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.