thoughts, but I couldn't find it online, so I'm going with my own name for it. I was wishing that somehow, I could have swapped places with Phil and that I had been the one diagnosed with cancer. Maybe you find that concerning if you think I'm making an implication regarding little self-worth of my own life, but I'm rather emphasizing the value I placed on Phil's. Phil was someone who appeared to have found his life's calling in a noble cause, meanwhile my career goals had been becoming, and continue to become, more unsure. He could have pursued a lucrative financial future with his high natural intelligence and three college degrees, but instead decided to be nearly penniless while working to get a pro-life non-profit organization off the ground. He had a deep love for the not-yet-born and felt a sense of personal obligation to shift opinions, one conversation at a time. He was wise beyond his years and consistently sacrificed personal or material gain for his pillars of faith, family, and friends. He saw the world a bit differently, understanding it as broken but something we should strive to improve. I found it cruel that Phil would die so young before having a chance to fully pursue his mission. It felt like he had lined up at the start of a track race for his cause, only for the starting gun to never fire. The situation felt extremely unfair, and I often wished that I could have swapped places with Phil. I often compared my life to Phil's after his death, and viewed Phil as the better man who therefore should be the one who was still alive.

Support

I think it's a widely accepted truth that it is challenging to support someone grieving. There is no foolproof, surefire way to help someone as they’re in the lowest of lows. Words can feel empty and hollow. Deeds can feel incomplete. It can feel like trying to help someone whose car is broken down on the side of the road with a busted engine by making sure the tires full of air. You're not really hurting, but are you really helping?

I also believe that supporting grieving young adults is especially tricky. Life is difficult. Everyone will have major, life-changing events in their lifetime. Some events will be incredibly positive, and some events will be heartbreakingly negative. Terminal or life-long illnesses are diagnosed. Horrific injuries occur. Parents or parental figures leave or pass away. Significant negative events like these will eventually happen to everyone, it's just a matter of when. Abraham Lincoln once wrote, "In this sad world of ours, sorrow comes to all; and, to the young, it comes with bitterest agony, because it takes them unawares. The older have learned to ever expect it." I think many individuals can reach adulthood without that first major, life-altering negative event. Sure, there are always trials and tribulations in life, but some negatives events hit you differently. Like when your feet have been swept out from underneath you and you're in a bit of a feel fall. It can be challenging for young people to know how to support others if they cannot fully relate to their struggle, or the individual feels like others cannot relate to them in their struggle.

I also did not want to be transparent and honest about my grief. I know that if people had asked me how I was coping, I likely would have lied, given a partial truth (which is just a fancier word for a lie), or just said that I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want to address it for the longest time. It was burden crushing me, but I was not willing to share it with others. I don't think it would've mattered who or how many people told me that I needed to directly address my grief. In retrospect, I needed to reach my breaking point before I would be honest about it. It wasn't a problem with those around me, but a journey I needed to have personally.

Lastly, and I'm predominantly addressing myself right now, but I believe people tend to have a short-term memory. I think people are initially concerned when they learn of a person's hardship and they want to help, but they easily forget about it as the days, weeks, and months pass on. It is easy to think, "They had a rough time a months ago, but I think they're fine now," because wounds heal over time and humanity is apt to bounce back from struggles. Meanwhile, the individual who experienced the hardship is still struggling months later, just as much as they were in the subsequent days. It's tragically easy to forget the struggles others have experienced as time passes. You just don't think about it. Or maybe you do, but you don't want to ask because you worry you'll remind them of their struggle by dredging up the past. Or maybe you're a more aware person than me, which is very likely, and you navigate this well. But my personal experiences are that I tend to forget about other's trials in a shockingly short amount of time. I stop asking about it and assume it's all good in a brief amount of time later. But issues can fester and linger.

