IMPACT I was getting increasingly

IMPACT

I was getting increasingly uncomfortable at the funeral.

Nearly the entire high school showed up, and the church sanctuary was getting a bit humid and confining. But that wasn’t why I was squirming. It was because Straw-hat and I were wondering if it was in the room. Yes, morbid, I know. But we’d heard about the force of impact during the car accident. Was that an empty coffin up there, or was her mangled body inside?

During the service, though, you couldn’t help but snap into a somber, honoring and humbled demeanor demanded by the gravity in the room. A 17-year-old girl had died. A girl you knew. A popular girl. A girl you had classes with. Hers was a life full of potential. Suddenly it was extinguished and the potential evaporated.

Like most Christian funerals, hers balanced the fine line between mourning our loss and celebrating heaven’s gain. Tearful declarations of “she’s in a better place” and “God called her home” are true enough, but echoed painfully against the reality and finality of that long wooden box. God has a divine plan, but you can’t help but wonder what it all means at times like that. Thankfully, we’re not granted the privilege or responsibility of knowing. We are charged with living the lives of our choosing, and facing the inevitable each day – either conscious or oblivious of what we cannot change or avoid.

H. was a passenger. The driver, C., survived, but would carry physical and emotional scars for a long time if not forever. The two were out buying decorations for a student council-sponsored Valentine’s dance.

Both girls were in one of my classes. The first school day after the accident, the teacher called roll and started to teach class. The two empty chairs at the table the girls shared was too much to bear, so he took us outside. The early spring sun was warm and inviting, and the grass had already started to turn green in spots. In another class, the teacher chose to believe we should move past the accident by having lots of homework. From that experience, I remember a normally calm and collected girl breaking down in tears under the workload and lambasting the teacher for her methods. We all handle grief in different ways, I guess.

One Friday night about a month from graduation, a bunch of us convened at somebody’s house, regrouped and then drove to Dallas to eat. C. had physically recovered enough to return to school, and she went with us. After a failed attempt at bowling (Friday night without a reservation is a fairy tale), we headed to S.’s house to watch a movie instead. J. was driving, and maybe she didn’t think about the shortest route home ... the one that took us through the intersection where the accident happened.

Those in the car fell quiet when we all realized where we were headed. Not sure why or how, but I started talking about something completely random to C., who sat next to me in the back seat. We chit-chatted before, up to, through and past the intersection. The conversation faded and silence once again prevailed. A mile down the road, C. reached over and squeezed my hand.

Why did I think of H. this morning? Today is no special anniversary for anything related to high school or the accident. To me, she was only a casual friend – a classmate and not much more. Had she lived, it’s unlikely I would have thought of her today. Her life was laid out before her as one destined for blissful normalcy: college, marriage, children, happiness. She might have shown up for our 10-year reunion in 2001, but I may not have sought her out (her husband and kids in tow) to say hi. She would just be one of many other girls from the WHS Class of ‘91 I barely knew and didn’t care about catching up with. What a happy thought that is, really.

Each milestone I reach in my life is one she only dreamed about. Any member of her family on any given day might be thinking about how she was or who she could have been now. Close friends, especially in the years immediately after high school, probably thought of and missed her often. She would be 30 this year (like me) – another unrequited milestone. But God called her home and she’s in a better place.

I occasionally drive through that very intersection on the way to my parents’ house. Sometimes I’ve breezed through it without a care in the world. Other times, I remember the accident and wonder how C. is doing. Then I think about H. Her impact, not necessarily constant, no doubt continues to affect the people who knew her well. Apparently, she also continues to impact those who knew her only a little.