Love you madly

A few weeks ago mom gave me a ribbon-bound booklet (the word booklet is a link to the book) of some stories and poetry you had written for a project for your 9th grade English teacher. It consisted of various journal entries, poems, and articles that you had written throughout the year. It was bound together by three tiny pieces of pink ribbon and I pictured you meticulously tying them together and then I thought, "You probably stole these from some unsuspecting little girl or a cat's toy or something."

I am not sure what it was entirely what it was that took me so long to finally read it; perhaps I was afraid of what I might find in it. I have spent a lot of time trying to gather the broken pieces of me and shelter what little bit is still intact, but you can’t spend your life running from the pain. So I read it, and I am glad that I did. It was like I was seeing your quirky personality and sarcastic tone come to life again on paper. As I was reading it, I could hear your voice saying the words out loud. At the bottom of some of the entries you added a personal commentary, obviously feeling the need to explain the entry to your teacher. It made reading the poems and stories so bitter sweet; knowing how much thought you put into the project as whole, a project about your uncertain future. Some of the entries were heartbreaking while some I literally had tears rolling down my face. There is something about keeping your personality alive that is intoxicating to me and I feel like these writings truly capture the essence of who you were.

The first line of page one is “before you begin reading though, I have some things to explain to you about me”. You are the only person I have ever known that would need to explain to your readers your insane thoughts. I read that line and thought to myself, “Yeah, ya do, that is the understatement of the year”. You go on to explain that, basically, you are the best writer in the world and by withholding your talent (“gift”) from your audience you were somehow depriving the world of something really important, like oxygen. Ha! It is just so you, to fluff your own tail feathers. You even take the time to thank your humble teacher for projecting you into the depths of your talent. You explain the order and “intensity” of your compositions so that your audience can see your “strategy”. In the true spirit of you, you end the first page with, “Have fun. Be good. And may the force be with you! Love you madly, Chelsea Lynn Kiessling.”

After the introduction, comes what the first entry of your “poems” section, a poem you named “Dear Me-In the Future”. It is a poem about 5 years from now, now being May 21^st, 2008. Obviously, you never made the five year mark, but reading it was softening and peaceful, none the less. I laughed so hard at so many parts of this poem and felt the crushing loneliness in others. It wasn’t until I got to your personal commentary on Dear Me- In the Future that the weight and impact of your death was truly felt.  The last line in your commentary is “I can’t wait to see what comes of me in 5 years!” I almost expected to turn the page and discover that they were blank because I know that you only had a chance to partially fulfill those 5 years. But luckily, the pages were filled with even more of your crazy, cynical, impossible banter.

Your personality seemed to infect the world and everyone in it, and I have all but given up trying to figure out how this could happen to you, but reading something that came straight your own thoughts has given me a new sense of resilience. Whether it is a poem about a pet squirrel, a story about revenge, or a review of the greatest invention in the world, the waffle iron, there will be things that we will stumble across our whole lives that will bring you back into our minds. For the rest of our time here there will be sentiments of you in everything that we do, little reminders of the great impact that you had in our lives.  No matter what, you will remain in our hearts and we will always “love you madly”.

"Brief is life but love is long"

Saturday started out dreary and rainy. I remember sitting at Reagan's Powder Puff Derby this past weekend thinking, as I stared out the open door of the church we were at, watching the torrential downpour going on outside, that I hoped that it cleared up before the memorial at the college that afternoon. 


North Georgia College does a Memorial Retreat every year for students and alumni that had passed throughout the year. It is a tradition that was started because of the school's heavy military affiliation and strong ROTC program. From what I gathered the school began the retreat shortly after 9/11, when, like many other military around the country, many of their students and recent graduates began deploying for the Middle East. It slowly began including alumni of the school and eventually encompassed those students that lost their lives while enrolled at the school. This year, unfortunately, that group included you. 


About an hour before it was time to leave for the memorial, the sun made a glorious, and according to the weather reports for the day, an unexpected appearance. I thought to myself that you probably new that you were being honored that afternoon and so you went to God, and in your sly, persuasive manner, asked that the sun be allowed to come out to warm the day. I was especially thinking about the time that we were talking to Father Scott about getting sponsors for the 5K and you mentioned that  you could persuade any number of sponsors into donating money towards the cause. When Father Scott asked how you proposed to make that happen, you replied, with your most angelic of smiles, "How could anyone say no to this face". And it did prove to be a difficult task to say no to you, even for me at times. 

