Eyes to See (8 Year Reflection)
- Sarah Steinmann
- Dec 28, 2018
- 2 min read
It’s the 8th year anniversary of Luke’s accident, the fifth year of my tradition of reflecting on this loss. I almost canceled doing so this year, but then, words came and burned in my heart:
I've been going to counseling this year, wading through the loss and its aftermath, and it all has felt deeply tangled - knotted and twisted, harsh. Uniquely, it has also left me with a tender, gentle appreciation for this: that our lives leave deep, indelible marks all over others in ways that are profound and deep and hard and beautiful.
It's been eight years now, since Luke's accident. My counselor asked me one day to tell her about him, all that I remember. And when I sat in her office and tried to share, I felt overwhelmed by all I had forgotten. "Do I now know so little? Is my memory of him fading? Have I forgotten forever?” I left discouraged, heavy. But in the weeks that followed, driving through the city or doing the dishes or scrolling through Instagram, talking to a friend or shopping in the store or sitting at work, I would remember, "Oh yes! Luke used to love that. Oh yes! I know exactly how he would respond here. Oh yes! I do this today because it's what Luke would do. Oh yes. I haven't forgotten at all." His story is all written into mine - everything that made him, him, and everything that makes me, me - overlapping and merging and mixing and true. Luke’s legacy has become entwined with my life, his pointing forward into who I am today, mine reflecting back to everything he was.
May we celebrate this in others, may we celebrate this in ourselves: that our lives are intricately, beautifully interwoven, that the marks we leave are profound. We cannot be summed up in a moment of victory, or in a season of despair. We are both and all. We are loved because we are, we are remembered because our lives - all of us, every part - hold glory.
Growing up, on the way to church at night, my brothers and I would hold competitions to spot the most houses with Christmas lights in the neighborhoods through which we drove. Of course, we all rode in the same car and drove past the same amount of houses: the only difference was who had the best eyes to see.
We may tell ourselves that our lives are small, don’t matter. And yet, as one who has lost another - I now know it is impossible to summarize or quantify or measure the glory of a life, the weight of a death.
I don’t remember who would win these Christmas contests - it probably varied every week. But what I do know is that Luke’s legacy is all mixed into mine, my life all mixed into yours, your life all intertwined into a thousand others - if only I have the eyes to see.
May all of us, every one, have eyes to see.
Last year’s reflection (December 28, his accident):
Last year’s reflection (March 11, his passing):
Two years ago (January 10, his birthday):
Three years ago (December 28, his accident):
Four years ago: (December 28, his accident):
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