With all that said, it's difficult to support someone in deep grief. However, I appreciate everyone who attempted to meet me in my sorrow. Following Phil’s death, I received Facebook messages from old high school friends and former basketball teammates offering to chat. Some of these were from individuals that I had not interacted with since my junior or senior year of high school. A couple of those messages have resonated with me in the years since. The fact that someone that I hadn't interacted with in over six years was willing to chat about the death of a friend was mind-blowing to me. I wouldn’t have reached out to the people I haven’t seen in years if roles were reversed. I left the obligatory 👍 or "thank you" response on most of their messages, but one of my regrets is not later responding to express that their concern meant a lot to me at that time.

I also appreciate all my friends in Omaha that expressed concern or support. I remember having lunch with a pastor who was checking in with me. I remember receiving notes and letters of condolences from friends in my local community, and I still have those letters in a dresser drawer. I remember receiving a Taco Bell gift card from people as their clever way to allude to the Taco Bell runs they knew that my college squad took with Phil. I appreciated the opportunities to hang out with people, so I wasn't sitting around with just me and my thoughts to keep me company.

I organized a care package for Phil towards the beginning of his chemotherapy in Indianapolis. I picked up some cards, a game, a UNO Mavericks beanie, and printed out 100 photos from adventures with Phil over the years. Phil was on a strict diet at the time to keep his Crohn's at bay, so he was drinking slews of smoothies. Therefore smoothie recipes, dad jokes, and words of encouragement were written on the backs of the photos, along with some SpongeBob drawings. I couldn't write this all myself, so I asked my community of young adults from Providence church if they would help, and they graciously obliged. Their assistance in this care package meant more to me than I could express.

One evening during covid-19 lockdowns, there was a "Travel in Google Maps" hangout over a Zoom call with members of the young adult church community. Each person had a turn to walk through a place in Google Maps that meant something to them. For example, Scott walked us through the riveting town of Milford, Nebraska, along with its golf course. Since this was an entirely virtual hangout, I invited Phil to join. Phil was stuck in the cancer clinic at this time. I greatly appreciated how welcoming and friendly everyone was to Phil, even though they had never met him.

Support through grief is difficult, but I am thankful for the attempts from others during that time, big and small.

Growth

I hope this section is more fun and uplifting than the previous sections. Reflecting on areas of growth related to this experience should be mostly positive. This section is composed of two sections: Things I learned from Phil and still appreciated today, and things I learned from grieving.

Things I Learned From Phil

Be radically generous.

Phil was one of the most generous people I've known. I used to poke fun of him for his obvious lack of financial responsibility. He wasn't motivated by the idea of making money. He just wanted enough to get by. He wanted to live a simple life with minimal possessions out somewhere engulfed in natural beauty. He never really worked jobs but would give up his money like it was going out of style. When he paid for something, we would often say, "Thanks Phil's dad," but only semi-jokingly because we never really knew how he could afford it himself.

I once talked with Phil about some of his generous habits and he mentioned that he made space in his budget to do one generous thing a month. His $40,000 challenge grant to the Newman Center while he was in the cancer clinic is the most radical example of his generosity, but he looked for small ways to bless those around him. For example, he might foot the bill at a group dinner, or donating to a worthy cause in need, or get gift cards to give away to the homeless. He liked to switch it up and see whatever opportunity crossed his path each month.

I didn't fully appreciate the generosity then, but his rule has stuck with me, and I've tried to follow his example. Whether it's chipping in for rent, filling up a tank with gas, providing a meal, or contributing to mission trips or GoFundMe drives, I have discovered Phil's rule to be fruitful. It has helped me look for opportunities to be generous in normal, everyday interactions. Phil was generous to the point where he would limit his own financial stability or make his own life less comfortable, knowing that the money he gave away meant that something he personally wanted would have to wait. I'm not sure I'll ever match Phil's unconcern with financial stability, but I think being generous to the point where it makes you uncomfortable is an effective practice to combat greed.

It's okay to be a little foolish.