The memorial was held just off of the drill field, front and center of the memorials themselves. I have been to a lot of memorials and dedications in the last two months for you, but I have to say, this one was the most intriguing of them all. It was, of course, mostly military based, with a distinguished Colonel taking stance as the guest speaker, but perhaps that is what made it so grand in my eyes. They didn't have to add any fallen war heroes to the combat memorial but they added 59 names to the alumni wall and 4 names to the enrolled students wall. Your name was, of course, was one of the four. 


It was strange really. As I sat there surrounding by the grieving families of the three other girls that died that year, there were only two thoughts that went through my mind in the moments during the opening statements of the retreat. The first, which made me giggle to myself, was how you hated receiving lines at funerals because you thought they were depressing and the second was how sorry I felt for the families of the girls that had lost their lives so tragically. As I watched the mother of one of the girls, wearing a blue shirt with the girl's name on it and holding a tissue, sob, uncontrollably, I heard them say your name over the loud speaker. It was in that moment that the reality of the situation rang true once again in my head: I was a part of one of the families sitting in the front two rows and we were here because you were one of those girls. The irony of it all: that while I was feeling sorry for the other families of the deceased girls, the crowd that gathered that day were looking at us thinking how sorry for us they were. 


The speaker asked our families to stand so that we could be recognized by those that had come. I stood proudly for you, but thought to myself, does the crowd really need help identifying the grieving families? Is it really that difficult to spot a mother that has lost their child? Or father that has lost his baby girl? Or a brother or sister that has lost one of their best friends? I thought I could even hear your voice saying, "Really? Hey people! They are the ones with the tears streaming down their faces and boxes of tissues in their laps!" Like I wanted to recognized for being the girl that sister died tragically and suddenly. But I knew in my heart that it was just something that had been done and it wasn't meant in jest.

   

   They added your name, along with the three girls' names before you, to the huge piece of granite that stands to the side of the memorial area. Engraved in the memorial is, "Brief is life, love is long", a quote made famous by the poet Lord Alfred Tennyson. I got curious as to where this quote came from so, you guessed it, I googled it. I laughed when I saw the poem that it came from popped up for reasons I will leave between you and I, because I know that you thought the same thing. It was from his poem "The Princess: O Swallow"". The excerpt that it came from is: 

O Tell her, brief is life but love is long

And brief the sun of summer in the North

And brief the moon of beauty in the South 

    From what I gather it was a poem written by him to a girl in which he asks, nay begs, this swallow  (his first mistake, asking a bird) to go and convince this chic that they were meant for each other and to please give him a chance; that she may lose her chance (darn) to be with him.  Such a guy... I wish I had just left well enough alone because I really had liked that quote. 

    As we were leaving the campus, watching the Corps of Cadets march away, I remembered a tweet of yours that I saw from your first day on North Georgia College's campus. 

    I laughed to myself as I thought of you drooling over those military boys that first day and how fitting it was that you were honored at a military retreat, completely and blissfully surrounded by strapping cadets. I bet you were there but you probably weren't paying a bit of attention to the ceremony...

The Stone of Hope

I was supposed to be working on some homework the other day and I began to zone out because 1) it is too close to the end of the semester to stay focused and 2) I couldn’t imagine anything duller and less stimulating than analyzing the breakdown of the economic market of gasoline. When I began to stare off in space I found myself fingering the tiny opal ring that I gave you for graduation that now hangs from a chain on my neck. I was thinking back to how your obsession with opals seemed to continuously lead you to my bathroom where I kept my opal ring that our grandmother had given me for my graduation and how no matter how many times you got caught, you continuously tried to steal it. So, when it came time for you to toss you cap in the air, I knew exactly what to get you. While yours was not as big of an opal as the one previously given to me, you loved it anyway.

I was remembering last year when sent me a frantic text because the opal had fallen out of your ring and you had just gone to the jewelers where they told you that for a small ($85) fee they would replace the opal. I was on the phone with you listening to you describe the scene as you walked into the jewelers and a sleazy looking man in his 50’s approached you. When asked what he could do for you, you quickly explained about the missing opal. You gave him some general background on the ring: it was a gift from your sister, you had only had it two months, and it was purchased in Gainesville. Upon asking you a some other questions about the ring, like if store insurance had been purchased on the ring, you tactfully replied that you “weren’t really sure, the only thing that I really know about jewelry, is that I like to wear it.” Genius. I had to explain to you that people like the sleazy man in the jewelry shop were not going to give you things for free, regardless of whether it was owed to you, if you came in to the store with little confidence and short shorts on. The salesman had made you for a sucker, and he was right because when it came to negotiation skills, you were lacking (except for with your parents, that is). You were certain that I was not going to have any more luck getting the opal replaced than you were. So I told you to go back to the store and call me back. After telling the salesman (who wasn’t that great at his job) that I had spoken with corporate and that he was obligated to put the ring in a package and send it to their repair center for immediate repair, he obliged and I was once again, correct. I then told you that demanding skills ran in our blood (from maternal grandmother) and that it was something that you would come into on your own time.

