Spaces left behind

Written on May 11th

A few days ago, we learned that a classmate and friend of my youngest nephew had been in a horrific accident.

Our local newspaper detailed what happened based on the ongoing investigation, police press conference, 911 transcripts, and witness accounts.

His friend was walking home from work when he was struck by a vehicle. The driver did not stop to render aid.

I won’t go into the details, but tonight they held his honor walk.

This young man had decided some time ago that if anything ever happened to him, he wanted to be an organ donor. In the middle of unimaginable loss, his decision is now helping save six other lives.

He is not yet 18 years old.

He was one of those kids who naturally became woven into the lives of the people around him. He worked out with my nephew. My mom dropped them off at the gym more than once. He spent time at my sister’s house and crossed paths with our family in ordinary, everyday ways that suddenly feel sacred when you realize there will be no more of them.

When we learned what happened, his mom weighed heavily on my heart.

We were only days away from Mother’s Day.

I’ve found myself praying often for her and for her youngest son. The days immediately following a loss are hard, but the real work of grief often begins in the weeks and months that follow.

It’s in the quiet moments.

The spaces that should be filled but suddenly aren’t.

If you’ve ever lost someone, you know what I mean.

And if you’ve ever known someone who lost a child, then you understand there’s an ache that never fully leaves. Life continues, but something is forever missing from it.

Grief comes in expected waves.

But sometimes it arrives quietly in ordinary moments you never saw coming.

This young man’s funeral is in a few days.

We were already planning to be home because both my nephew and I are graduating this week. There’s already been a flurry of activity and celebration surrounding those milestones, which makes this season feel especially bittersweet.

This loss feels senseless and tragic.

And while almost every fiber of me wants to ask God why, I’ve lived long enough to know that His ways and plans do not always make sense to us. Sometimes there is no answer this side of heaven that fully explains the weight of loss.

But I also know this:

God has a way of bringing beauty from ashes.

I’ve seen His faithfulness in my own seasons of grief.

I’ve experienced His comfort in moments where nothing else could steady me.

Life will never be the same for this family.

But somehow, people learn to carry grief and continue walking forward through life. It looks different for everyone. We all process loss differently, and we all develop ways to cope and survive the spaces it leaves behind.

My family attended the honor walk tonight. My sister said hundreds of people came to honor this young man, his family, and his final act of generosity.

Here is a 16-year-old young man impacting an entire community — not only through his life, but also through his death.

Even now, he is giving others more time.

More moments.

More life.

The last few days have made it difficult to focus or function normally. In quiet moments, my mind returns to this family again and again.

But I’m also reminded how deeply we need one another during seasons like this.

People who sit with us.

Listen to us.

Pray with us.

Let us process out loud.

Let us grieve honestly.

The next few days will probably bring tears, laughter, sorrow, and joy — sometimes all within the same hour.

And I’m learning those things can exist beside one another.

Joy does not diminish grief.

Grief does not erase joy.

They both deserve space.

This season is bittersweet, but I’m grateful.

Grateful that we are capable of grieving at all, because grief is born from love. It exists because someone mattered deeply to us.

Loss never becomes easy.

You simply learn how to carry your world differently after someone is no longer in it.