I want so badly to try to write, but I am afraid to do it.  I can't sort out how I am feeling.  I can't find words for it yet, and I love trying to find words for things.  I want to honor this young woman who was so special to us.  I should know better than to think that the reality of a person is diminished if it is little known.  But for some reason I want to testify, I want to say something publicly.  It may be a mistake.  It feels frightening to share something so painful and so personal.  But I know I have been helped when other have shared their pain.  I will try.  

Anger is usually my comforting emotion; it is where I go when I am faced with a more complicated emotion I don't know what to do with, like grief.  But I can't muster much anger now, though I try.  This death is different from my brother Jon's.  How do you blame someone for cancer?  But a drunk driver can be blamed.  That is stupid.  It was the driver's fault and I hope they feel it.  But as much as I want to rage at this foolish drunk woman, I can't muster the energy.  I just feel gutted.  

Can you bring back our little sister? 
Can you give Laura her sister back?
Then I don't know if I care who is to blame for her death; it is her life we want.  

Last Thursday was one of the worst days of my life.  Rushing to the hospital in the middle of the night, terrified, ignorant, and helpless.  Being told they are moving her to another hospital, but its a crappy hospital we had bad experience with before.  

"No!  Not Mae Rim Hospital, tell them we have money, send her to a good hospital.  Tell them the foreigner will pay for it."  

Begging, just begging God to spare her life.  Driving too fast, then thinking about hitting someone myself, slowing down.  They have to move her now.  I turn around and follow the ambulance.  More pleading.  

Joy calls me from the ambulance with Laura, her sister.  It is bad, they are struggling keep her alive and help her breath.  Frantic, and helpless; that is how I feel.  And afraid.  

"No, no please no."  

That hospital ER in the middle of the night brought back my brother's memory.  It is not a good feeling.  It is the reminder of how helpless I am.  My strength, my cleverness, my money are no help.  I am praying, but I am praying in a jumble.  I can't think beyond begging for her life to be spared.  A miracle. A long recovery, but a great story of a near death escape, a great story of God who answers our prayers and restores this promising young woman's life.  

But then that gutted feeling again.  Jon died.  Our prayers were heard, but not answered as we asked.  Pain, terrible, terrible pain.  My face hurts.  I realize I have been clenching my face.  I am crying, but I can't cry fully.  I have a terrible headache.  This is a nightmare.  I am going to wake up and I will be so relieved it didn't really happen.  But I am not waking up.  Laura is in shock.  Ploy and Joy are crying, but trying to hope too, just like me.  

None of it is real.  Why? What would be the point?  Sarah was one of our brightest kids at Faithful Heart.  She was so easy to care for.  Everyone who spent time with her loved her.  It just wouldn't make any sense.  The world ought to make sense and this is senseless. 

But Jon's death was senseless.  Sometimes the world feels senseless.  I haven't eaten or drank for a few hours.  I can't think, I can't function.  I look around the ER.  No happy faces here.  If you are in the ER in the middle of the night, it is not for anything good.  Grief is so heavy.  Everyone suffering has people around them suffering too.  I should feel bad for them too.  But I can't right now.  I can't feel anything except the hollow emptiness.  

No, no please no.  

Just spare her life.  Laura comes up to me and hands me a bottle of water.  She and her boyfriend walked to 7 Eleven and bought water for all of us.  I should have thought of that.  I should helping them, caring for them, thinking of them.  I am not doing anything, I am just sitting here.  I need to walk.  But not far, the doctor may come out at any moment.  I don't move.  I thank Laura and drink the water.  It helps, I do feel better.  

I need to do something.  I need to say something.  I am the leader.  I need to take charge.  I do nothing.  

The doctor calls for us, and Joy, Laura and I rush over.  We explain who we are.  He asks if the mother is here.  We say no.  Laura called her, but she is hours away in the village.  Her ID papers expired, and she can't travel outside the province without permission.  Stupid.  Unfair.  Senseless.

The doctor tells us (in Thai) that it is not good.  Somehow I understand everything.  Severe internal trauma to her chest and lungs.  A broken leg.  Bleeding.  Not good.  They have her on a breathing machine.  Her heart stopped for a while, but they were able to restart it.  It is not good.  They will keep trying.  