There's a Tom Hanks movie called Big, where a 12-year-old boy wishes to be an adult and then navigates adulthood while having the perspective of a pre-teen. The innocent immaturity of an adult reminded me of Phil. Like Tom Hanks' character, Phil was perfectly content with being a little childish and appearing a bit foolish. He never outgrew climbing trees just for the sake of climbing them or hopping up on a brick wall to walk it like a tightrope. He wasn't immature in a manner that was rude or offensive, he just treated the world like a playground. You never really knew what to expect from him because he put little value in others' perception of him. I often viewed my life as one big interview, where foolishness would be flagged and come back to haunt me. Being around Phil taught me that a small dose of innocent foolishness can keep you young at heart by training you to look for small sources of joy and adventure around you.

Traditions can be beautiful.

Phil had a weak spot for nostalgia. His favorite movies where Air Bud, An American Tail: Fievel Goes West, and Tarzan. I'd frequently return to the dorm room and find him playing throwback video games, like Tony Hawk or Whirl Tour on the PS2. He had an affinity for things from his childhood. Over time, this pull towards nostalgia developed into an affection for tradition. He became more and more enthralled with traditional Catholicism throughout college. He was a frequent volunteer for mass at the Newman Center. He joined the Knights of Columbus. He would complain about how modern culture is losing its appreciation for tradition, and therefore losing the values those traditions were built around.

Phil's increasingly traditional perspective conflicted with my "new is better" mindset that was ingrained within me. In my mind, traditions had their place, but should be improved to be better or removed if they were irrelevant. I also believed that tradition for the sake of tradition was simply an inability to move on from the past. However, I've come to appreciate the roles that traditions in culture. Traditions are habit forming, shaping our hearts, minds, and bodies. Traditions are communal and can help the community remain rooted in core values. I doubt I'll ever appreciate traditions as much as Phil did, but I am more willing to consider their beauty. I am less likely to consider something outdated simply because it wasn't thought of within the last ten years.

Challenge the status quo.

Challenging the status quo may sound like a contradiction to the previous point but bear with me. Phil was astute to the direction of modern culture. He identified trends in new movies, new TV shows, and new songs, and voiced his displeasure with the values, morals, or norms they portrayed. He detested the individualistic, materialistic, and consumeristic cornerstones of American culture. He challenged why Americans heavily value work and devalue family. He would rather rest than earn a few more dollars. He believed that the nuclear family was unsustainable and that extended family structures were more beneficial for the family, from the young to the old. He replaced his smart phone with a flip phone to limit the grip of technology on his life. He enjoyed conversing with others to challenge their perspectives and to make them aware of the cultural current in which we all swim. I appreciate how Phil swam against the current when his surroundings did not align with his values. His actions were reminders to me that going with the flow could eventually lead to places where I didn't want to be.

Your values are only valuable if you live them out.

Many people talk a big game but are unable to back it up. Phil was not one of those people. His values of faith and family heightened during our college years. He made consistent decisions to keep those values at the forefront of his life, many of which look seemingly head-scratching from an outsider’s perspective. Between his golf scholarship and academic scholarships, Phil was making money going to college his freshman year. He left the golf team as a sophomore after losing passion with the sport and not deeming the heavy time requirement as being worth it to continue playing. Following his sophomore year, he gave up an academic scholarship to dedicate more time to his Catholic faith. A stipulation for the scholarship was requiring recipients to live in a specific dorm building for the first three years. However, the St. John Paul II Newman Center had just finished construction next to UNO’s campus. Phil decided to give up the scholarship, which provided free housing, so he could instead go pay to live at the new Newman Center. He considered the financial losses worth the opportunity to establish the culture in the predominantly Catholic Newman Center.