The text I received when the opal fell out of your ring

I looked at the ring and the tiny rays of the rainbow sparkling across it along with the memory of your ring debacle got me to thinking why opals were so special to you or what they stood for. Once again, I headed straight for Google.  According to several different articles, opals are considered both the luckiest and unluckiest stone, depending on your upbringing and area of birth. Most often, opals are associated with good fortune, though. The Romans believed that carriers of opals, like rainbows, would have good luck bestowed upon them. They believed that it was the stone of hope and purity and because of its clear complexion it was called the ‘Cupid’s Stone’, after the God of Love. I found this particularly interesting, that opals were considered, by early Greeks, to bring the power of foresight to the owner and ancient Arabians believed that opals were sent from Heaven in flashes of lightening. Since the night you died, I have associated lightening with your death because at about 11:15 that evening, while sewing on the sewing machine in our basement a flash of lightning struck a tree in the front yard, but it was so powerful that it ran the course of wiring in our house and actually shocked me through the small, metal plate that my finger was resting upon on the sewing machine. When we returned from the hospital that morning, we discovered the identity of the lightening’s intended victim. A medium sized tree was splintered and reduced to toothpicks by its vicious attack. The tree had a scorch line that ran the length of its tattered, halved trunk. It was as though someone had dropped a giant stick of TNT into the center of that tree, lite it, and ran. So when read that opals were associated with lightening, it reminded me of the tree and the shock, both physically and emotionally, that I had received that night.

I knew that the opal is the birthstone of October, but as I read further into their background, I discovered that they are also called the stone of hope. They are said to bring comfort, calm, and above all hope to whoever wears it. You were wearing the ring I gave you on a necklace the night that you died, and I can only pray that it brought you tranquility and hope. 

I now wear the ring on a necklace with a music note, every day, and I’m not sure if it is my willpower or the opal set in the tiny ring that I wear, but it seems to bring a tiny ray of hope for our family's future and peace for myself. I like to think that it is the folklore of the opal that brings me that hope.

I started wondering, as I held your little ring between my fingers, when I turned it just the right way, if the tiny rays of all those colors could reach you in heaven and send you all my love with them? Then I thought of how you would probably yell at me for wearing YOUR opal ring, in a voice attempting to mock mine, and I laughed.

Our Opal rings. 

Props to your nasty feet.

Another guest post by Dan Kiessling:

A recent post on Chelsea’s wall by Sara Foskey concerning old worn out flip-flops and Chelsea’s impression on a dirt trail of course prompted memories of Chelsea’s feet.  For some reason, perhaps the flip-flops, she maintained the dirtiest feet that I have ever seen on a woman.  Several instances other than just cleaning out the tub or shower came to mind.

The first and most embarrassing time was years ago at the Savannah Boat show.  As the family made its way down to the in-water area of the show we began seeing very impressive new cruisers, and off-shore vessels.  All were gleaming in the sun and expectant brokers standing by for showing.  It is customary to take your shoes off prior to boarding these types of boats in order to keep the boats clean and not to scuff up the fiberglass.  At the first boat we kicked off our shoes and began to board.  The broker looked down at Chelsea’s feet and we all were so embarrassed by her caked on dirt we picked up our shoes and headed on down the dock to find a hose.  She was able to scrub most of the dirt off, but we did not go back to that particular boat. 

She developed a habit of kicking off whatever her footwear was and placing her feet up on the dash board of my truck, or whatever car she was being driven around in.  Dirty footprints above the glove box were a recurring problem in all of the family’s vehicles.  Armor All did nothing to protect from her feet.

One of my routines was to give her a “hug-up” in the mornings and a “hug-down” with a foot check at night.  Primarily it was to give the last tickle of the day to her toes but occasionally I would have to send her back to the tub to clean her feet.  Somewhere along the line, she began going to bed later than me so the “hug down” and foot checks ceased, but I was still able to get the infrequent “hug ups” .

A couple of years ago, Chelsea and I went to the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival a three day event full of music of every kind imaginable and some that are not.  The venue was New Orleans Fairgrounds Horse Race Track a beloved spot of mine that assisted me in paying my way through college.  It had rained the night before but sunny the first morning.  Walking a mile from parking the car to the Fairgrounds Chelsea of course noticed the Louisiana ladies attire, laughing at the numerous rubber boots.  Everywhere she looked she would point out how stupid that flowered or stripped boot looked with those shorts, skirts or jeans.  She questioned why anyone would ever wear a pair of polka-dot boots.  We finally made it in and one quick circuit around the venue familiarizing ourselves with where the food, beverages, and different music sections were located.