No, no please no.  

Just spare her life.  I will do anything. 
That is stupid, I know I don't need to bargain with God. 
But I don't care.   Please, please just let her live.  

Now the memories of my brother are coming fast and hard.  Hospital rooms, that antiseptic smell, that helpless feeling.  The waiting, I hate the waiting.  I hate doing nothing when someone I love is dying.  I hate that!  I pray for the doctors.  I should ask people on Facebook to pray.  Is that stupid?  I don't care, maybe God will listen and save her life.  I post something.  People start replying that they are praying.  I am grateful for something to do, even if it feels useless.  It is a relief to do something, anything.  

Jon suffered slowly and over a long period of time.  I had time to process some of my feelings.  This is worse in a way.  I can't process anything, everything is happening too fast and too slow at the same time.  Sarah was fine.  I just saw her a few days ago.  I just left her that new motorbike that afternoon.  I knew the one she was driving was not easy for her.  This one was better, she would smile like she always does and Y her hands and say Kap kun kaa Pii Matthew.  Then I would smile too.  

The stupid bike!  Was that part of the problem?  Why did I give it to her that afternoon?  Was it my fault?  That is stupid.  She was a good driver.  Was she wearing her helmet?  She was?  Well, that should help, right?  What happened?  A drunk driver hit her?  It was only 9 pm.  Who the hell is drunk at 9pm?! What happened to the bike?  That is a stupid thought.  Who cares about the bike?  Sarah is fighting for her life why would I even think about the stupid bike?  

No, no please no.  

God, please spare her life.  She has such a bright future.  She wants to be a doctor.  She might be the first person ever from her tribe to be a doctor.  The whole community would be so proud.  She was the top student in her class.  

Please no, please.

The doctor calls us back, we rush forward.  I can see his face. 
He is young, and kind.  He is trying to be gentle.  

No, no, this cannot be; no.  

Sarah has died.  

The doctors revived her several times, but there was nothing else they could do.  My eyes burn, I have questions, but I can't speak.  I look at Laura.  She is shaking.  I look at Joy and Ploy, they are crying.  

No, no.  Please no.  

Now I am really crying.  Should I try not to cry for Laura's sake?  I can't help it.  The aching in my chest hurts.  The strangers in the ER look at us.  I am the only white person there.  Their eyes carry compassion for our grief.  They know.  They are waiting for their own bad news.  

But they didn't know Sarah.  They didn't know how kind she was, they didn't see how beautiful her smile was.  They didn't see her grow up.  They didn't know how smart she was.   They didn't know all the things she overcame in her life.  They didn't see how she protected and cared for her little sister.  They hadn't heard her sing.  

I am beside the bed where Jon died again.  The same gutted feeling.  It is a physical pain.  My headache is pounding.  Relax your face.  Why?  Why??  

A bed is wheeled out with a blanket over it.  Is that Sarah?  They call us again.  It is all happening too fast.  This can't be real.  Wake up!  Not again.  We follow the bed.  We are put into a private room and before we are ready the blanket is lifted, and a plastic bag unzipped, and there is Sarah's body.  Wait, is Laura ready for this?  She is on my left, I try to ask but I can't speak.  We all see.  But how can that be Sarah?  The light of her face is gone.  She is gone.  Jon again.  The moment his breath stopped, he was not there.  It is the same here.  This is not Sarah.  This is only her body, her shell.  It is traumatizing.  Not gory, just vacant.  

No, no please no.  

We are all crying.  I put my hand on her shin and pray and weep.  I don't know what I say.  Maybe I just groan and cry.  I look at Laura and pray more.  Now we have something in common I wish we didn't.  We have both lost a sibling.  For a few moments the five of us are alone in our grief.  How?  I ate dinner a few hours ago and Sarah was fine.  This cannot be.  It is.  What do we do?  What about Laura?  

We leave that room with that body that is not Sarah.  Another woman comes, she has paperwork. Poor Joy, but thank God for Joy.  Thank God Laura is not having to answer these questions.  

"You can get the body tomorrow, you need to arrange for someone with a truck.  Who will pay?"  

