Today a dear friend passed away after a valiant battle in the war that is ALS. I was introduced to this man as Dr. Miller, my high school principal. But he became just "Nick" throughout the years as he was a worship leader at my church, the father of a close friend, and generally an edifying person in my life. 

My senior year of high school was a disaster for me. A complication with my long-standing heart condition rendered me bed-ridden for the first 10 weeks of my final semester. My attendance was sporadic the remaining two months of school as I recovered. If it weren't for my amazing teachers and principal, I would not have graduated. No amount of hard work on my part could have accomplished all I needed to do had they not banded together for me. I consider that success a team effort and a testament to my school. As I carefully climbed the platform steps on graduation day (I'd only been able to walk steadily at this point for just over a month), I approached Dr. Miller beaming with pride, excitement, and relief. He clasped my hand and said, "Congratulations! I'm so proud of you. I knew you could do it."

About a year and a half after that precious moment, I found out I was pregnant. Though I will never refer to my son as an accident, the circumstances were definitely unplanned and were a shock to many, including myself. Firstly, I was a bright and intelligent young woman and didn't exactly think it was a wise career move to get pregnant in my freshman year of architecture school. Secondly, my doctors had warned me my heart might not survive pregnancy and delivery. But most importantly, I am and always have been a Christ-follower and this situation was a moral lapse for me. I never turned my back on God or anything, but we all deal with different struggles and weaknesses and the relationship I had been in for half my life was mine. No one was more disappointed in my trespasses than me, though some people surely competed.

I had been an active church member and youth mentor. So I wrote home to several friends and teens that were still in my youth group to break the news myself. I asked for understanding and forgiveness and was surprised to receive it from some people I didn't anticipate. I was also surprised when the one person I especially expected grace from declared how "devastated" they were, and how I had shaken their own beliefs by this immense disappointment in someone they so looked up to. Whew... I can see this with better perspective now, but at the time, it was a knife to the heart.

I returned to my home country from studying overseas to have the baby there. I was just in time to attend graduation at my old high school two full years after my own moment of pride. I questioned going but had friends graduating whom I wanted to support. So I approached the gymnasium in the parking lot, adjusting my maternity dress over my uncomfortable 6-month belly and contemplating my swollen ankles and serious case of pregnancy face (yes, that is a real thing!). I didn't feel very confident, but just as I was about to walk in anyway, an old teacher saw me. She greeted me cheerily and seeing my tattle-tale belly, asked when I'd gotten married with a quizzical expression, no doubt related to my young age. I sheepishly said I was not married to which she replied curtly, "Oh," followed pass-remarkably by, "How disappointing, I expected better from you," before she swiftly left me in the dust without another word. I removed the knife from my heart once more and proceeded to the ceremony with my head held high in feigned pride, where I was met with further looks, questions, and whispers.

I finally mustered up the courage to attend my home church soon after. I had grown up in this church and it was filled with 'aunts' and 'uncles' who knew me better than my own blood relations. Ideally, Christians are meant to understand the need for grace and forgiveness better than most, having humbly received it themselves. And I'm proud to say that many in my community showed me unconditional love and support that went above and beyond. But I had had enough rejection and judgement to make me wary of entering that building, unsure of what reaction awaited me. As my belly led the way, I waddled in, alone and preparing myself for faces of shock and confusion. But instead, the first faces I ran smack-dab into that morning were those of Nick and his wife, Alison. They approached me with their arms around each other with huge, effortless smiles. Beaming with joy, they welcomed me into their embrace and proceeded to say the one thing I had yet to hear throughout this entire experience, "Congratulations!" Then they said they were so excited for me, that they were sure my little one would be a real blessing, and that they knew I'd make a good mother, clasping my hands with a squeeze for encouragement. What's more, there wasn't a hint of pity, insincerity, or disappointment on their faces. Wow...

See, I was well aware of the connotations of my situation. I was aware that my future had been altered; that difficulty lay ahead. I was aware that this was unexpected for my character and that my life would forever face consequences. But I was also aware that not all of those consequences would be bad. One major thing, in fact, would be splendid: my son. I was already aware that I loved him and I was acutely aware that the mourning period for a life that never would be needed to be over to accommodate the life that lay ahead, both for him and for me. People expected me to keep reliving my story and my shame. They wanted my repeated explanations, justifications, and apologies every time it was fresh for them. But I had lived every minute of it and was prepared to be proud of myself again. I couldn't linger in the loss and grief. I was prepared to welcome my son knowing that my shame was not his, my mistakes were not his, and he was and always would be my first-born child. He deserved to be celebrated.

What Nick and Alison did was see past the tragedy and the circumstances to the core truth- that this was a blessing. This was a life. This was a celebration. They congratulated me first on the proudest feat of my life: motherhood. And that simple word spoken over me made me feel less alone and gave me the strength to go take my seat that day with pride that was not feigned, but flowed from deep within and would continue to do so.

The last time I saw Nick was a few years later when I was the mother of a beautiful toddler. It was to say goodbye when he and his wife moved from my home country onto another adventure. I hugged him and said I would miss them. And he looked down on me with that towering, paternal height and in his classic, nonchalant way said, "You're going to be fine. You're a smart girl, you've handled yourself well. I know you're going to do great, do you know that?" I think I answered with some joke to relieve the moment because, for me, there was nothing nonchalant about that kind of affirmation. And I couldn't quite express to him how much it meant to me.

Now, here we are in tragic circumstances where loss and grief abounds. And this is indeed a tragedy that I will not undermine as I sit here with tears and sadness as my company. But I will do what he did for me and see past the circumstances to the core truth and say:

Congratulations, Nick! You have run the race and received the prize for a life well-led, and a legacy left behind. You now get to be with the Lord, whom you served well, and live in freedom and health. I celebrate your life and the effect it had on me and mine. Thank you for the love and grace and example. And know that, until we meet again, we will live out our days on earth with a little added strength because you were here. 

...And I bet you're gracing the heavenly hosts with your mad guitar skills. We love you. We miss you. And we will remember you. Thank you.