Love Completely Without Complete Understanding

“We are willing to help, Lord, but what, if anything, is needed? Help,” he said, “is giving part of yourself to somebody who comes to accept it willingly and needs it badly. So it is, that we can seldom help anybody. Either we don’t know what part to give or maybe we don’t like to give any part of ourselves. Then, more often than not, the part that is needed is not wanted. And even more often, we do not have the part that is needed. It is like the auto-supply shop over town where they always, say, ‘Sorry, we are just out of that part.’”

I had a conversation with a friend recently wherein I felt absolutely helpless to help him. He reminded me of Paul Maclean in the story, A River Runs Through It, by Norman Maclean.

In that story, Paul is the younger of two brothers. He is wild and untethered—free as a bird, popular, and a very big fish in a very small pond.

Except… he isn’t wild and free. He is tethered to the depth of his own pain, to his sense of unworthiness and his tendency towards heeding the call of spirits, gambling, and showing the world just how tough he really was. He was feisty and stubborn, to say the least.

Norman is the square older brother who follows the rules. He’s the writer—the one who tells stories on paper, the one who goes away to college, the one who seems… quieter. Not as shiny. More sensible, and therefore more boring.

I have always felt a deep connection to the story. To the lyrical turn of phrase in Maclean’s writing, to the sentiment behind loving family without fully understanding them, to feeling constantly misunderstood and under-estimated.

I watched the movie version of this story today, in hopes of finding a deeper understanding of what my friend is currently going through, or possibly a different way to connect with him that might be more helpful.

Instead, I found myself in a pile of tears as I realized another layer of understanding of my own family, my own sister, and my own appointed role in it all.

It hit me that Wendy was much like Paul. She defied the rules of our parents with a ferocity and unapologetic glee that I rarely see depicted in books or on screen. And I, of course, am like Norman...

In one scene of the movie, Paul, Norman, their mother, and their father (a preacher, played by Tom Skerritt) are sitting around the dinner table. They all turn to Paul and ask him to tell a story. Instantly, my mind flashed back to the tales Wendy used to tell—dramas about her kids, her man, her work. Or maybe something about the fire chief, a fire the community rushed to put out, or maybe another story about another animal that had found her.

I watched through blurry vision from my tears as Paul stammered, searching his memory for a story to tell.

Quietly, Norman says, “I’ve got a story.”

Three pairs of eyes turn to him, and he softly says that he’d been offered a professorship at the University of Chicago. A moment of deep pride shown on his face as for once—Norman took the spotlight in his own family.

The camera pans to Paul (played by Brad Pitt).

The look of pain and unworthiness in his eyes is incongruent with the loving smile that has crept across his face: a genuine mix of disappointment in himself and pride for his brother’s hard work and good fortune.

I know that look.

I know it all too well.

But there is another layer to this story.

Towards the end of the movie, Paul, Norman, and their father go fly fishing. Norman and the preacher sit high on the banks, tired from catching their own trout, as they watch Paul scope out the river and finally spot a fish he wants to try and capture.

They watch in silent awe as Paul artfully sweeps the fishing line out across the water. It lands inches away from the fish, and it latches on—taking Paul for quite the ride down the sharp rocks and rushing waters of the Big Blackfoot River. That fish is so big, so strong, that it’s all Paul can do to simply hold on to the line as he’s whisked downstream.

Eventually, the water calms, and Paul comes up for air. He captures the fish, reels it in, and proudly holds onto it as Norman and their father look on with amazement.

Norman narrates, “At that moment, I knew, surely and clearly, that I was witnessing perfection. My brother stood before us, not on the bank of the Big Blackfoot River, but suspended above the earth, free from all its laws, like a work of art. And I knew just as surely, just as clearly, that life is not a work of art and that the moment could not last.”

Soon after that perfect moment, Paul was killed.

“Do you think I could have helped him?” he asked.
“Do you think I could have helped him?” I answered.
We stood waiting in deference to each other. How can a question be answered that asks a lifetime of questions?

(I have asked myself that question about my sister. I know my dad has, too.)

I was fortunate to witness my sister's perfection.

I saw the way she fell head over heels in love with motherhood. Not with her older children, but in her later years, when she had Kasey. I’d never seen such awe, such patience, and such flowing love in my sister as I did when Kasey came into our lives.

