Easily Excitable

No one did physical comedy better than my younger sister, Caroline. 

I will never forget watching her fall down a hill and break her finger at softball practice one morning. It wasn’t intentional physical comedy, per say, but it was comedy that got physical. 

And it was hilarious. 

During summertime conditioning, we were running the hills behind the softball field. When it was Caroline’s turn, she went up, and when she went down, she really went down. 

She took a little tumble off the cliff. 

Since I was a great big sister, I doubled over in hysterics. I didn’t even see her stand up. But then, one of my friends tapped me and said, “Uh…Emmie. Look.”

Caroline’s finger was in a rather unnatural position that might have been considered a right angle. 

(I don’t know- math and all that.)

The finger was broken (may have been dislocated- you know I embellish details). 

Some people will really do anything to get out of running hills, huh?

I still get tickled about that story. 

Caroline, Walker, and I were as different as they come, and there have never been two sisters who were more different than Caroline and me. 

The only similarities, really, were the following: 

• We idolized Walker
• We’re goofy
• Our eyes squinted the exact same way when we’d get tickled. 

Or, I guess, those are the physical and personality similarities. 

Just about every other part of our lives (Walker’s included, for many of these) converged for 18ish years- til we all started moving out of our parents’ house. 

Caroline and I ran with the same crowd and played the same sports. 

We drove the same car and slept in the same room. 

We got ready in the same bathroom and ate at the same dinner table. 

We even slept in the same bed for a few months. (Let the record state: Momma convinced us it would give us more space in our room. Surprise: we just about killed each other.)

For 25 years of our lives, Walker and I were blessed to live life with one Caroline Meadows. 

Last week marked four years of losing a key part of our family: my younger sister. 

Losing a sibling is an acute and odd pain. 

My childhood overflows with her memory- her particular flavor that ultimately made us Meadows kids the three stooges (and made our parents saints for raising us). 

Foundational to my life are memories of my sister. I could fill and entire blog with stories about her: 

The time she drove the family fourwheeler into the side of the neighbor’s house and ran away. 

The moment when she tried to sneak out of the farmhouse in broad daylight and tumbled (again)  out of the window all the way to the ground. 

One day when she was driving the family station wagon in the yard by herself, inexplicably wearing a fedora. 

Once, when she was about to get a spanking and stuffed a pillow in her pants because, surely, no one would notice that. 

Slapping each other on the way to school because the other swore it was her turn to drive.

This past week marked four years since Caroline passed away. 

On the anniversary of her death, I’m reflective: it’s a mix of sadness and consideration, and more than a little longing for a complete family with no loss.

And, as a result, each year, I write about it.

I write these posts for a couple of reasons: 

For starters, I love to remember Caroline. 

If you didn’t know her, here’s what you should know about her: 

• She was a train on the tracks that would bowl you over in a heartbeat.
• Caroline was funny: she had a penchant for saying inappropriate things, but often at just the right moment. 
• She would tell you that she didn’t like people. That was a lie: she loved people. I just think she saw through a lot of ‘put on’ that we often do. 
• She excelled at showing mercy to folks that most wouldn’t find much use for. 
• Caroline was stubborn and headstrong, loving and kind. 
• She loved cooking for other people. 
• Caroline was sensitive at her core, but she hid it well with a lot of bluster. 

I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating: she had a soft heart wrapped up in barbed wire. 

If I ever wrote that Caroline was perfect, she would probably ask God to let her come in my dreams and haunt me. 

But those imperfections? Largely, they came from a place and a spirit that, while not always likable (none of us are always likable), was admirable. 

I also write this to mark and reflect what I’ve learned about grief this year.

Grief is a tricky thing:

It oozes out at weird times and weird ways. 

For example, last fall break Trey and I were driving one night, and “Bittersweet Symphony” came on. A lot of feelings came rushing in inexplicably. I got a little of that ‘hollow chest’ feeling.

But also? Grief is kind of practical, too. 

I remember on the day she died, when I got back up to the trailer, I broke down. 

I then proceeded to glance at myself in the mirror as I was walking out of the bathroom, and all I could think was, 

“You really are so ugly when you cry.”

That’s exactly what Caroline would have said, had she seen me crying. 

I also found myself mindlessly listening to music right after, only to discover I was 2:15 into Beyonce’s “Bootylicious.” I got tickled at that because Caroline would have thought that was funny. 

At any rate, I think this is what I’ve learned from grief this year: 

Good does come from our tragedy. But it’s not necessarily the good we’d prefer.  

How could we ever say that we prefer the most intense hardships? 

In no uncertain terms: I can see the good that has come out of Caroline’s life and death. I know that God has been faithful. 

But simultaneously, I don’t prefer this: I’d love to have the good and still be able to call Caroline up and grab dinner. 