She headed straight for the rap- hopping area and I to the blues tent where I told her she could find me throughout the day.  Whether by design or just bad luck the area she was in was lower in elevation than the rest of the infield and had accumulated the most rain.  That, along with 20,000 people walking, jumping, or dancing around had enhanced the mud factor tremendously.  Sure enough at the end of the day she came strolling around with her sandals on her shoulder and gooey black from her knees down and a smile on her face.  There were no handy hoses to wash it off but she did the best she could on the way back to the car. 

It became evident, once we were in the car that, it was not entirely mud caked around her feet.  After all, the Fairgrounds is a horse track.  We spent three hours shopping that night for a pair of flowered rubber boots for her.  She had joined the fashion set of the Jazz Fest. 

Wearing her boots for the next two days she began spending more and more time with me in the Blues Tent.  Originally, I would ask her to come and hold my seat while I refreshed my Abita beer or got rid of the last ones.  Whenever I would return she had managed to move up a few rows and held better seats until we eventually were front row.  That is when Dr. John made his appearance and she became hooked for the rest of the day on Blues.


As we sat together between acts I exacted a promise from her, for the costs of the boots and probably for breakfast at Brennan’s (her favorite N.O. eating establishment).  I made her promise that when I was old and feeble that she would wheel me in to that tent so I could listen to the Blues for a day with her again.  She won’t make good on all of that promise now, but I expect that if someone else wheels me in,  she will be there with me wearing those boots.

A parakeet in the trunk is worth what?

On my way home from class tonight I was thinking about you and a horrible twinge of pain started to grow in the pit of my stomach. It is strange that at times I can think of you as though you are still living happily in the house a stone’s throw from mine, these are the happier times, and then there are times that I think of you with mournful twinges of the life that you will miss out on; these are the more miserable times.

During class tonight we painstakingly reviewed the breath out of accounting preparing for the impending doom that is our final, for which I gathered no new information nor elevated my brain to higher level of understanding. Once in the car, speeding away, leaving the horrible institution called college in my dust, I began to think about the upcoming finals and how this would have marked a great milestone in your life, the end of your first year of college, and what a wild first year it was. I was thinking about your friends preparing themselves for their finals thus marking the end of their freshman year, how they will begin making plans for summer jobs, vacations, or pure, blissful laziness. I then thought about you will never get that opportunity. That is when the pain began to slowly grow in the very bottom of my chest. I kept thinking that life should come with warning labels, like poison has a skull and cross bones or a creepy neighbor’s house has a “Beware of Dog” sign on the front gate (even though it is really only a Chihuahua). There should be some sort of warning or beware sign that pops up a week or two before tragedy strikes so that we all have time to prepare ourselves for the moment that will ultimately change our lives forever.

I was on route 129 North and passed our old 93 Thompson Trail house and I was remembering a time when you were struck with “tragedy” and you made it known. I am not really sure how we came to be the proud owners of the obnoxious parakeet, I believe a handy man gave it to us after a job he had done, and if you ask me, for that fact mom should have gotten whatever payment she gave him back because we lost on that deal. This had to be the dumbest, most annoying creature that has ever graced the face of earth, and somehow you found a way to love it. So after purchasing a cage and some food for your new found pet of the week (which, I might add, included, not all at once, a squirrel, a turtle, two cats, a dog, and a rabbit), we gladly made him a home in your room (on the opposite side of the house from my own room). You creatively named him Birdy but because, at 9 years old, you still had a speech impediment and could not properly say r’s or double l’s,  his name became “Birwdy”. The rest of the family quickly caught on and lovingly called him “Birwdy” as well because we thought it was so funny but mainly because we always loved to pick on you. Mom would often let Birwdy out during the day to fly around the house while she was there, but one afternoon she forgot to put him back in his cage before running out. When she returned later that day, all that was left of Birwdy was a small piece of what was assumed to be his body and a single feather sticking out of Onyx’s (our black lab) mouth. Later that afternoon when you got home from school Mom explained to you what had happened to Birwdy and the devastation rolled in. In one of your more dramatic moments, you made invitations to Birwdy’s funeral in which all in attendance should dress nicely. During Birwdy’s funeral, everyone gathered around his grave and shoebox and you instructed us to all share our favorite memories of Birwdy. When it got around to Vince, he looked up and, in his reserved tone, said, “My favorite memory of Birwdy is that he is dead”. Hysterics mixed with laughter quickly ensued. This has become something of a legend in our family, one that is told at many family gatherings, and eventually even you laughed along at its telling.