My sister’s perfection was a bright shining beacon in that brief time. She had darkness. She had pain. But Kasey opened her heart in a way she’d never been open before, and when that happened, I knew I was witnessing magic. And that magical love spilled over onto her other children, as she realized, perhaps for the first time, that these beings had shaped her, changed her, and defined her in the best possible ways.

I’ve been missing Wendy a lot lately. I realized earlier this weekend that I can’t quite remember the exact color of her eyes, and what they looked like. I can see them in pictures, of course—but when I close my eyes and picture her face… the details have started to fade.

I miss my family.

And I often feel like I’m supposed to live this huge life to make up for my mom’s and sister’s lives being clipped so short. As if I owe them, or my family, or myself, or some other entity, or all of the above, because I’m still here.

I know that isn’t logical.

But grief never is…

“It is those we live with and love and should know who elude us.”

“…you can love completely without complete understanding.”

A Moment of Honesty

I am sad. I want to go to Christmas services, but I know I will sob, and I just want someone to hold me as I cry. And I am tired of people looking at me with pity or confusion or some mixture of the two...or worse, those who just don't get it and don't even try.

My grief feels like a burden. A burden I'm trying to shield others from... because as silly as it sounds, a part of me does feel like because it's been a year since my mom died... I should be "over it." 

And I have so much to say, but none of it wants to come out. Or it comes out how it appears in this blog post—disjointed, scattered, wrought with intensity but not really making much sense.

I feel weak and small and like I can't breathe.

My family will not be together this Christmas. My dad is in Georgia, my nieces and nephew are doing their own thing.

I am alone, although my best friend and I will have a nice dinner Christmas evening.

Truthfully, my family can never be together in the same way ever again, no matter what, and I don’t have any fancy words for it, it just sucks so badly and feels so heavy that I can barely breathe.

I should not be the oldest woman in my family. Not yet...I'm too young. I don't know how to do this... grief is such an evil beast sometimes.

I have made a complete ass out of myself lately—I’ve made so many mistakes, said so many ridiculous things, and felt borderline out of control with my emotions...so much, so raw... to the point that a little piece of me wants to shut down.

Another part of me still doesn’t understand how I am the one living, when no one depends on me, and I think of Kasey—and Leigha, Aaron, and Alexis—and I wonder at the absolute unfairness of it all, how hard this is for someone as “strong” as I am to handle, but how are the kids really hanging in there? How are they actually handling this?

I look around and see sisterly love all around me… and I am blessed to have sisterly love in my own life, too.

But it’s like a part of me has died—forever—because my only sister is gone from this earth. I can see her facial expressions and hear her words and her tone of voice when Leigha talks, especially to her kids—but I ache to hear Wendy’s voice again. I ache to share childhood stories again. I can’t call her, text her, or Facebook message her ever again. This is not a new reality, but it sure as hell feels new… still…

As Christmas approaches so fast… I can’t help but think of all the hours spent putting up Christmas decorations—the careful placement of tiny pixies and other assorted Christmas knick-knacks, the deliberate placement of lights on the tree, the smell of apple cider in the crock pot, the fussing Mama used to do, ordering Daddy around as if he should be able to read her mind at this point—those memories have taken me over a lot lately, and there’s nothing I want more than to be back in the house I grew up in—as chaotic and angry as it sometimes was—because the carpet I traced patterns in was there—the linoleum I made into roadways for my matchbox cars was there—the creaking floorboards were there, and I knew that house so well that I could walk all through it, avoiding every creaking board, quiet as a mouse.

(I sometimes tested that theory after everyone had gone to bed, when I would lie awake, disturbed by some nightmare, and I felt the need to walk through the house, or make my way out to the den to watch TV with the sound turned down so low, I could barely hear it, as I sat totally still, listening for the stirrings of Mama so I could rush to turn it off, undetected.)

The point is—my whole existence began in that house. That house was my first point of reference, and—as every cell in my body and every breath of my soul seeks reassurance, guidance, and comfort—my psyche takes me back to the Pandora’s Box of 535 Northill Drive.

