Breathing Life Into Loss
Last night my daughter said, “Mom, tell us a story about your friend Kristin, one that will make you laugh.” I managed a faint smile.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because you always say that talking about the people we’ve lost keeps them alive in our hearts. You should try to keep Kristin alive.”
“You’re right. I do say that.” I sighed. “Well, Kristin made me laugh a lot. Her humor was my favorite thing about her. When we were roommates I would always sleep in later than her, and whenever she worried I was oversleeping, she’d knock loudly on my bedroom door and shout, in the most obnoxiously shrill voice, ‘Housekeeping! I fluff your pillow?’ I hated it but I loved it at the same time. I’ll never forget it.”
Both my kids laughed as I did my best impersonation of Kristin’s “housekeeping” voice. This morning from down the hall I heard my son knocking on his sister’s door and shouting in an accent from God knows where, “Housekeeping! I fluff your pillow?” followed by endless giggles. I smiled. It was true, talking about Kristin kept her alive.
Kristin was my best friend for all of my early twenties. Her friendship and that period of my life are so intertwined, I can’t think of one without the other. God placed her in my life during a season of singleness, when I desperately needed a friend who could fill my days with laughter, music, and Jesus. Our paths diverged about ten years ago, but we’ve kept tabs on each other through mutual friends and social media ever since.
In February I learned Kristin had been diagnosed with cancer. Last month when I was told Kristin’s illness had taken a serious turn, I put my love for her on a page, licked the envelope, stuck a stamp on it, and sent it her way. On Sunday when I learned of her death, my mind played back reels of recorded memories. I was recalling things about Kristin I hadn’t thought of in years, like the way she added cubed colby jack cheese to her pasta salad or ate her burgers with zero condiments like a psychopath. I wondered if she still loved Gerbera daisies. I bought some this week to remind myself of her. I wondered if she still spritzed herself with Sweet Pea by Bath and Body Works every morning. I bought a bottle of it this week for myself, just to feel near her. I’ve watched all our favorite episodes of Will & Grace, a show we used to binge-watch while perched on the cushions of the curbside couch we found. I am grieving the loss of my precious friend. Precious; it’s a word she used all the time. I never liked it. It always felt so feminine, so frilly, so… pink. Pink was her favorite color the entire time I knew her. I wonder if it still was.
“Words are our tools of resurrection.” I read this line in a book recently and I immediately wrote it down. As a writer, it is a relief to put my grief into words, knowing those words have the power to breathe life into the loss. Since Kristin died the itch in my fingers refused to be ignored. I’ve needed to write. I’ve needed to bring her back to life in the only way I know how. If you didn’t know Kristin I hope by the time you’re done reading this you’ll feel like you did. I hope my words bring her to life for you, as they do for me.
Kristin and I were roommates for about two years. Our little apartment was full of charity furniture, our parents’ cast-offs, and items we found on sale at Ikea. We’d eat ice cream out of the carton, commiserating over the unrequited love we felt for our respective crushes. One day when we were feeling especially glum about our single status, Kristin fabricated boyfriends for us. She named them Tim and Todd; they were Abercrombie models who loved the Lord and happened to live in the apartment next door. We’d refer to them often, pretending we were Monica and Rachel to their Joey and Chandler. I loved how she made light of heartache; it was her coping mechanism and it became mine too.
Kristin and I shared taste in music and we could often be found belting out our favorite hits at home or in the car. Our chosen song was by Martina McBride called This One’s For the Girls. Kristin would always perk up and say, “Here’s our verse Annie!” just before the words:
This is for all you girls about twenty-five
In little apartments just tryin' to get by
Living on dreams and Spaghetti-o's
Wonderin' where your life is gonna go
Her singing voice was far superior to my own, but I never minded crooning backup into a kitchen whisk when she broke out the hairbrush and turned up the volume on our stereo. If she was home, music was always playing. She made a cd once of all her favorite hits and gifted it to me. She titled it “Kristin’s Serious Tuneage.” I still have it, and it’s one of my favorite music mixes ever.
Aside from our taste in music, television shows, and our love for Jesus, Kristin and I also shared a disdain for cats. The stray black cat that wandered around our apartment complex annoyed us to no end, especially when he sat outside our kitchen window and meowed for what felt like hours. One night Kristin got so fed up with the cat’s calls that she slid open the window and yelled down at him to be quiet. Without warning the cat jumped up and dug his claws into the window screen, scaring the daylights out of Kristin and sending her running for the hills. I doubled over in laughter as the cat shredded the screen and Kristin screamed from the other room, “Cats are evil!” Once I assured her the cat had run off, I said to her through stifled giggles, “I think he just likes you, Kris. That’s why he won’t leave you alone. You should name him.” She rolled her eyes and said, “How about Legion? Like the guy possessed by so many demons in the Bible, they called themselves ‘Legion.’ An evil name for an evil cat.” Every black cat I’ve seen since has triggered the memory of that night, and I can’t help but smile.
While we were both in the single boat together, Kristin was undoubtedly further along in life than I was. She worked two jobs, one as a preschool teacher and another as a cheerleading coach. We’d sit cross-legged in our pajamas and trace shapes or cut out worksheets for her classroom while watching The Bachelor. I remember she painstakingly created individual scrapbooks for each of her preschoolers at the end of each school year. Kristin put so much love and attention into every last detail. The parents of her students would pool together and bless her with generous gifts for her birthday, Christmas, and end of term. One day she came home with a brand new Kitchen Aid mixer and I thought she would die of happiness. I remember thinking she must be one hell of a teacher, (and she was). I marveled at her creativity as she choreographed dances for her cheer squad. She’d play the same SheDaisy song compilation over and over again until she’d mastered every move. Meanwhile, I was a struggling student, commuting to my classes every few days and working part-time at a home goods store. I was directionless. Kristin never judged me, but she did make sure I got out of bed and showed up for myself every day.
