6 months

Dear Chloe,

I can hardly fathom that today marks six months since you died. I’m sorry I haven’t written anything sooner. I confess that I’ve struggled to find words to articulate my thoughts and feelings post your death. I’ve been moving the puzzle pieces of your story around in my head and heart since you died, and it still confounds me. There is no sense to be had in the suddenness and prematurity of your death and there likely never will be, so I’m going to do my best to say something of my heartache for you.

Chloe, when I first met you as a little girl you were pure Labrador puppy energy—joyful and exuberant, eager always for love, attention, and affection, and a tad mischievous, which made you exasperating in certain moments and also that much more lovable in my eyes.

I find so many of my memories of you are less about stories or narratives to tell, and more a random collection of sensory memories from being present in your life over time. There’s the vision of you as I tucked you in at bedtime whenever your parents were gone (you always wanted the door kept open a crack), the sound of your laughter and the distinct sound of your footsteps in the house (you were surprisingly heavy footed for such a small girl, haha), the sound of your voice hollering for your mom or dad from down the hall, the flavor of Texas sheet cake on your birthday, the joy of your 6th grade talent show and graduation, taking you to Claire’s to get a second piercing for your birthday, your earnest concern that Luke and I would break up after he hit a wild boar while driving my car back when we were dating (LOL), baking pie with you at our apartment the first Thanksgiving after Luke and I were married…so many small moments stored in my heart, a hodgepodge of random snapshots that encapsulate your unique being in my life. I am grateful for every single one of them.

As you entered adolescence, you took the same eagerness for love, attention & affection with you and, because of my unique relationship to your family, I had a front row seat to the intimacies and challenges of that time (adolescence is that way for all of us to a certain degree). When I think back to you navigating the turbulence of the teen years, I see clearly that you knew deep down you were securely loved by your parents. I held so much damn hope for the fruit that their non-contingent love for you would produce in your life as you emerged into adulthood and found your stride. I wanted so much for you to find faithful friends, a deep sense of rootedness, an understanding of your unique gifts and calling in the world…and I felt in the very core of my being that it was around the corner.

The last time we spent one-on-one time together before you died, I had picked up High Street Deli sandwiches for us, and we sat at a picnic table in Mitchell Park and talked about life. You were working as a receptionist at the time, you and Shea had recently begun dating, and you had definitely figured out that online education was not a good fit for you. You were so on your way, Chloe, and I remember wishing the gap between North County and South County (and our magnificently different life-stage constraints) weren’t standing between us because the rubber was hitting the road in your emerging adulthood, you were asking good questions, you were learning about yourself out here on your own in California, and I wanted a front row seat to it all. It’s what I had waited for.

And then on January 3, 2024, you died. I am still unable to wring any peace out of it, Chloe. I was supposed to be at your wedding, sitting around a table with your parents, our feet tired from a day of celebration, grins on our faces, as we reminisced about the good old days, the hard and absurd task of growing a child up in this world, and how any exasperating memories now lived in the shadow of your beautiful story arc, an arc written by the God who loves you. I could weep for days and not find the bottom of my grief that we won’t have that day together.

If anything now, I worry that my relationship with you was too future-oriented, too focused on what you were becoming instead of attending to and loving you in the present moment. God, how I pray that you knew I was always in your corner and felt that I loved you unconditionally! I’m so sorry if I failed you in that regard, Chloe.

In the midst of the many unanswered questions since January 3rd, I’ve had to ask myself over and over again what it is I do know to be true. And what I know to be true, Chloe, is that you belong to God. He has you in his never-stopping, never giving up, unbreaking, always and forever love. It is absolutely no challenge for his powerful hand to write life and beauty and redemption from your story, cut short as it was. He is already doing it, though I can’t yet see it now.

Nicolas Walterstorff, in his book Lament for a Son says, “The wounds of all humanity are an unanswered question.” Luke and I have talked about how there are so many unanswered questions in your death, and they hurt my heart as a wound licked raw. “Why?! Why?! Why?! It doesn’t make sense, God.” So I let the “whys” come as they may and lay them at the feet of our wounded Savior Jesus, day by day.

What else is there to do but let our love for you continue to pulse through our veins? To speak your name. To remember how absolutely wonderful and beloved you are. To talk about our memories of you and to let them bring both smiles and tears. That is what I’m doing today, as I’m sure your family is too.

I love you, dear Chloe. Thank you for the gift of being in your life and seeing you grow.

Love,

Anna