I spent roughly the first half of my life in that house. And all of the emotions and memories and arguments and laughter and meals and the life we lived was contained within those walls. I still go back there in my dreams, and almost every single night lately, I’ve been in that house, dreaming… my mind grasping at things that can no longer be… even in my sleep, my restless, tossing turning sleep…

Like the way Wendy got so mad when I spied on her and her latest boyfriend as they sat in the living room, with the louver doors closed. I peered through the slats and wedged the doors open as little as possible just to get a glimpse of what might be happening. I mostly did it because I knew it drove Wendy absolutely insane. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for, or what I hoped to catch—I was so much younger… I just knew it made her crazy, and that was enough for me.

And walking around the vintage and antique stores yesterday just before I left Austin was a special kind of nostalgic torture, too, because I saw so many things—things I never would have imagined seeing in a shop like that—that we used to have. Vases I had to dust, over and over again… Season’s Greetings cocktail glasses, the embroidered floral scene with strange coloring and the drabbest taupe-y brown fabric background—including the thin wooden frame—so many things… light fixtures, dishes, furniture—that we either had, had something similar to it, or that somehow catapulted me back to that house… 535 Northill Drive… and that period of time… as if it were yesterday.

I could feel Mama all around, and I could feel Wendy, too.

At one point, I had to get the hell out of there. It was really just too much.

Bittersweet:

Life is full of these moments, where the flipside of joy is a deep ocean of pain, where tears of laughter and happiness are even louder and more poignant because underneath that big laugh lies a cavernous well of memories and loss…

And I am here, and I don’t know why… I don’t understand the blessings that I have received.

But I am receiving them…

And, I am open.

As painful as it is right now, I am open.

Happy 38th to Me

Today is bittersweet.

In so many ways, I am blessed. I have a great boyfriend, I adore his kids, and my dad and I are closer than we’ve ever been.

Work has been understanding, friends and family have reached out, I’ve got some much-needed respite… and all of these things help me. They all help me heal.

But today is still painful.

Mama always used to call me on my birthday—usually to sing happy birthday, and just to say hello. I managed to save one of her voicemails from an old phone.

But I’ll never get another call from her.

And today, it’s even larger than life, because my sister took the old Kitchen Aid mixer after my mom died. She borrowed it to make pies at Christmas, and I’m pretty sure my dad told her to just keep it.

Thing is… my mom had bought a brand new 5 quart Kitchen Aid Deluxe mixer, complete with her favorite accessory—the glass bowl—and had never once used it.

She actually had my dad get out the old one anytime she needed to use a mixer, because for whatever reason, she didn’t want to use the brand new one.

My dad brought me the new one this week, so I could use it to make some cupcakes for my birthday celebration this weekend.

It’s beautiful and red.

And I broke it in today.

Every time I bake, I think about my mom… I think about all of the things she taught me in the kitchen—how baking is a science, and measurements are important. You can’t multi-task when baking, you need to stay in the moment so you can be aware of exactly what needs to happen next.

Follow the steps in order, stop the mixer and use the spatula to clear the sides of the bowl, add dry ingredients first on one side, then the other, add eggs one at a time, add wet ingredients slowly, add dry ingredients even more slowly—

All of these tidbits came rushing back to me as I used the red Kitchen Aid for the first time. Then it hit me—the last time I had actually used a Kitchen Aid was back in the house I grew up in, standing on the brown linoleum floor, in the olive drab kitchen with mustard yellow appliances, and the old white Kitchen Aid perched atop the big cutting board, whirring away, and Mama standing next to me, patiently giving me instructions.

I think about her every time I bake. Every time I make fudge, every time I make pie… and I suppose it’s worth noting that up until now, I’ve baked without the use of a mixer. But with my carpel tunnel getting worse, I really need it, so now I am glad to have one.

I just hate the circumstances…

And David tried to help me, too. I’d never made cupcakes from scratch before, and I’d never made ganache (that changes NOW… since I now know just how easy it is), and my stress level kept creeping up and up the scale, and he’s trying to do everything he can to help me, and I’m barking orders at him—just like Mama did to Daddy, year after year, holiday after holiday, baking occasion after baking occasion. She needed him to mix, to hold bowls while she scraped them into another dish, wash dishes, get supplies—basically, she needed him to be her extra pair of hands and her extra set of eyes.

And once I realized I was doing the exact same thing, and that I’d stumbled upon yet another thing that makes me just like my Mama… I lost it.

