An Open Letter to Sandy

Dr. Ryan Dahl

I am at this moment on a road trip headed to Colorado.  Tomorrow my son, Ryan, will become Dr. Ryan Dahl.  I am filled with anticipation for the weekend of celebration ahead.  It has been a long, arduous journey for him.  Medical school is not for the faint of heart.  Tenacity is a prerequisite and, thankfully, Ryan possessed enough to see him through.

His journey began years ago.  I will rewind the tape to May of 2007.  The gym in Wing, North Dakota, is filled with proud families and loyal community members.  This tiny prairie school still honors eighth grade graduates, for goodness sakes’.  Graduation is a big deal in Wing.

The cavernous Quonset is decorated with metallic ribbon and enough balloons to keep a pontoon afloat.  The high school band, minus the seniors and junior marshals, does its best to do justice to Pomp and Circumstance.  The Class of 2007 takes their place on the stage and sits down on the carefully placed folding chairs.  You may be wondering that the entire graduating class can fit on the stage.  Oh shucks, we could fit the entire high school up there.  There were only four graduates in the class of 2007.  All males, (which made for an interesting prom).

My boy, Ryan, is among them.  Ryan comes second in the Dahl Children lineup of four total.  He has known for several years that he wanted to be a dentist.  His uncle Jason had something to do with that, I believe.  Jason is a dentist and Ryan thought it would not be a bad way to take his contributing place in society. 

On that long ago night in May, he is enrolled at a private university south of Chicago, with plans to pursue a degree in biology.  John and I are hopeful he will be able to realize his goals.  We know he has many years of study ahead of him and will need to shine academically in order to gain acceptance into dental school. 

I spotted you when you walked into the gymnasium and on some mental level, wondered at your presence.  Although you had been a member of that community for quite some time, you had since moved away.  It was nice to see your sweet face, regardless.

Not far into the ceremony you stood and made your way to the stage.  Now I was actively curious.  You stood at the podium briefly, and then broke.  Without a word, you motioned your friend, who had walked in with you, to come and stand by your side. 

The gymnasium, which echoes at the slightest of sounds, is utterly silent, as if every person in that room is holding their breath. For what, we are not sure.  In quivery voice, fighting for control, you lay out your reason for being there.

With the single word, “Sarah,” we know we are about to be transported to a moment in time eight years earlier, a moment that changed everything; for you, for us, for our community.  In one horrific moment your beloved husband and daughter were ushered into eternity, and your precious son, the sole survivor of that devastating car accident, was placed on a long path of physical recovery.

You shared through your tears that night that shortly after that awful day, you chose to invest funds into an account that would be designated for Sarah’s classmates, to be handed to them upon their high school graduation.  You told no one of your plans.  Your motives were simple.  You wanted to honor your daughter in a meaningful way.  Your gift and careful investment had resulted in a significant amount to be used for furthering the education of her classmates as a way of remembering her life and legacy.

As the enormity of your extraordinary generosity sank in, I gasped.  I felt salty tears running down my face.  Not just for the help it would give my son, or for the unexpected generosity, but also because the years had been peeled back and a sunshiny little angel was running through my memories once again.  Sarah lived everyday of her life joyfully and exuberantly.  I will never forget her cartwheel on the basketball court after draining a two-pointer.  That was Sarah.  Happiness spilled out of her like a bubbling fountain.  Dear, sweet, angel-faced Sarah.

I write this today, Sandy, because I want you to know that my family remembers.  We remember your gift and its intended purpose.  We remember your mother’s love.  And we remember Sarah.

And so, as my boy accepts his diploma and conferred degree, I thank you, mother to mother.  I cannot know the depths of your painful journey.  But I do know that out of your sorrow you did an amazing thing.  You told Sarah’s classmates two things; you told them that you loved your daughter deeply.  You also told those young men on that night in May that you believed in them.  Believed they might create lives of happiness and fulfillment and accomplish the things Sarah never would.  Eight years later they are fine young men.  You helped them accomplish that.