This memory lead into a time not long ago when another parakeet graced you with it's presence for several days. This one, however, was already dead when you got him. Your grandmother’s beloved parakeet passed away from, who knows what because Don (long story), was the only person around when he died. In a moment of grief, your grandmother asked you to take the bird, placed in a box, in a plastic bin, from Atlanta up to Cleveland so that he could be buried next to her cocker spaniel. You cautiously, but graciously, agreed. You just failed to mention that you weren’t due to head back to Cleveland for three more days, so you drove around for almost four days with a dead parakeet in the trunk of your car! When you arrived here for the weekend and told us that you had been driving around with a dead bird in your trunk we, of course, started coming up with bizarre scenarios of how the situation could have played out. You can imagine how that went.

While these memories didn’t erase the ache I felt for you I did manage a good laugh at the thought of you in heaven with Birwdy, in your own bird menagerie, surrounded by a bunch of parakeets and bird poop.

So I guess a parakeet in the trunk is worth a lot to me because it gave me yet another cherished memory of you. 

PB&J's in Nicaragua by Dan Kiessling

This is another guest post by Chelsea's dad, Dan Kiessling:


Being a parent certainly has its moments.The moment a small hand wraps itself around the hand holding a bottle, band aides, first days of school, first loves, sharing sports, laughter and love.  You seldom get to know where it will all lead.  You can try to provide for your child’s physical needs, their education, and help them develop the tools that you know they will require in life.  A good father will be there day or night whenever called.  In some ways it’s a great unknown as to how the child will “turn out” will she bring joy or sorrow.  Will she throw you aside for some hooligan or will she bring you immeasurable joy by placing that first grandchild in your arms.  It is a prolonged gamble, a wager that you may never know whether you win or lose.

A series of “God Gotchas” events lead me to Nicaragua to assist in providing drinking water to remote villages in the Chinandega area of that country with the Amigos for Christ agency.  They provide and assist in numerous areas of relief and development including water, health, education, food, housing, and medical needs of the residents in that area.  My focus was primarily water distribution and water resource development.  The God Gotchas started several years ago at a conference on water with Holly, leading to a chance encounter with Nance Burrell, leading to several other encounters and an alignment of conditions which pushed and shoved me to making the decision on going down there.  After a couple of trips I realized that God’s purpose was for me to apply my minor skills and talents in this endeavor and I assumed my reward was seeing the smiling faces on the residents faces in that part of the world when they finally received clean water to their homes.  Oh how wrong that turned out to be.

Chelsea lived with her mother in Savannah during much of her high school years a time of growth, development, socialization, and maturing in her life.  I was not able to see a lot of her during this time.  Not that she would have wanted me to be around too much anyway.  There is a period where fathers are not the most favorite person to be seen with in public, unless she was shopping for that special prom dress, a car, or she wanted a boat party.  We would talk, but not for long because she always had something else going on in her life.

She did eventually agree to a trip down to Nicaragua one summer.  She bitched from the time we left the house until somewhere flying down over the Yucatan that her I-pod only had 5 gigs or some such.  It was not nearly enough to hold all the songs she “needed”.   She also felt compelled to inform me that last year’s bathing suit was no going to fit her anymore and she would send me a link to the one she absolutely needed.

We arrived on a Sunday, settled in and she was oriented as to the routine at the Amigos for Christ hacienda and what the goals were that week.  It was all new to her and she quickly adapted.  Monday and Tuesday were filled with extreme physical labor, digging (by hand) water line ditches, housing footings, and hauling materials in a small village.  I would occasionally catch a glimpse of her digging, sweating, and loading buckets of gravel, usually with a crowd of children gathered around.  She would take the infrequent break and teach her crowd of followers the hokee-pokee dance or overcome the language barrier with laughter and song.  At lunch she was hungry enough to put aside her aversion of peanut butter sandwiches and eat at least one of the pre-packed meals. 

She had been encouraged to drink a lot of water and to check for hydration.  She must have listened to that advice because she found me late in the day and we discussed toilet options.  She absolutely refused to enter an out-house and there was of course no indoor plumbing or electricity.  We eventually lost her children followers and walked up a ravine and she was able to cop a squat.  We returned late in the evening to the hacienda worn out and wearing a layer or two of the blackest dirt (volcanic ash) you could ever imagine. 

After dinner and a shower they hold a group “devo” which is primarily a debriefing of the day with personal experiences, motivational discussions, and insights discussed between the group members.  I am not a big participant in this function and usually sit near the back and slip out quickly to the street or the bodega  for a cold and often well-deserved cerveza.  I managed to linger long enough to hear her comment on how happy the children in the village were even without all the things we take for granted.