I realize every day how I am like my mom. How I’m stubborn and proud, how I’m incredibly anal and particular about exactly how I want things done when I’m working in the kitchen, and how I need my David, the way my mom needed her David—to help, and to never stray very far, but to only help in the way I want him to help.

The cupcakes look great.

The ganache is setting up.

David went to the gym.

The dryer is going.

The house is quiet, and I’m left with only my thoughts and my tears.

I have so much to be grateful for, and believe me—I am—but I am also deeply sad in a way that I cannot articulate and no one can truly understand, unless they’ve been through it too.

I get to live.

And I am re-evaluating what exactly that means for me, because nothing reset my priorities faster than losing two of the most important people in my entire life.

So, today, I am 38.

I get to live.

I don’t understand that yet, but I am beginning to truly understand the legacy my family has created.

And that I am part of it.

And that my part is not done.

The Real Face of Grief, aka Where I Am Right Now.

I wrote this after waking up from a terrible nightmare around 2:30 this morning. I sobbed in bed, the kind of breathless sobs where your whole body shakes. David woke up just enough to turn over and hold me. After a while, I calmed down enough to get up and write.  

I am posting this here, because this is what grief really looks like. It's ugly, it's terrifying, it's guttural.  

And that's okay. 

I want to take shame off the table. My family is suffering bone-deep loss, and trying to hide it, gloss over it, minimize it, or worst of all, "suck it up," doesn't help.  

The only thing that helps is release.

I cannot express how terrifying it is to wake up from a horrific dream only to realize... it’s my reality.

I can’t cry hard enough or long enough to free this pain inside of me. I wail, my eyes clamped shut and my mouth wide open, trying so hard to release the pain, to push it out from my very depths—from every single cell it wants to leave my body, but it is here… it remains…

Why am I the one living? Why wasn’t I taken? I don’t have any small children relying on me… I don’t have anyone relying on me, truthfully… how can I still be alive? How can I still be left here to feel so much when every morning I wake up, and I’m just confused as to why—why I’m even here, why my body is somehow still working, why all the systems within continue propelling me from present moment to present moment…

When I was little, I used to wake up from nightmares about being in a car accident with my grandmother and me in the back seat, Daddy driving, and Mama in the front seat. We sat in those designated seats—Mur-Mur behind Daddy, and me behind Mama—every time the four of us went anywhere. And in my nightmare, there was a car accident, and I was the only survivor.

(If my sister hadn’t moved out on her own at that point, she would have been in that nightmare, too, and then that nightmare would be even closer to my current reality.)

Life keeps going… and all around me, people go to work, they sit in traffic, they wait in line, they text their friends, they scroll through Facebook—I know… I am existing in these moments too… I am doing these things too…

But it feels like my whole world has stopped, because it’s been turned utterly upside down and inside out, and I can’t do a damned thing about it.

Grief sucks, and right now it is really running me through the ringer. I have never, ever known this kind of pain before. I have never felt it… not until now… and of course looking at me from the outside in, of course I’m “strong enough to handle it,” etc… but right now I feel on the verge of a nervous breakdown… because that would be easier. It would be easier to just go completely nuts and totally lose my shit and end up at the asylum taking unlabeled pills to keep me sedated and numb. Right now, that kind of controlled environment is more appealing than the chaos of the outside world… this world I exist in which feels like a constant waking nightmare.

As I sit here, breathing in, breathing out, tears streaming down my face (and in moments like this, I am once again thankful that Mama made me take a typing class in ninth grade, because I can sit in total darkness and type fast), I wonder at the miracle of life and of living. It is truly a miracle, every day when I can open my eyes and get out of bed and live another day.

But right now? Right now it feels like a curse. Why were my mom and sister denied the miracle of life? Why?

Ironic—I offered comfort in my sister’s eulogy. I cautioned against asking why… because it will “make you crazy.” Yep, I said it, and that’s basically what I feel, because here I am, asking why, and most definitely feeling crazy.

What can I say—I was still in shock at that point.

Not in shock anymore.

This, I would say, is the darkest side of grief. When I’m sitting here vacillating between wishing I was dead, bargaining for trading places with my sister, and actually wishing to go crazy enough to be put into an asylum. All of those things seem easier than what I’m trying to cope with, the overpowering feelings I have, and the grief I feel.