She isn't unkind, just matter of fact.  She didn't know Sarah.  If she did, she wouldn't be so careless.  It's not her fault, she sees this everyday.  Even dying is expensive.  Getting hit by a drunk driver is expensive.  So many decisions to be made.  How?  We can't even think.  Her mom.  We need to call her mom.  Will she understand?  The funeral.  When?  Where?  

How can she be dead?  What just happened?  Ploy will take Laura back to our dorm.  Joy needs a ride home.  I will take her.  Laura boyfriend has stayed with us this entire time.  I think highly of him for that, and he is visibly shaken.  I am thankful for him.  I put my hand in his and thank him.  I tell him Laura will need her friends in these coming days and ask him to be a good friend to her.  "I will," he says.  Ploy's boyfriend has been here the whole time too.  I know he is exhausted.  I think well of him for being here too.  I thank him.  

That's it.  We leave.   

We shut the doors to my truck, and cry.  I drive to Joy's house and we talk a bit before I drop her off.  I hug her and thank her for being who she is.  Maybe what grief wants most from others is to know it is shared.  Joy's grief is as deep as my own.  

For a moment I am so proud of my coworkers.  I constantly tell them that what matters is not how much we do, but how much love we put into what we do.  Mother Teresa said that.  It is a bitter moment, but I have seen the depth of both Ploy and Joy's love for Sarah.  

Now I am alone in my car.  "All the poor and powerless.."  That is a song.  Who sings it?  I need to listen to it now.  I find it.  Something in my releases and I weep.  I can't see, I can't drive.  I pull over.  Why God?  Why?  I don't understand.  She  was such a sweet person, why?  We have worked so hard to protect her, to care for her, to give her a future, and now it is snatched away.  WHY!?

It is almost 4am when I get home.  Audrey comes out to see me. 
I tell her: "Sarah is dead." I break down again, and we cry together. 
We try to talk.  I am exhausted.  

No, please no.  Let this be a nightmare we will wake from. 

The funeral will be the next night and the following day in her home Lahu villiage in Chiang Dao. 

We pack.  We try to explain our sadness to our kids.  

It is dark when we arrive in the village.  White people are unusual here, and the local people are curious.  Outside Sarah's mother's small wooden house, canopies and chairs have been set out.  A crowd is there already.  A large metal box with a framed photo of Sarah is in the front.  A man is speaking in Lahu, and a young woman is translating into Thai.  It is late, past my kids bedtime and they are exhausted.  Ezra, is asleep in my lap.  

The man with the microphone gestures to me and says something.  I wait for the Thai translation.  "Pastor Matthew will share something?"  I am caught off guard, I forgot about this part of village culture.  I tell them I cannot tonight, but if they will allow me, I would like to share about Sarah tomorrow.  

The service continues.  The people sing, almost a chant in Lahu.  It is not beautiful singing, but somehow it is healing.  Joy gestures to a woman sitting a few rows away.  This is the woman who hit Sarah.

What??!!  The drunk driver?  Why isn't she in jail?

I thought it was a man.  The woman approaches Sarah's mother and kneels by her.  Joy tells me she is apologizing.  This is insane.  How is she here?  How is no one furious with her?  Who could endure that now?

The woman leaves and the service ends.  The crowd, instead of leaving settles in.  Board games are brought out, music plays.  "They will be here all night Joy tells me.  It is their culture.  They will have some times when everyone cries out loud in mourning too." 

The introvert in me shudders.  But I understand somehow.  

"We cannot heal your grief, but we will be with you in it."  

I ask Joy to go with me to Sarah's mother.  She has battled mental problems for many years, but her mother's grief is evident now.  We find a Lahu translator.  I kneel down at her feet and tell her how we loved her daughter and how proud of her we were.  I try to tell her what a privilege it was to know Sarah.  I want her to feel proud of her daughter.  

She starts to talk to us about Sarah.  "She was always a good girl.  She was my pillar, I could always depend on her.  She never gave me any trouble.  I always knew she was doing the right thing.  I could rely on her."  It is the most I have heard her say about her children.  We cry together.  I offer to show her pictures of Sarah on my phone.  I start with one of the 3 of them smiling together a year ago.  I show her a portrait taken only a week ago.  She asks me to stop.  We all cry.  "I cannot handle any more," she says.  We clasp her hands for several moments, aching together.  