We will never forget your kindness, your generosity and your selflessness.  Thank you, Sandy, for playing a part in helping Ryan realize his goal.  I am utterly and eternally grateful.  May God richly bless your life and path always and pour sunshine into that empty spot in your heart. 

You will always occupy a warm spot in mine.

When This Box is Full...

One of my absolutely favorite first grade activities every year is reading the book, “When This Box is Full,” by Patricia Lillie.  It is a simple book, and not terribly remarkable, as children’s literature goes.  But there is something touching about the young girl that marks the months and seasons with simple gifts added to her empty box. 

I read the text during our first week of school in the fall, hand out unadorned paper mache boxes with lids, let the students paint up a storm, then tuck them away.  Each month we add something to our boxes that remind us of that particular month.  In August, bright yellow wooden school bus cutouts.  In January, sparkling snowflakes.  In April, our book reading chart with the scene of children under an enormous umbrella.  These we carefully fold (or shove, as the case may be) into our remembrance box until the last week of school when we add our last item, a brilliant picture of a Painted Lady butterfly, as a reminder of our own adopted caterpillars. 

My Rosie, youngest of four and the only girl in the bunch, graduates from high school in forty-seven hours.  She will take her place on the stage with all six of her classmates (no, that is not a typo).  She will sit there on that stage adorned with metallic ribbon and helium balloons, deliver her Valedictory speech, and end her high school career.    

Though those in the audience will not be able to see it, she will have her own remembrance box sitting on her lap, stuffed with her own memories.  The contents of her box will strain at the seams, spilling bits of history from under the lid and down the sides, the memories of thirteen years of schooling in the same prairie school building.   

Most of her memories are pleasant.  She has enjoyed sweet friendships and has excelled in her studies and extracurricular activities. 

Some of her memories are not really memories at all, but rather the white noise of life.  The steady ticking of The Clock that ceaselessly marks time jumbles days, weeks, and months into a hazy film of sameness that has few distinctive marks.  She does not yet know that those will be some of the sweetest days of her life.  Unremarkable living means that life is pleasant, even when a little boring. 

Some of the scraps peeking from under the lid are painful to look at.  Heartaches and costly mistakes must take their rightful place in the box, as they do for all of us.  They are a part of her journey, a part of the formation of Hannah.  The pieces of her that have emerged as beautiful are partly due to those painful experiences.  Trying times either embitter a soul or release its beauty.  I am rapturously happy that Hannah’s is sweet and pure.  Only those closest to her can see the nearly imperceptible scars of difficult times hidden beneath a spirit of beauty.  Scars that tell me she is ready for a great big world.

At the end of my children’s book, the little girl takes her box filled with bits of lace, a robin’s feather, a foil heart, and a snowman’s scarf, and hands them to her friend.  Her treasures, so carefully guarded for an entire year, are made complete and dazzling by sharing them with someone she loves.

I think maybe Hannah has done the same.  Her treasures; her memories, her joys, sorrows, and successes are hers alone to savor.  But this child of my heart who came to us at the end of our parenting and who has filled our gradually quieted home with joy, has allowed me to partake in the gathering of the contents of her box.  It makes me catch my breath a little to hand back her box and say, “I love it all.  Thank you for sharing it with me.” 

In just hours, our youngest child will be done with childish things.  The concerts and track meets and class projects will take their place in her box, only to be exposed to light occasionally in the future as she reminisces, then puts the lid back on and places the box back on the dark shelf.

I love her so much. 

I am proud, yes.  But deeper and more satisfying yet is the knowledge that she has chosen wisely the things to place in her box.  They are things of purity and beauty. 

As I watch her accept her diploma and smile with satisfaction, I will smile too.  I am less sad that she is leaving than I am filled with joy that her box is filled with good things. 

Blessed is she.

Blessed am I.