The bargaining (oh wait, isn’t that a phase of grief?)—sounds like, please take me instead… take me instead… put me out of my misery and let my sister come back and raise her toddler and be here to shepherd her older kids fully into adulthood… No one truly needs me, but her kids and her husband need her. I need her. My dad needs her.

To be honest, I am barely functioning. I have to “check out” to a certain extent just to get through the day. When I am fully present, the feelings flood in—feelings that don’t have words or even need words.

I don’t feel like I can handle anything right now. I feel on the edge of tipping over… like one more little thing, one more little bump in the road, and there I’ll go—careening off the edge of the tiny winding highway, plunging down into the depths of rocky cliffs to my imminent death.

I am clinging to sanity by mere threads, and those threads are thin and weary and stretched to their max.

I have prayed and prayed… I have begged God to please take this from me, because I can’t handle it at all. I am totally at His mercy, and yet I am finding no comfort in that.

I find no comfort in anything…

A Eulogy for Wendy

What struck me deeply when I sat down to write this eulogy was that Wendy was always the same person. She never tried to be someone she wasn’t. She didn’t put on airs or masks. She told it like it was—always—whether you liked it or not.

That’s not to say she never changed. There was a time, after all, when I would not dare eat anything my sister cooked. It shocked me to hear that she had started taking cooking shifts at work. She was proud of what she’d learned. We were proud of her, too. Even better—I would actually eat my sister’s cooking!

She never gave herself enough credit, did she? She was—like everyone in our family, it seems… she was very, very hard on herself.

Last Christmas was the first time she made Mama’s famous chocolate pecan pie for the family. She was so nervous—she wanted to get it just right. She didn’t want to burn it, and she wanted to make Mama proud. Actually, I think she wanted to make all of us proud. I think she felt like it was the most important pie she had ever made.

Of course, she pulled it off perfectly.

When I think about my sister, a lot of adjectives spring to mind: stubborn, hard-headed, strong, curious, charming, loving, smart, outspoken, daring, fearless, optimistic, proud, hopeful… I could go on.

One word stands out above all the rest, though: fierce.

Everybody knows that she loved animals fiercely and had a way of attracting the mangiest, most pathetic, rejected, homeless cats and dogs to her door. That started long before any of you might have guessed.

The first time was when she was a little girl. The next door neighbors bred sheltie collies, and she bonded with one of them in particular. She’d lie down in the grass, stick her arm through the chain link fence, and pet the little dog.

Well, the dog wasn’t quite fit to be a show dog, and the neighbors ended up giving her to Wendy.

That’s how we got our dog Sally.

The next time it happened was with a big black tomcat who “just jumped in her car” one day. She brought him home and begged to keep him. We named him Tummy, because he constantly ate. Tummy was a really great cat. One of the best cats ever, really, and he and Wendy had a special connection. Even after she moved out, he welcomed her anytime she came to visit.

And then there was the tiny white Siamese cat she discovered on the way home from high school one day. She was just lying there in the street, and Wendy thought she was dead. She pulled over to move her over to the side of the road and when Wendy approached this little cat, she perked her head up and meowed. Wendy brought her home and begged Mama and Daddy to keep her.

And that’s how we got Cricket.

Wendy was like the patron saint of all the lost animals. Even when she first moved out on her own, she would at times move from friend’s house to friend’s house, with nothing but a suitcase and her cat, Spunky.

She constantly drew animals to her. It’s like they just… knew… that she would take care of them.

She took care of everyone in her world… animals, friends, and of course, family.

Wendy and I were so different—in fact we joked a lot about being “city sister” and “country sister.”

(I’ll let you guess which is which.)

But the love between us was also fierce. A lot of times that meant we fought—constantly. Understandable, with the 8 year difference in our age, especially when you factor in that we shared a bedroom that had been Wendy’s domain for the first 8 years of her life.

Not surprisingly, you could draw a line down the middle of our bedroom. My side was all neat and tidy, and her side looked like a tornado had hit.

(Some things don’t change.)

Not only could you draw a line down the middle of the room, but if I dared put anything of mine on the dresser, I would invariably come back into the bedroom later to find that item tossed on my bed.

Whether it was a brush, a comb, or sometimes just a hair pin—she’d somehow find it in all that mess on top of the dresser and throw it right back on my bed.

So of course—being the twirpy little sister I was—I would often put something on the dresser just to see how long it took her to notice.