I ask to speak to the grandmother.  She is an ancient little woman, weathered and wrinkled, but strong and noble.  We climb the stairs into the wooden house, where they are brewing tea over an open fire.  Laura is holding her grandmother in her lap, clasping hands.  It is a beautiful, agonizing scene.  

They welcome us warmly.  They are honored, they say, that we have come.  They serve us tea.  I ask the grandmother if she remembers meeting me many years ago in the village.  She is looking in my direction, but slightly to my right.  She says she cannot see anymore, but she remembers I had good hair.  We laugh for a moment.  We talk about Sarah.  There is pain and pride in her face.  Ploy is Lahu, and I am so glad she is with us.  There is an understanding there, something we on the outside cannot enter.  I try again to tell the grandmother how much we enjoyed watching Sarah grow up and how proud of her we were.  

Those two conversations help as much as anything.  Shared grief is shared love.

The next day we have another service.  Ploy has explained to me that they will want me to share and to preach.  They hold foreigners who help children in very high regard she explains.  

I am at Jon's funeral again.  I can't speak then.  My family urges me too.  My Dad and Jay both do, but I can't.  

I remember a story from the Bible.  David's son is dying.  He refuses to eat or wash, he lays face down begging God to spare his son's life.  

The child dies.  

When David learns of it, he rises, washes, and eats.  His people are confused.  He explains that as long as his son lived, he would plead with God because he didn't know.  But when his son died, he knew he could not bring his son back, but he would go to him.  

I couldn't bring Jon or Sarah back, but I would go to them. 
We all would.  Death was not abnormal, only early.  

I remembered something Paul said: "To be absent from the body, is to be present with the Lord."

That was the feeling with Jon and Sarah---absence.  

"If the earthly tent that is our body is destroyed, we have a home with God, eternal in the heavens."
That was Paul too.  

Jon and Sarah are absent, not gone. 
I remembered her body in that hospital bed. 
She was not there. 
She was with the Lord.  

I must try to say this in the midst of our grief. 
We cannot bring her back to us, but we will go to her.  

I have very little time to prepare.  It doesn't matter. 
God, help me honor this young woman's life. 
Children are a gift from God, and Sarah was a gift to everyone who knew her. 
A well lived life, however short, is to be celebrated more than the longest life lived in selfishness.  

Sarah had a very difficult life, much harder than my own, and yet she was incredibly kind.  A woman from Sarah's church and a girl from her volleyball team both shared how kind she was to everyone.  "She was a mother to all of us girls, she always spoke gently and encouraged us," one of her teammates said.  

After hearing these testimonies, her grandmother tottered towards the front.  We helped her to a chair and she said she wanted to speak.  "I am very sad, but it makes me happy to hear these things about my granddaughter.  She was a good girl.  I thank God."  

The service ended, her casket is brought out of the metal box.  The children of the village rush to see her dead body.  Audrey and I pull our kids back.  We don't want them to see, so young.  It somehow feel callous.  But these people live much closer to death and pain than we generally do.  

The body that was Sarah's, but is not Sarah, is loaded into the truck and many people hop in.  We follow them up the mountain to a secluded cemetery on the side of the hill.  A hole has been dug, bricks laid, cement ready to be mixed.  It is like a tomb.  We are handed flowers to throw on her casket.  

Sienna especially seems to understand now.  She wants me to hold her and I am grateful for it.  Tears stream down my face and she hugs me tight.  Songs are sung, chanted, and it is beautiful.  How can this be real?  How can Sarah be gone?  How can it be that I won't see her at my office anymore?  How can it be that she won't have another music recital?  How did this happen?  Why?

I look at my children as I load them in the car, with love and fear. 
I see the questions in their faces, they don't completely understand, but they understand enough.  

Ezra asks me about Sarah dying, Sienna asks me about her body being buried. 
We try to explain. 
Sarah is gone from that body, but she is with Jesus, like Uncle Jon.  

We need some joy. 
We go to the waterfalls nearby.  It is a beautiful day, a surreal day. 
We go to the hot springs next.  It is full of people, curious to see our white skin and blue eyes. 
A precocious little girl chats me up, and is delighted I can speak to her in Thai.  

