Reminders

“You think the dead we loved ever truly leave us? You think that we don’t recall them more clearly than ever in times of great trouble?”

– J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban 

Almost everyone I know who has lost someone has had the experience: a time when they’ve felt the presence of their lost loved one showing up exactly when they needed. Often, when we feel ourselves sinking into one of those dark spots that our minds can so often draw us into, those we’ve lost seem to find a way to resurface, reaching out from that space beyond life to remind us that they are still with us, still by our sides. It can come in the form of a song that suddenly plays on the radio at just the right time, or a flower you spot growing through a crack in the concrete, or even a smell that can instantly transport you back in place and time. No matter the form it takes, these reminders feel like a promise that we aren’t alone at all.

A few days ago, as I was sitting down at my computer to write, I found a greeting card that my sister, Cathy, had given to me upon my graduation from college back in 1999. I found it tucked away in a book, long ago forgotten. And yet, it seems to have returned to my hands at precisely the moment I most needed it. The front of the card reads: 

“To live your life in your own way…to reach for the goals you have set for yourself…to be the you that you want to be — that is success.”

On the back, in one of those bolts of serendipity that always seem to accompany memories of Cathy, a logo is printed with this caption:

“Life isn’t a destination – it’s a journey. We all come upon unexpected curves and turning points, mountaintops and valleys. Everything that happens to us shapes who we are becoming. And in the adventure of each day, we discover the best in ourselves.”

That first sentence – “life isn’t a destination – it’s a journey” – had been a running thread in Cathy’s life, a theme that recurred so often we chose to have a variation of it etched on her headstone in the cemetery where we laid her body to rest almost 20 years ago. As I read that sentence on the back of the card she gave to me, tears began to roll down my cheeks and I was struck by the very real sense of her presence. She has always had this way of reaching out from beyond or from Heaven or from wherever it is our souls go when we die, and touching me exactly when I need it most. Like the time when, having a routine MRI, I began to panic inside the claustrophobia-inducing tunnel, sure I was about to vomit or pass out, my heart racing and black spots appearing in the periphery of my vision, closing in around me. Suddenly, I became aware of the soft music playing through the headphones the technician had given me at the beginning of the procedure: an Enya song that had been Cathy’s favorite, had always reminded me of her in a peaceful, reassuring way. In that moment, I felt her hand on my shoulder, heard her voice in my ear assuring me I was okay, I was not alone. A sense of calm washed over me, and I made it through the rest of the MRI without any issue. In other moments, when anxiety has similarly threatened to get the best of me, when I have felt alone or afraid, she has reached out in her way, offering me a hand to hold.

And, lately, I have needed a hand to hold. Right now, as I sit and write this, I am feeling afraid. Let’s be honest: there are enough reasons for all of us to feel afraid at the moment. We are coming upon a full year of living with this global pandemic that has already robbed us of so very much. And while the introduction of vaccines has at least offered the promise of a light at the end of the tunnel, there is still so much uncertainty around what is to come, so much worry for the health and well-being of those we love. There is the fear associated with the political turmoil that has engulfed our country and torn apart families and communities. There is the horror of the racial injustice that continues to do so much harm to people of color in our nation and our world. And there is the anxiety of our relationships changing as each of these crises has laid bare the true feelings of people we thought we knew, forcing us to re-examine their role in our lives. I am feeling every one of these fears.

But there is also another fear that fills me right now, the one that is personal and immediate and oftentimes unrelenting: the fear of reaching my potential, of fulfilling a dream. I feel like I’m on the cusp of finally jumping fully into the current of the life I have imagined for so long. I am discovering a gift and figuring out how to give it away. I’m struggling with the fear of making myself vulnerable as a I reveal myself through my writing. It feels like opening my insides up for public review, and I am so afraid of what that could bring. What if everything that has always felt so huge and important and meaningful inside of me is deemed small and insignificant and worthless when read by others? Would I recover from it? Would I ever try again? Would I lose my courage?

And then I sat down to write the other morning, coffee cup steaming next to my computer, Avett Brothers playing through my speakers. I began writing about an article I had read the night before and, because I couldn’t quite remember how to cite this kind of article, I pulled an old college writing reference handbook from the bottom shelf of my bookcase. I opened the front cover of this book that I hadn’t opened in at least a decade and there, tucked just inside, was the card from Cathy. Inside the card, her handwriting looked both comfortably familiar and strikingly new, the words written so long ago, yet so timely:

“Carrie – 

This card reminded me of you because you really do live your life in your own way (more than anyone else I can think of), and that is why you are really gonna go far in your life. You are your own person and that’s something you should be proud of. I am very proud of you and even though you’re younger than I am, I look up to you. I wish you the best of luck as you begin this new chapter of your life. 

I love you,

Cathy”

I sit here and read these words again and, I tell you, I am just overcome. I am overcome by a sadness at missing my sister so very deeply, in a visceral way that leaves me aching, like someone has punched me in the gut and left me gasping for air. But I am also overcome by a joy at having been truly seen by my sister, my friend, back at a time when I could not, for anything, see myself that way. I am so grateful that she left this reminder for me to find, to help me remember that I have always been brave and honest and solid and authentic, even in the times when I felt small and afraid and shaky and fake. She believed in me. 

I am left wondering: how did this reminder find me exactly when I needed it? Did I conjure the reminder? Did my mind manifest exactly the message my fragile heart needed? Or was it Cathy, her spirit finding me in the midst of my fears and worries and reassuring me as she would have when she was alive?

As I hold this question in my mind, my heart, I am immediately reminded of another quote from the Harry Potter series, another time when the fictional character, Dumbledore, spoke words to Harry that pierced my heart while also soothing me with their truth and power. Harry has just fought Voldemort and seemingly lost and, in a place that he can’t quite identify, he has a conversation with an already dead Dumbledore – a conversation in which Dumbledore has explained so much for him, brought him so much comfort, and reminded him of his true power and goodness. At the end of the conversation, Harry asks, “Is this real? Or has this been happening inside my head?” To which Dumbledore confidently replies, “Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean it is not real?”

Our lost loved ones never really leave us, not entirely. They leave behind reminders of who they were, of how they loved us and showed up for us when they were alive. And I think they can also leave us reminders of who we really are; reminders that are there to bring us back to ourselves and our truth when life is threatening to pull us away from what we know. Remaining open to these reminders, allowing them to break through our day to day worries and wash over us, can be a strong tool in navigating through life amidst our grief. These reminders can provide the tether that keeps us from spiraling into the abyss that grief so often beckons us toward. They can nudge us back toward the truth: that there is light alive inside of us, even when it is difficult to see; that there is always room for hope.