Find Your Hope

FYI- this post was written on Feb. 12, 2024, but not published for another 2 months.

My beautiful daughter, 

You have lit up a room since July 16, 2005 with that open mouthed smile & infectious inner beauty of yours. Being your mom has been my best work by a mile, and I have an urgency to write you a letter today...

I believe we caught a glimpse of your second act on February 12, 2024- exactly 18 months after your precious dad left for heaven. 

Before I gush about the details of the day, I want to back up a bit. Most kids spend lots of time pining for their senior year. The bigness of it all. Senior sunrise and sunset, doing things for the "last" time, applying to colleges and campus visits. I, too, got sucked into the excitement of it all watching friends do it with their daughters. 

But alas...that was not to be for us.

Your dad died 2 days into your senior year, rearranging everything. We didn't know it at the time, but the things lost in the fire were enormous, and the devastation was bigger.

You played and loved volleyball for 9 years, always with your dad fully engaged & cheering. It wasn't long after his departure that you could no longer step on to the court. The sacred love of the game was lost to sheer exhaustion & deep grief. 

You were absent nearly 35% of your senior year. Crippling anxiety and panic tethered you to your bed for so many days. And there were times you cried and mumbled, "My only friends are my mom and my cat." It ripped me to shreds seeing you so overwhelming sad, knowing the only thing you wanted was something I could never give you. 

The weight dropped off your 6 foot frame quickly. Dark circles accompanied, and at your lowest I think you clocked in at 104 lbs. I didn't have the energy to panic because I was barely surviving myself. 

We toured a few college campuses, and I quietly cried behind my sunglasses, because dammit, I dreamed of doing this WITH YOUR DAD BY MY SIDE!

How was I doing this alone?

The house that once welcomed gobs of your friends for visits and sleepovers got painfully quiet. No one visited while you laid in bed. And both of us were too sad to care. 

Graduation day had you on the floor in a heap when you were supposed to be dressed and in line at school. You didn't let the darkness win. I threw you in sweatpants and flip flops, with a head of wet hair. While commencement unfolded, you got sick in a trash can in the office, but rallied enough to be thrown in a golf cart and snuck in a back entrance with enough time to claim your diploma. You were so weak, I had to hold you up while you climbed the stairs.

This was not a failure. It was actually your finest hour.

It was a hell of a year. We saturated ourselves in the loneliness. The fear. The aloneness. The unfamiliarity of this newly rearranged life. 

And we survived.

We survived for the better days ahead. We survived for the second act we've been building, one small step at a time. We survived for today. 

Because today...you looked like this. Today...all you grieved for months and months was the kindling to reignighted hope...at a place with the same name.

 

Hope College. A lovely small school in Holland, Michigan. We spent the day here, touring & imagining you in classrooms, making new friends, finding brand new joys and painting a blank canvas with some spectacular color. 

My heart swelled as you smiled & asked questions. I grew excited thinking about you walking between classes, transforming an ordinary dorm room into a small cocoon, and inviting new people to sit at your table. 

You've been building your wings for some time, and they began to flutter today. I heard the hum. 

I want you to know that as we wandered campus, your dad was nearby. He was keeping watch over his girl, and I know this to be true because of the sign he sent. Our tour guide- Samantha- stopped us to peek into only one classroom- Classroom 1111. 

Dad has been sending repeated 1's from the beginning, and today was no exception. He's protecting you when I cannot, offering gentle reminders to keep going, loving you from so very far away. We've been told repeatedly that Geoff Hayball has an incredibly strong spirit that comes through often. What a dad you have, Gwenie Girl, reminding you at every turn to lay down the worry and angst, because he's paving the path with his bright light. 

I snapped and created this picture over a week before we toured Hope.  My friend Nancy gave me these words in a text, and I LOVED them...because grieving is mostly existing in hopelessness. Then it changes, and we begin searching for hope again. Who knew these words would have such deep meaning for us.

Hope College in Holland...we found you.

We loved you for the possibility, the community, the space you are offering my fragile yet mighty daughter to breathe, dream and belong after a very long hiatus. 

Today- exactly 18 months after your dad left for Heaven- I saw your shoulders relax and a smile creep onto your face repeatedly. I've made so much space for your hurting heart to simply be still for so long, and it's all been so worth it to see you at the precipice of hope & change today.

You are a phoenix rising. And it's my greatest joy to bear witness to your strengthening, your gathered courage, your building Hope. 

This flight is about to get good!

Keep going, Gwenie girl.

 

UPDATE- In the time since this post was written, Gwen has been admitted & accepted to Hope College for fall, 2024. That feeling of magical belonging as we walked campus was right on the money!

I give thanks to Matt Bird, my old high school friend from a lifetime ago. He worked behind the scenes to make Hope shine brightly for us Hayballs.

Also a big shout out to Barb Miller, transfer guru at Hope. Your personal attention & gentle, welcoming way helped this community feel like home.