Typically when groups are down, Wednesdays are a work break day.  Most are aching, tired, and starting to get grumpy.  Chelsea was hanging in there and still maintained her smile.  A trip into town to help in a small orphanage (no major physical labor) was planned.  I had been there before and it had confirmed a realization that I had come to, after studying psychology in college that I was not cut out for dealing with institutional children.  The orphanage was just that, a location where severely disabled children, whether by birth defects, disease, or early trauma were maintained and care provided.  The facility was clean and exceptional care was provided by a staff that was entirely undermanned by our standards.  Amigos would be providing the manpower on that day.  Having experienced this before and knowing my shortcomings a local cantina waylaid me on the journey through town.

That night while enjoying my cerveza  on the curb, Chelsea came out of devo with tears streaming down her face.  Being the father that I am, I placed the beer on the sidewalk and followed her down the street.  Placing my arms over her shoulder she confided that she “did not know what God wanted her to do with the kids in the orphanage”.  Many could not respond, many barely spoke, most could not move.  I asked what did she do and she answered that she could only hold one and sing softly and she felt so inadequate.  I let her know that that was exactly what God had wanted her to do and that was her applying the talent that God had given her.  She seemed to accept that and recovered her composure.  I on the other hand found my reward that night.  I now realized who my daughter was, who she would be, and that she was more than anything that I could ever hope for.  The parenting bet had paid off in ways that I could never have hoped. 

I heard no more talk of needing a new I-pod or bathing suits since and she returned home with a taste for peanut butter sandwiches.

Easter and your shameless habits

As I sat, early yesterday morning, in the Memorial Garden at church directly facing the little corner of the garden that we placed your ashes one month ago, sitting on a chair that was wet with condensation and thinking I should have brought a blanket or a small heater, getting ready to begin our Easter service, the first thing that came to mind was, "Geez, Chelsea must be freezing". Then I thought about how appropriate that not only could we share in the Easter service with "you" present but that you had a spot that put you front and center (always trying to upstage everyone...even Jesus) to the entire service. I sat there staring at the little spot of missing grass, thinking about how I should have worn shoes that covered my toes as to keep them from falling off from the bitter cold, when I heard Father Scott talking about Resurrection. This grabbed my attention. He spoke about the story of Jesus's Resurrection and the different versions of the story, but in my head I couldn't help but think about you.

Later that day, at our grandmother's house, a conversation had just barely begun about the going ons of the day up to that point, when mother brought up Father Scott's sermon about Resurrection, in her pain filled voice she told our grandmother how she wished you could be resurrected. This struck a chord with me, but in the chaos of the moment and the recent arrival of more relatives, I tossed it aside.

We had the Easter Egg hunt, as always, but with yet another piece of the puzzle missing. Someone asked who would like to be the lucky person in charge of counting, hiding, and remembering where the eggs were for the kid's hunt and Devin and Austin got volunteered for the job. As I sat on the couch watching them toss the eggs to their respective hiding spaces I thought to myself (and perhaps out loud), "Chelsea always hid the eggs." I thought about how you loved to hide eggs in high up places or in your pocket because you got some kind of sick enjoyment out of outsmarting a bunch of kids under the age of 5.

At one point, we all gathered around the dining room table to celebrate Sophie's 4th birthday, it came to me that she only got less than 4 years with you. I then thought about Kayden and how she will not even remember the sound of your voice or the way that you looked, that we will have to show her pictures of you and point and say, "This is your Aunt Chelsea, she died when you were just a baby." I looked to Reagan, who through this whole ordeal, has been very difficult for me to read (she is like her father in this respect). She has either been very stoic or extremely oblivious. I am leaning more towards the latter. She will most definitely remember you because of the enormous impact you have had on her childhood, I'm just not sure that she realizes that just yet. To all of them, though, the day seemed untouched by your absence, but that is just as it should be, right? I remembered how we used to fight over who was the cooler, better aunt and how I used to yell at you for cheating because you would bribe them with candy (that you took from my house) and toys (that you actually took from their own toy boxes). I think all of the girls got robbed of time with you but I know from Sophie's silly and playful tendencies and Reagan's sarcastic and conniving ways that you definitely left your mark on them.

On the way home that afternoon, after Jared and Reagan had fallen asleep (this seems to be a trend), I started thinking about Mom's comment about resurrection earlier that afternoon. In my conception of resurrection, and I may have this all wrong, you are resurrected everyday. When I wake up in the morning and you are on my mind, when I am walking through the grocery store and see a box of brownies, when a cheesy movie comes on the TV, when I hear a song that we sang to, even in this blog, you are resurrected. Mom and I had a discussion the other day about how people were afraid to say your name or mention a story that had you in it for fear of "upsetting" someone. We talked about how it was important that people keep talking about you, so that you are never forgotten, and that remembering you could never be upsetting. I thought about how every time someone mentioned you, you were resurrected, maybe not physically but in some capacity.