We couldn’t even be in the kitchen at the same time. She washed and rinsed dishes, and I’d dry them and put them away. Or, I would wash and rinse, she would dry and put away. But we could never work together, or it boiled over into a fight—every time.

It was the same with house work. Saturday morning was cleaning day. I dusted, and Wendy vacuumed. Mama cleaned the bathrooms and mopped the kitchen and dining room floors.

The argument was the same, every week. God forbid we dust and vacuum at the same time in different rooms. Nope. Her argument was, she should vacuum first, because that stirs up dust, which is going to settle back down onto the furniture. My argument was, I should dust first, because the vacuum would suck up whatever dust was left.

Guess who always won that one!

(It wasn’t me.)

In fact, Mama told us we even argued in our sleep. She would walk by our bedroom, hear arguing, and just before she stepped in to fuss at us for still being awake—she’d realize that she couldn’t understand a word we were saying, because it was all indiscernible mumbling.

But it was angry mumbling!

And if anything is harder than sharing a bedroom with your sister when you constantly fight… it might be hardest of all to be stuck in the back seat on a long road trip between Dallas and Albuquerque. I think that’s just about the most boring drive in all of the US. It’s nothing but flat desert, and a whole lot of it.

We constantly kicked each other, sighed loudly, pouted, and grumped. And this was, of course, way before cell phones, iPads, portable DVD players, etc. We were just stuck in the car, lucky to have one Walkman between us for a road trip that never seemed to end.

The love between us was often hard to see in those years. Of course, as we got older, it got better.

There were so many times in my college years when I struggled with money. I was a typical poor college student. And Wendy was going through a rough time, too, having two small children and trying to make ends meet.

But she was proud, and she loved me fiercely. And during the countless times she needed some money to help her get through, she refused to ask our parents for help. It was more important to her that they help me and give me money. Even if our parents offered her money—she turned it down. “Give it to Linda,” she said.

She’ll never know how much that meant to me.

In truth, the love between us was fierce.

That’s the way Wendy loved everyone, though: fiercely.

I have a few words to say directly to Wendy’s kids. I think she would want you to hear these words and take them to heart.

Leigha: the legacy she leaves through you is her spirit. You are the very essence of your mother. You are proud and stubborn, just like her. You’re also resourceful and strong, just like her. You know more than she knew at your age, and you’re more grown up at 21 than she was at 21. I know you feel lost without her. I know this is a hard road ahead. I know that first hand… but when you are searching for answers and deeply needing to talk to your mom… look inside yourself. You’ll find the answer, like you always do, because it’s already there inside. Her blood is literally in you. Your mom spent a lot of time talking to your Grammy and me about you. She fiercely loved you, more than words could ever say. And I know she is proud of the mother you are, the mother you have become.

Alexis: the legacy she leaves through you is love. She loved you unconditionally, and she always regarded you as hers. It broke her heart to have to let go of you when she walked away from your dad. But she instilled in you the knowledge—deep-down, all the way to your core—that you are loved, just for being you. I can feel it emanating from you, too, and I am so glad you’re back in all of our lives. I know it made her feel validated and purposeful as a mom when you showed up by surprise that Christmas. She told us that she suddenly felt like she had truly made a difference in this world—that she had done something right—because you turned out ok, and you came back.

Aaron: the legacy she leaves through you is faith. The depth of your faith, and your love for Jesus Christ, is visible to the point of being almost tangible. Your faith is representative of where your mom’s journey led her over the last several years. I observed as she explored agnosticism, Paganism, and then slowly walked towards God. It gave me joy to watch her faith come alive, and it gave me joy to watch yours come alive, too. She also loved your stories. She loved your music and drumming ability—she was very proud and protective of you. Watching you grow and transform over the years into this young warrior has been a true joy. Not just for your mom, but for me, and for all of us. You are already a much better man than most of the men who have been in your life.

Kasey: the legacy your mom leaves through you is hope. To me, you represent the sweet, feminine, fun, and soft side of Wendy. Watching her mother you was truly a joy. She so thoroughly enjoyed you and your firsts. She loved watching you discover everything around you and take it all in. She truly appreciated your sense of wonder. I’ve never seen her so relaxed and happy to be a mom. She fell in love with being a mother because of you, and she learned to accept and respect your siblings even more than she had before, because of you. I hope you never lose the sweet, tender, curious parts of you, Kasey.

