Grief & Restoration

I sit at my desk, bothered by the stagnancy of this space. My concentration is lost; my thoughts, scattered; my heart, shattered. I stare at the screen, the long list of to-do’s grappling with my attention. Yet, all I can do is stare, blankly. My productivity is shot. My mind is racing with the events of this past weekend. The intense joy, the overwhelming sorrow. The celebration and the loss. My emotions tug on my heart like a game that cannot be won. Jesus, you rose but here we are, fallen.

I cannot understand. How could this happen? Why would this happen?

On Saturday afternoon, between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, between the death and the resurrection, life stole Dani Troyer’s last breath.

Just one week prior, in the overgrown grass, we sat face to face in her yard as the sun’s beams warmed her cheeks and she spoke life into her dreams, for herself and for her family. Full of energy and excitement, she cast vision over what was to come in this place she had learned to call home. I listened, encouraged by her spirit of motivation and her desire to pursue her God-given gift. Her talent and drive would, no doubt, push her forward and carry her far.

I had called her from the road on my way to her house, caught on the corner of the highway and a gravel street that looked like every other backroad. And I saw her appear, her mustard yellow top like a beacon to guide me, her smile like the sunshine.

The grief feels paralyzing. I didn’t even know her that well, but her bonds within this tiny little community were tethered with strength, her roots ran deep with honesty, and her impact made great with vulnerability.

Even now, the use of past tense verbs pains me.

Just for a moment, I want to sit in this sadness, to wonder, to question. The doubts—those are present too.

My flight arrived into Nashville and I had a 4-hour drive to dwell in this space. Spring had blossomed in the ten short days I had been gone, yet all I could see was winter. How could I relish in this seasonal shift when the air felt so cold, and the skies looked so grey?

I still don’t have the answers.

Without the grief, we don’t get the restoration.

Ironic, no. Timely, indeed. Prophetic, I believe so. Her words linger. Could she have foreseen her fate, that Jesus would call her home only 24 hours later? Had God given her a glimpse of Glory?

Though the sun has set, her legacy lives on; her impact, overwhelming. There are not enough words to justify the gravity of this loss.

So, for now, I’ll leave these images here, to exist in the threshold of sorrow and to honor a life that was not meant to be taken so soon. Dani, may we someday experience this restoration in your ever-present absence.