How Familiar

Today Grandma Lynne stopped by the paint shop. She brought Mark a bag of photos. Now, when I say a bag, I don’t mean a Ziploc. It’s a shopping bag and it’s heavy. Merry Christmas to me! There is nothing I love more than old photos, and I knew these photos would be extra special. I, likely, had never seen most of them before. Many are from Hunter’s early childhood, ages 0-5.

Of course I had to take a break from regularly scheduled work to analyze the archives, and oh, boy did they deliver! My expectations were exceeded…

…until my brain short circuited. I was expecting Hunter’s baptism photos. I wasn’t expecting, in the words of TSwift, “crucial evidence I didn’t imagine the whole thing, I’m sure.”

When we wrote Twelve Days of Grieving, the final essay was titled, Silver Bells, Silver Linings. It hasn’t made it’s way onto this version of my website because it’s one of the hardest things for me to read, let alone share. I have a tendency to reserve certain memories in my heart, saving them for myself unjaded and unchanged. These are memories so critical to my psyche that it almost feels sacrilegious to diminish them to words on a page.

But today, today this memory gets to be free. Because as it turns out, it isn’t just in my head; it isn’t just my memory.

In the essay, I wrote about seeing Hunter’s biological mother, Melissa, from a bus window. I remembered her kissing his head. I remembered him bopping up the bus steps. I also remember Missy was in her wheelchair, scarf around her head, mere weeks from being admitted to hospice. I remember feeling like I was watching a ghost—haunted by something I couldn’t make sense of as a little kid. (That’s probably why a scene out a bus window is etched into my brain in the first place.)

But the human mind is fallible. I always knew there was a chance I was mis-remembering my memory. Turns out, I was. Kind of. Missy and Hunter weren’t alone. Someone else was there. Someone else was standing on the sidewalk. Someone else was watching Missy watching Hunter. And she took pictures.

So, without further ado, I present to you Silver Bells, Silver Linings. I didn’t imagine the whole thing, I’m sure.

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Silver Bells, Silver Linings

Written for the Hunter E. Boss Foundation

We have covered a lot of topics in twelve days. The good, the bad, the ugly. The hopeful, the sad, the bizarre. But we haven’t covered, perhaps, the most important part of the grief journey: silver linings (the kind that don’t necessarily happen for a reason). What keeps you going when life is this bad? What does God offer us as a relief from the nagging torment of grief? A brilliant sense of humor.

God didn’t create us to recognize silliness, laughter, irony, and joy by accident; He gave us humor because sometimes life is so weird all you can do is laugh.

I started this series comparing grief to the movie Little Women. Little Women is the story of a family battling against adversity—war, poverty, sickness, death—and continuing forward. The March family seems to seamlessly move through obstacles with perfectly calibrated grace. 

Louisa May Alcott was not quite as cheery with her characters. Jo March, the book character, isn’t quite the positive, spirited, American girl Columbia Pictures made her out to be. She was snarky, sassy, and a little too much sometimes…

“I felt angry at first, and then I didn't care…I hate ordinary people!”

"I’ll try and be what he loves to call me, 'a little woman,' and not be rough and wild; but do my duty here instead of wanting to be somewhere else."

Jo constantly works to balance her wild spirit with societal expectations. Her mouthiness gets her into trouble, but her wit gives her personality. She faces hardship, but she remains (somewhat sarcastically) hopeful for her future. Jo March, as Alcott wrote her, is one of my favorite literary characters, and Little Women is one of my favorite books.

I only own one copy of Little Women. It’s the only copy I want; it’s the only copy that means something to me. The copy I own belonged to Melissa Stehouwer. I didn’t know Melissa, I never even asked her if I could have her book. And yet, it’s mine. 

Melissa Stehouwer went to West Side Christian School. She lived around the corner from where my dad, Greg, grew up. Missy rode horses with my Aunt Betsy. My Aunt Betsy was classmates at West Side Christian with a boy named Mark Boss. Mark and Missy went to the same church as young adults. They got married.

Missy tragically died of cancer when she was in her thirties. I remember the day she died. I remember the day of her funeral. My family, after all, knew the Boss’ and Stehouwers (Dutch Bingo is a semi-competitive sport around here). I remember my mom telling me, “You know that little boy who rides your bus? His mom died. You should check in on him.” I was eleven. The boy was five. I had no clue what I was supposed to offer, but I tried to be a ‘little woman’ and fulfill my duties as such. I obeyed my mother and attempted to be friends with that little boy. 

Shockingly, we didn’t become BFFs on the bus ride to school. He made it clear he’d rather sit with his friend BJ. Fine by me, I’d rather sit with Alyssa, Laurel, and Megan, anyway. Oh well, I thought, at least I tried.

A year later my mom started dating that little boy’s dad. When they got married, a 1955 edition of Little Women was moved from the home Missy, Mark, and Hunter shared into the home Mark, Betsy, Tyler, Hunter, and I shared. It sat on our bookshelf until I unassumingly reached for it when I was fifteen. I asked Mark and Hunter if they minded if I read it. Hunter said go ahead. Mark said Missy would love that. So I read it. And I kept it.

Josephine March was written by Louisa May Alcott, but she was made real to me thanks to Melissa Stehouwer—a sassy, blunt, little-too-much, middle child who did things her own way. 

I didn’t know Missy, but I saw her in real life once. From the window of the bus while I was sitting next to Alyssa, I watched Missy kiss her blonde haired son on the cheek before he energetically bopped up the bus steps. 

I was sitting next to Alyssa. 

Watching Missy kiss Hunter’s cheek. 

On my way to West Side Christian School.

Years before he would become my brother. 

Before Missy’s beloved items would live in my home. 

Before life handed all of us a metric ton of plot twists. 

Before my family is what I know it to be.

Before I owned a copy of Little Women. 

Even in horrible circumstances, there is something sincerely funny when reality out dramatizes fiction. Of course I have Missy’s Little Women. Because why wouldn’t I? It’s a story about family. About life after loss. About muddling through adversity with a little attitude. About writing it all down. 

How familiar.

I don’t, and maybe never will, subscribe to the idea that everything happens for a reason. I do, however, firmly believe our God is committed to throwbacks, winks, and making convoluted circumstances intentionally intertwined. After all, what did West Side Christian teach us if we don’t know The Big Story: creation, fall, redemption, restoration. Full circles. Silver linings. Sense of humor. Irony in its purest form. Goodness. Wholeness. How perfectly ridiculous!

Life is pain, grief will come, hardship is inevitable. Through it all, the Great Author is orchestrating sentiments, details, and themes, weaving them into a living, breathing, narrative of outrageous circumstances. There might not be a reason for our suffering, but it’s never hollow suffering. God pours grace, love, and mercy on our sorrow. His personalization is second to none. His inside jokes are elite status. His puzzle pieces always fit together. And, sometimes, in our darkest hour, his greatest gift is a wink of levity. And I, for one, appreciate it.

“I do think that families are the most beautiful things in all the world!”

- Josephine March, Little Women

To God be the glory forever and ever. Amen.