It is Sarah's 18th birthday, the day of her funeral. 
I look this little girl who is probably about as old as Sarah was when I met her 10 years ago.  

What will her life be like?  

She tells me she cannot swim, but sees Ezra swimming and wants me to teach her.  

Another tiny little girl with pigtails really likes Sienna and she tumbles right into the mix and grabs my hand.  She is smiling so big.  Her father nods apologetically towards me, but I smile and laugh. 
They are just kids being kids, and right now that helps heal my heart.  

Sarah did all the hard work.  She overcame all the adversity life sent her.  She chose to be kind and brave.  She worked hard in school, in sports, and in serving her church.  

Everyone who knew her said; "This girl has a bright future."

We already knew that.  Our job was to protect her childhood as much as we could. 
We couldn't do the work for her, only try to give her a chance.  

Was it a waste?

Many families have cared for Sarah.  It was touching to see how much they all loved her.  Wep and Nid.  Jay and Butsaba.  Tim and Nung.  Dave and Shirley, and others. 
All of them, without exception, loved her.  

And love is never wasted.  

I wanted to see Sarah have a wonderful life and future.  I wanted to see her push against stereotypes against tribal people and prove them wrong.  I wanted to see her fall in love and get married and have her own children.  She had so much practice being a mother, I was excited to see her have her own children.  Or whatever life she chose.  

I wanted to be somewhere on the sidelines cheering her on, finding joy in her joy.  I have no right to care so much about her as I do.  I am not biologically related to her, and I was not important to her daily life.  But I spent time with her, and that, as my friend Betsy Tardy taught me, is the secret to loving children.  

Perhaps this is where my stubbornness comes out a bit.  I refuse to only grieve for her death.  I will also celebrate her life.  Never have I been more convinced of the inestimable value of every life---rich lives and poor lives, strong lives and weak lives, big lives and small lives, famous lives and obscure lives.  

It is the capacity to love and be loved, not our ability to produce of achieve, that makes us human and gives us value.  

The world will not grieve the death of a poor Lahu girl from Chiang Dao. 
But everyone who met her will. 
And a life thus mourned is a life worthy to be celebrated .

But the ache remains, and it will come back in waves.  

To this day, I have moments where I long to share something with my brother Jon. 
There is fresh grief each time.  

There will be moments when I want to see Sarah again---graduations, weddings, births---and the grief will find me again.  

When Jon died, I was confronted with my own mortality in a way I never had been before. 
I suppose in some ways I was confronted with God's "No" too, in a way I never had been before.  

Sarah's death brought it all home again.  I ride my motorbike everywhere and I ride fast.  I like to think I am a reasonable good driver, but how do you protect yourself from a drunk driver?  

The night I left for the hospital, Audrey asked me to please drive the truck and not my motorbike.  I didn't want to, it would slow me down, but I agreed.  I understood.  

Some part of me wants to push back against death and mortality. 
Maybe it is the stubbornness born of helplessness.  

I am going to keep driving my motorbike.  

Who knows when I may hear the words Jon heard: "You have cancer."
Who knows when I may get t-boned by a drunk driver?

To live in love, not in fear, is to live defiantly towards death. 
May God help us learn the courage to live in kindness, courage, and love as Sarah did.  

Then maybe our death will be a triumph as well as a tragedy.  

Thank you to all of you who have prayed and sent encouraging words.  Please keep us in your prayers in the coming weeks.  One of our boys, Benjamin and his sister Chokdee had a kidney transplant on January 8th.  Please pray for them both.  They came through the surgery well and are recovering.  

I am scared.  I don't know if we can handle any more grief right now.  

Please pray for our kids and staff as we try to mourn and grieve together. 
Grief is different for everyone.  We want to try to give everyone space to grieve as they need.  

There are some financial needs right now too.  Faithful Heart covered the costs of the funereal and the hospitals for now.  If you can help, thank you in advance.  You can give here:

https://admin.newhorizonsfoundation.com/donation/create/421

May God be with us, poor and powerless lost and lonely, grieving and broken.  

We shall mourn, but we shall hope too.  

“Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man... He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away. Behold, I am making all things new.”

Until then Father, draw us into your love and deliver us from fear.