I was thinking yesterday, when Jared and I were surveying Reagan's mass candy reserves that had begun to overflow, about how I never had to worry about candy going to waste because you would shamelessly and happily steal absurd amounts of it from Reagan while she wasn't looking. I sure do miss you not being here to steal Reagan's candy out of her basket, especially after the load she got yesterday. Hopefully there was some kid you could "borrow" (cause I am pretty sure they don't allow stealing in Heaven) some candy from in Heaven.

So Chelsea...

An empty chair and Resurrection Rolls

The emptiness that has surrounded our family since your death was well pronounced and resonated through the house this weekend. We had our "traditional" Good Friday family dinner last night and it just wasn't the same. It wasn't like everyone was sitting around crying or moping but you definitely became the white elephant in the room. It was like no one wanted to say anything about the empty chair or the lack of your voice in the conversation. I guess, for me, it was in the back of my head all week and all day Friday, but it really came to the forefront of my thoughts when, in routine of things, I asked myself out loud, how many plates we needed. It was in that moment, the moment that I reached for some ceramic dishes that I felt depleted and incomplete.

I made a desert that I found on a blog that I follow called "Resurrection Rolls" that are nothing more than a marshmallow rolled in cinnamon and wrapped in a crescent roll. In the blog, though, it says that the marshmallows are supposed to represent Jesus's body being wrapped in garments (cinnamon) and readied for the tomb (crescent roll). Of course, being our family, we found this to be the highlight of our evening and quickly dubbed the delicious desert "The Body of Christ" (you really have to know our family to understand why we are so twisted). In the middle of one of the many puns about the "Body of Christ" someone (perhaps mom) asked, "Can you imagine what Chelsea would say about these". I instantly replied, in a horrible voice animation of you, that you would say something along the lines of, "Holly, that is so inappropriate for you to wrap Jesus's body up and bake it at 350 degrees for 10-12 minutes", or something like, "I felt moved to eat three, the Holy Spirit willed me to."

We held the 1st Annual Resurrection Road Run 5K today and it was a great success. I kept having this flashback moment of a text conversation we had about the potential name of this event. I had told you that we were having trouble finding a good, solid, catchy name for the 5K and you told me that you would think it over, even though I didn't actually ask for your input. You gave it anyway. I found that text today:

. 

It still almost brought me to tears laughing at this when I read it today. I also thought about how you would have, most likely, "run" in it but probably would have complained about the color of the shirts or the fact that it was so early or said that some kid cheated you out of a first place prize and again felt the heaviness of the moment.

We so miss your voice, your presence, and your argumentative spirit at the table. There is no one there to help me make fun of mom (well, not like the way we could) when she does something completely ridiculous, or ask one million times when dinner is going to be ready, or argue some insignificant point with at dinner. The dining room, once a warm, welcoming place to celebrate family, has now become a much smaller room without the sound of your voice and the resonance of your laughter.

Requiescat in Pace.

Your dad went and met, last night, with the young man that sat with you at the scene of your accident. His parents own Caruso's in Dahlonega, which I thought was pretty interesting, considering I had been trying for a year to get you to get a job there. Anyway, he is the kitchen manager there. I am not sure who set up the meeting with who, but he had called your dad the Saturday night after you died wanting to see if you had made it through. Your dad delivered the terrible news to him, for which, I understand, he did not take too well. He was able to recount the events of the previous evening as he remembered them happening, telling your dad of how he was driving down the road through the impending storms when he noticed a crowd gathered at the side of the road over shadowing a large embankment. He told about how when he stopped to see what was going on that the crowd of onlookers seemed to be content standing above your tangled car yelling for you instead of physically checking on you. He said that, without hesitation, he slid down the muddy slope, a good 12+ feet, to your wrecked car. When he noticed the windows smashed out he reached in the vehicle for your hand. He said he debated on whether or not to pull you out. He sat there with your hand in his, talking to you with the hopes that what he saying was permeating through the soft unconsciousness that you had succumbed to. He stayed by your side, even with the threat of serious lightening and tornadoes in the area, patiently waiting for the EMTs to arrive.

When they met face to face, for the first time, last night, your dad said they talked about how there are two types of people in the world: those who see a fire and run away, frantically flailing their arms and screaming for help and then there are those that see a fire and immediately run to the nearest hose and then directly at the flames with the thought they, manned with their extinguishing resource, would be able to take the flaming beast out. This young man, in our eyes, will always be the latter.

