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| 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.
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