He became involved with pro-life movements throughout college, and this cause grew heavy on his mind. He had a heart for the unborn and was heartbroken by abortions. He eventually combined his passions for pro-life and debate by leading an Abortion Dialog Academy club on campus, which equipped students to have pro-life conversations. This was a very small organization, and Phil had dreams of planting more chapters in universities across the Midwest. Phil was one of the most naturally intelligent people I've known, and easily completed his three degrees in Spanish, Computer Science, and Mathematics in five years. However, his passion was with the Abortion Dialog Academy, and his plan after graduation was to work with the non-profit to get it off the ground. He was well aware that working for a minuscule non-profit was borderline volunteering and that he would be earning very little income. But, he once again considered the pro-life cause as being more valuable than his financial stability. Time and time again, Phil sacrificed his own comfort and stability for causes that aligned with the values he passionately spoke about. Actions speak louder than words. But actions with words are even louder still.

Things I Learned Grieving His Death

Shared Grief

First, I learned that you never know how sharing your experiences will impact those around you. I'm thankful that sharing my experiences in these pages helped give my friend Sam Walton confidence to write and share her experiences in her memoir, Small Joys, Big Inconveniences: A Memoir Of Living While Wishing It Was The Other Way Around. Her book planted the seed in my mind that I should write this reflection. Grief is tricky and can feel isolating in young adulthood. It can be comforting to know you're not entirely alone processing through the grief and knowing that someone else is trying to handle similar emotions.

Unknown Impacts

Second, I found it amazing that God provided people for me when I needed it the most. On the day I received the response from Phil's dad that Phil would likely pass away soon, I then went to walk the frisbee golf course at Seymour Smith park and I bumped into a friend there. It was a friend from college that I rarely saw anymore. This was the middle of the day on a workday, so the park was almost entirely deserted. But crazily, right when I started walking the first couple holes, I saw the figure of the college friend. We talked a little. I asked him what brought him to the park, and he explained that he and some friends had used the course as a makeshift footgolf course the prior day, but had lost a soccer ball in a creek and hadn't found it before it got dark. So, he was back to search for it again. He returned the question, and I mentioned that I came to the park when I got word that a former roommate's health was in serious condition, and I was walking the course since we had spent so much time there. I left the details vague. He eventually found the soccer ball, we said farewell, and went on our way. I don't think he knows how much comfort it brought me to see a friendly face in the park that day. To him, it was just a bothersome drive across town to find a lost soccer ball. But I think there's a beauty in that. There's a beauty in how inconveniences in your life can positively impact someone else without you even realizing it.

Faking It

Third, you never truly know how someone is doing mentally and emotionally. Proverbs 14:13 says, "Even in laughter the heart may ache, and the end of joy may be grief." I don't think many people around me knew the extent to which I was struggling as the months dragged on. Or if they did, it wasn't questioned. I would be smiling, making jokes, and sending lighthearted emails, but these were often attempts for me to amuse myself through a distraction. But distractions are temporary. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow once wrote, "Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad." Occasionally prodding your friends to check in with them can be a good habit, even if all seems well.

Opening Up

Fourth, I think I have become a bit more open to people following these experiences. I prided myself in being someone who was easy to be around, but difficult to know. That might sound like a weird target, but it was my vibe. I tried to divert questions about myself back to other people and share very little information about myself. One of my college roommates didn't learn I had multiple siblings until after we'd been friends for several years. I didn't enjoy opening up.

However, I think this has changed a bit. In the years since Phil's death, I remember shooting baskets in Citylight Lincoln's basketball gym very late one Sunday night with a longtime college friend. We were talking about our lives and experiences growing up. At one point between shots, he looks at me and says, "Dude, what changed? You never used to talk about this." I thought for a second or two and responded, "Phil's death." Phil was skilled in having meaningful conversations with people, and it as partly due to his willingness to be honest and transparent about his life. I was a closed book and would rarely divulge personal information. I regret not engaging with Phil's conversations due to being unwilling to discuss my own trials and tribulations. I regret not having more conversations about the heavy stuff with Phil when his health was deteriorating. I regret how crushed I felt before I was willing to share about my struggles grieving. The Roman poet Ovid wrote, "Suppressed grief suffocates, it rages within the breast, and is forced to multiply its strength." My experience echoes his statement. I still struggle with opening up, but I believe there has been growth. I even went back through the previously written pages of this journey and added details to some parts.