She didn’t bat an eye when I sneaked samples of her Christmas cookies off the counter (they were pink and green hamburger-looking things and my word they were little bites of heaven on earth). She didn’t question me when I dared to steal a shirt from her closet and wear it in front of her, then swear it wasn’t hers. Whenever I did something stupid or absent-minded she’d just ask me if I was having a stroke and we’d laugh until our sides ached. There were plenty of times she could have embarrassed me but she didn’t. Kristin was unfailingly gracious.
For her birthday one year, I was determined to make her a pink frosted cake from scratch and surprise her with it when she got home from work. I spent hours getting the decorations just right. I’d made a two-tiered pink strawberry cake with pale pink vanilla frosting, rimmed with pink sugar crystals. Edible pink flowers graced the top. It was truly stunning and I couldn’t wait to show it to her. I carefully picked up the cake platter and began walking it to my bedroom to keep it out of sight until she arrived. I was so busy watching the cake as it balanced precariously in my hands that I failed to watch where my feet were going. I stubbed my toe on the corner of our coffee table and watched in horror as Kristin’s cake slid off the platter and landed face-down on the carpet. I stared, mouth agape, uncomprehending.
Once the shock wore off I set to work cleaning up the mess. It took almost as long as decorating the cake. I scrubbed the spot on the carpet and prayed to God we wouldn’t lose our security deposit. Then, I brushed myself off and went back to the kitchen to try again. My best friend was worth it. After repeating all the steps from before and feeling confident that my second cake looked even better than the first, I slowly and mindfully began moving the cake from the kitchen to my room. I made certain the pathway was clear this time and controlled my breathing. The apartment was silent as I took one intentional step after another. Then, out of nowhere, our phone rang, breaking the silence. The interruption gave me such a start that I dropped the cake where I stood. I crumbled to the ground next to it and cried. There was no time to make a third attempt. Instead of presenting Kristin with my work of heart, I pointed to the outline of masking tape I’d made on the carpet where each cake had breathed its last. I’d made a small bouquet of the edible pink flowers and left them there in memorium. After hearing my explanation Kristin laughed so hard she had tears in her eyes. “Oh Annie, this is so much better than any cake,” she said as she sat on the floor next to the makeshift crime scene.
For a summer we worked as interns in the youth ministry at our church, so each morning we’d ride to work together. Whether Kristin was the one driving or not, she’d bring her cosmetic bag along and finish applying her makeup on the short commute. I never understood this. “Why don’t you do your makeup in the bathroom before we leave?” I’d ask. She would insist the natural light in the car was more “telling” than the incandescent lights above our bathroom mirror. To my chagrin, she would swab on mascara with one hand on the wheel and both eyes on the vanity mirror, or dust on her eye shadow while rolling through a stop sign. I would insist on leaning over and grabbing the wheel while she expertly applied her lip liner. “I love you Kris, but I don’t want us to crash just because you put beauty over safety.” She’d shoot back, “If we crash at least I’ll look good in my mugshot photo.” She wasn’t wrong. I don’t know how, but her makeup always looked flawless no matter what risks she took to apply it. When it came time for me to get married, asking her to be the makeup artist for my bridal party was a no-brainer.
Asking her to be a bridesmaid was also a no-brainer. By then we weren’t roommates anymore, nor did we live in the same city, but she supported my relationship with Zach in every way she knew how. Kristin was by my side when I went wedding dress shopping for the first time, and I’ll never forget when she teased me about my upcoming wedding night by serenading me with John Mellencamp’s Hurt So Good, (in the middle of a restaurant no less). Lord have mercy. Years later when Zach and I were matched with our first birth mother and eagerly anticipating the adoption of a baby boy, Kristin joined forces with my local friends and threw me a beautiful baby shower. I still have the onesie she decorated for our little one.
I’ve sat in stunned silence for hours. I’ve wept my way through worship songs. I’ve dug up old photographs and stared at her face, unable to pull myself away. I’ve tried to stay busy, only to find myself on the floor of my kitchen, dustpan still in hand, choking back sobs. My heart is burdened for Kristin’s parents, her husband, her younger sisters, her nieces and nephews, and her vast community of friends. The magnitude of their loss is beyond comprehension. Cancer is an impartial thief, a friend to no one.
I’m confident I’m not the only one resurrecting Kristin with my words this week. Her death has left a gaping hole in so many lives. What I remember is only a sliver of the full life Kristin had, a narrow glimpse into who she was. I know if everyone who knew her put their memories into words it would paint a far more complete picture of a beautiful life cut short. I pray like me, they find healing through words. I pray the words breathe life into their loss.
Seventeen years ago when I asked Kristin to be my bridesmaid she responded, “I’ll be there with bells on. No seriously, I’m wearing bells.” It was such a Kristin thing to say. Her wit was unmatched, her light and her beauty were incomparable. I am blessed to remember her words so clearly, to bottle her brightness on a page and share it with the world. “Words are our tools of resurrection.” They breathe life into our loss. While I’d give anything to resurrect Kristin in the flesh, she remains alive in my heart and on these pages until we will be reunited again in heavenly glory. I can’t wait for that day when I will join those who’ve gone before me, those who’ve been holding a space for me in the eternal presence of God. I’ll be there with bells on Kris. No seriously, I’m wearing bells.
“Growing apart doesn’t change the fact for a long time we grew side by side; our roots will always be tangled. I’m glad for that.” -Ally Condie
Kristin (left) and me at my bachelorette party, 2006.