The legacy Wendy leaves for us all is one of hope. She never gave up, no matter how dire her circumstances. She held her head up and kept walking forward—one foot in front of the other.

Her sudden passing makes no sense—especially so soon after our mother’s passing. I know we’re all still in a state of shock, and asking why is natural. The tragedy of losing Wendy so suddenly, when she was so young, makes no sense to anyone, and asking why yields no answer—it just makes you feel crazy.

So instead of asking why, I want to challenge you to find a way that works for you to keep her legacy alive. Take on a piece of her hope, her optimism, or her perspective. Take on a piece of her tenacity or her perseverance. Or maybe, take on some of her love of animals, or her sense of humor, or her charm.

If you’re up for a real challenge, though, then I dare you to love the way my sister loved.

I dare you to love fiercely.

Wendy's Obituaries

This is the obituary for the Dallas Morning News:

Jill Wendilyn “Wendy” (Tritton) Troquille

Born Feb. 11, 1967, Dallas, TX, passed away Apr. 29, 2013, Van, TX. She is survived by: father, David Tritton; sister, Linda Lee Tritton; husband, Kevin Troquille; daughters, Leigha Hill, Alexis Sublett, and Kasey Troquille; son, Aaron Grigsby; grandchildren, Raelye, Eli, and Colten. Memorial service Fri., May 3, 11am, Cornerstone Baptist Church, 3710 NE Loop 7, Athens, 75751. 

This is the obituary for the Van/Van Zandt papers:

Jill Wendilyn “Wendy” (Tritton) Troquille

Wendy was born February 11, 1967, in Dallas, Texas. She passed away on Monday, April 29, 2013. She was killed instantly in a head-on collision while driving home from work (The Dinner Bell in Van). Wendy lived in the Canton, Edom, Van, and Ben Wheeler area for years, and she is known and loved in the community.

Wendy is preceded by her mother, Jill Johnson Tritton, who passed away only five months prior (November 29, 2012), and her grandmother, Paula “Teh” Freeman Johnson, who passed away on Wendy’s 30^th birthday, in 1997.

Wendy is survived by many: her father, David Tritton; her sister, Linda Lee Tritton; her husband, Kevin Troquille; their daughter, Kasey Troquille; her daughter, Leigha Hill; her daughter, Alexis Sublett; and her son, Aaron Grigsby.

Wendy is also survived by three grandchildren: Raelye (3yrs), Eli (4mos), and Colten (due in July).

A memorial service will be held at Cornerstone Baptist Church, 3710 NE Loop 7, Athens, 75751. Soulman’s BBQ has generously offered to cater food after the service.

Wendy (Tritton) Troquille: Memorial Service Information

Friends and family, I thought I would make a quick blog post so everyone will have a public resource they can link to anyone.

Wendy at age 20

My sister, Jill Wendilyn "Wendy" (Tritton) Troquille, was killed in a head-on collision on Monday, April 29, 2013.

Fortunately, she did not suffer—she was killed instantly. She was 46 years old. Wendy’s passing is exactly five months after our mom’s sudden passing on Thursday, November 29, 2012.

I am in the process of writing obituaries that will appear in the Van, Van Zandt, and Dallas newspapers.

I am also writing a eulogy that I will deliver during her memorial service.

Her service will be in Athens, TX. Her son, Aaron Grigsby, is a member of a very loving and strong church community, and they have graciously offered to host the memorial service.

We gladly honored Wendy’s wish to be cremated, and the family made those arrangements yesterday.

I’ll be back with more, but for now, I wanted to keep this short to convey the important information. Any and all are welcome at the service.

Service Information

Service date: Friday, May 3^rd, 2013

Time: 11am

Location: Cornerstone Baptist Church, 3710 NE Loop 7, Athens, Texas, 75751, 903-677-5407

Here is a link to the church’s website

Here is a link to Google Maps

Some GPS may read the address as 3710 NE Loop 317 S

Immediately following the service: Soulman’s BBQ has made an amazing offer to cater a meal right after the service.

To everyone who has reached out to our family with wishes, prayers, condolences, and offers, we thank you. It means so, so much. I feel the love coming from all directions.

I ask that you keep them coming. We are all still very, very much in shock, and your continued prayers and thoughts are deeply appreciated.