He told your dad about how the events of that evening have changed his life forever, that he has been so shaken by the entire incident; that he can't think that he will ever be the same. And to think, that this was no more than a stranger to you, someone who never got the privilege of getting to know your sparkle. He isn't the first I have heard of that had never met you but had been rocked to the core by your presence. There have been many more. And Chelsea, let's not get a big head over that statement.

You know it is funny (or not), that when someone dies, everyone talks about how they hope that they rest in peace or that they can find peace. I was thinking the other day that, really, people should start saying rest in peace to the family, friends, and in your case, perfect strangers, to rest in peace, we are the ones that can't ever seem to find it. I kind of laughed at myself thinking about how the next time someone dies I am going to ask that they family and friends of the deceased "rest in peace". Can you imagine the looks I would get from that one!

Out of curiosity, and because I am a total nerd, I looked up where the term "Rest in Peace" came from. It is a Latin phrase (like everything curious; strange folks, the Latin), "Requiescat in Pace". It apparently came from a Catholic burial prayer in which they prayed for the spirit of the deceased to find peace in the afterlife. The abbreviation RIP was not found on tombstones until the 18th century, and again primarily Catholic graves.

I know you have found (your version of) peace, it is those of us left here without you, like the boy that held your hand that night, that I pray can find peace. 

The Memorial Garden at church where Chelsea's ashes were laid. The
dogwood had just started to bloom. 

Assumptions outside a Huddle House

You've now been gone for 1 whole month. Hard to believe, or even bare to think. Your dad took off for the boat several weeks ago in hopes of fixing it up and selling it. He was successful in half of that endeavor. He returned yesterday. He wrote the following blog about you and wanted to share.

A guest blog post by Dan Kiessling:

I agree with Holly’s realization that thoughts occur of Chelsea considerably while driving.  That is especially true with me and today, returning from Gulf Shores was definitely one of those times.   We traveled many places together and she was my favorite travel companion on land, sea, and air.  I ran into an old boat friend and former marina neighbor last weekend and upon hearing of Chelsea’s passing he immediately recognized a portion of my grief by saying “She was your boat partner wasn’t she?”  That she was and more.

We got on the road late in the day once heading for Gulf Shores, the boat for a few days and on to the New Orleans Jazz Festival.  Like her travels with Holly, there were a lot of volume and music devices argued over and constantly adjusted.  Eventually things were settled and the drive continued on into the evening.  I could never really tell when she napped cramped into the corner of the small Mazda.  Often she would appear that way and then start singing along with the buds planted in her ears and not what I was listening to on the radio. 

 

Eventually late that night it was necessary to stop in Alabama for some gas and food.  Our options were somewhat limited that late at night so I pulled into a small station with a neighboring Huddle House.  It did not appear as though we were in the savory section of the state, but being Alabama, it was hard to tell.  An old black fellow was attached to the outside corner of the station holding court with several other fellows.  It was difficult to tell whether he had spent his life working hard or looking down an MD 20/20 bottle he certainly appeared not to have had an easy life and now seemed to be enjoying himself by holding the attention of his fellows on the corner. 

As I was pumping gas Chelsea unwound herself from the car and went into the restroom.  Sleepy eyed, tussled and of course wearing her too shorts (discussed in one of Holly’s earlier posts).  The conversation on the corner of the building ceased and eyes went from Chelsea to me and back again.  It was easy to imagine the thoughts of those seeing this old man with a young good looking girl late at night.  I am sure “arm candy”, “trophy” and other not so kindly thoughts went through their minds.  I imagine thoughts involving an old man with a large ego problem and larger wallet was probably very evident.

I moved the car to the side lot and we entered the Huddle House and I sat where I could keep an eye on the car and the characters on the corner.  We split the grits and hash-browns, ate our own eggs and I learned much to my pleasure, that my daughter now drank coffee.  Our bantering increased as we drank more caffeine and we both became more animated.  I cannot remember all we spoke of but as always her laughter was present.  I do remember discussing what a mixed fruit tree must look like.   I occasionally glanced out the window and caught a few in the crowd looking back at us.

After what I remember as a very enjoyable meal we were ready to get back underway.  As I walked near the old fellow on the corner he said one word to me.  It was not a question but an affirmative one word statement- “Daughter”.  I acknowledged his correctness with a nod of my head and we continued our trip.  I spent the next few miles trying to figure out how he had come to that conclusion and then put it from my mind.  I stopped in the same station today on my journey back.  He was nowhere to be seen, probably too early in the day.  I had figured out how he knew though.  He saw the light that she brought to my life, a light like no other and I now knew that he too had a daughter.  I wish him well and I wish that that light would shine again.