Appreciate The Moments

Fifth, I've gained an extra appreciation for the time you have with friends. Phil was six months out of college when diagnosed with stage IV cancer. He was supposed to be in the prime of his life. He was supposed to be on the dawn of a long career. Instead, his physical body now rests in a cemetery in rural South Dakota. It's easy to assume the people around you will always be there, especially young adults. But that's not the case. People move to different cities, to different states. People grow apart. People pass away. So, value the moments with people here and now because you don't know when those moments will cease.

One way this plays out in my life is by frequently making the 45-minute drive to Lincoln late on Sunday nights to play 4-on-4 basketball in a small church gym. My reason for the trek is partially because I enjoy playing basketball, but predominantly because it's an opportunity see a man whose friendship dates to our freshman year of college. We played hours and hours of basketball with and against each other at the UNO recreation center. We were Insanity workout buddies our senior year spring semester. We played so many games - Super Smash Brothers, Spicy Uno, real life fortnight - and had many foolish adventures in the dorms. We co-led a Bible study our senior year. But we now live in different cities and are in different stages in life. He's married with children and I'm not. Sunday night basketball in Lincoln is a chance to still hang out, to catch up once the games wrap up, to make the occasional trip to Taco Bell or DeLeon's for breakfast burritos afterwards. I know that these evenings will not continue forever as we both get older, so getting back to Omaha after 1 AM and starting the week with a little sleep deprivation doesn't feel so bad.

I think that maintaining a perspective that all the moments with your friends will cease someday brings value to the dull moments. The moments where you're waiting to pick someone up from the airport. The moments where you're dragging yourself out of bed before the sun is up to meet others for coffee. The moments when you're driving back from Kansas City very early or very late because you tried maximizing your time with friends before returning home. I have found it difficult to hold a bad attitude about inconveniences like those when I remember the value of moments spent with friends. Hanging out with other people stops being dependent on the activities, but more about the people there. People stop being a mean towards an end, but the end themselves. I regret the times when I considered inconveniences too great when Phil wanted to hang out or asked for help. Or the times I’d choose sleep rather than catching up while playing games. Time is precious and there is value in the mundane moments, but I couldn't always see it.

Perspective & Empathy

Finally, grieving Phil's death has given me some perspective and empathy to others going through traumatic events. I believe that I am less anxious and less easily aggravated because, to put it bluntly, the sources are not "life or death" situations. Inconveniences, like a car battery dying, or air conditioning sputtering, or sitting in standstill rush hour traffic, or shooting terribly in a basketball game, can be frustrating, but have small or no impact on the long run. Broken items can get fixed, dirtied clothing can be washed, and lost possessions can be replaced. But people are unique and irreplaceable and the moments with them cannot be replicated.

Last, I have greater empathy for those experiencing tragedy, especially friends. Even though I can never truly know the emotions that other people are processing, I can more easily relate to their trials, and I am more willing to find ways to support them. This has looked like bringing snacks or Jimmy's Egg breakfasts to friends in a hospital. Or texting a friend, "The front door is unlocked and there are pillows and blankets in the living room if you want to sleep on a couch," and then waking up the next morning to find him asleep there after hospital guest restrictions forced him from the hospital in the middle of the night. Or staying up past 2 AM playing board games with friends on consecutive work nights because games provide a mental and emotional reprieve from despair in hopeless situations. I've experienced those nights when you can't sleep while your mind is racked with grief. I've experienced those days when you're just searching for distractions. I've experienced those moments doubting the goodness of a sovereign God. When someone is going through those experiences, sometimes the best we can do is to simply sit with them in their grief. But sometimes that is all that's needed in the moment.