What I’ve learned about grief is that both can be true. It doesn’t diminish the good and it doesn’t diminish the pain to admit that. 

God has a way of squeezing us to make the good come out. 

We are crushed, but not destroyed. 

Make no mistake: it’s not comfortable.

I think if the grapes had their say in things, they’d prefer to stay whole and happy: their choice wouldn’t be the winepress. 

The burden of that decision lays on the Gardener Himself. 

And if He decides the best use of the grapes is the wine that comes from the crushing, who is the grape to say otherwise? 

The truth about grief is that loss and redemption exist together. 

So, what has that good looked like for our family? What are the practical ways we’ve seen positive things come from heartbreak?

Momma does fentanyl awareness training with 8th and 9th graders. 

Every year, Momma does trainings with middle school and high schoolers about fentanyl, the drug that ended my sister’s life. 

She brings Skittles and cookies so students have tangible ways to see the facts and effects of fentanyl.

Once a teacher, always a teacher. 

She also got flour and made it into a full-on replica of a brick of cocaine. She uses it as a visual.

One of my kids (high schoolers listen so well) thought she’d brought a legitimate brick of cocaine.

Talk about a conversation I never thought I would have in an English class. 

Daddy is in his 107th year of head coaching children’s ball: 

He started 30-odd years ago with us, and he continues now with Zayden. 

Daddy serves up his specific brand of tough love, and he continues being a good role model, particularly for little boys who don’t have that at home. 

Teaching, coaching, and every little thing in between: my mom and dad have parented more than just their own kiddos, and I like to think they have some good-looking heavenly crowns awaiting them as a result. 

We are closer as a family than we’ve ever been. 

We make seeing each other as much as possible a top priority. We reach out more than we did before Caroline died. 

This goes for the nuclear family, as well as our extended bunch, too. 

On the Meadows side, we even started having family reunions, replete with tshirts, coozies, and campers. 

After all, why even do something if you don’t go all out?  

Walker, Hanna, Trey, and I have a different relationship with Zayden. 

We all recognize that, for Zayden, the village aspect will be a big part of his raising- more so than it would be under normal circumstances. 

Zayden would move in with Walker and Hanna if he had his say. Hanna and Walker love and include him like their own, and he enjoys his role as the bigger, wiser (eh) cousin. 

Trey loves Zayden and gives his young neighbor a lot of grace. 

Without ever saying it outright, Trey realized that our role in Zayden’s life would be more than is typical for an aunt and uncle. 

Considering that we live 100 yards away from him, Trey is really good about sharing me.  

He’s also more generous than Zayden’s mean old Aunt Emmie. 

When we take Zayden shopping at the game store for his birthday, Trey’s great about letting him spend more money than me.

I’m so cheap.

Personally? I’ve grown in empathy. 

I see people differently now: I hurt a lot more for people. 

I ache for those who’re going through the rough, who are slipping and sliding in the muck as they try to regain their bearings. 

I see a lot more humanity in people who aren’t similar to me. 

That’s just not something I totally considered before: it just wasn’t on my radar. 

I think I have a lot more grace for kids, too. 

I interact with them differently: I try to speak to as many as I can each day. 

I’m not sure how that spun off from Caroline, but I do think it’s a marked difference since her death. 

(I would say that I’ve grown in patience, too, but that would be a lie. I can still rage with the best of them.)

I see my sister in a lot of my kids. Even when I don’t see her in them, I try to see the fringe kids how she would. Because, really? 

Those fringe folks were often who Caroline loved. 

In my Bible, I wrote outside of some verses: day of Caroline’s funeral.

Those verses are Psalm 139: 11-12: 

I’m thankful to have that reminder: both the verse and my little scribble beside it. 

We were in a pit at that time in our lives. I felt like I was surrounded by darkness, and I felt like I was wandering in it: wrapped up in it, unable to entangle myself. 

And when things are dark, is there any worse feeling than the thought, 

“But what if no one can find me here?” 

That morning these verses gave me something to cling to.  

I couldn’t see the way: see how anything could ever be right again. I couldn’t see how we as a family could ever be normal again (if we were ever normal in the first place).

That level of mourning is like wandering around in the dark. 

And, yet, I felt the nudge from God in these verses: “I’m here. I can see you. I can see in this.” 

He sees perfectly when we can’t see our hands in front of our faces.

He whispers to us, “This way. Take my hand. I can see the holes. I can see the monsters. I’m with you.” 

And in that moment, as I sat on my hand-me-down couch, I read that. 

And I believed Him. 

But, also, I would have loved to not have to go through pain to really take that truth to heart.

In the days after Caroline’s death, my Momma told us that her prayer was always that Caroline would come home. 

Momma told us that her prayers were answered, but understandably, it wasn’t the answer we were hoping for. 

As we sat on the porch and watched the hearse go by, I knew that God had answered Momma’s prayer. 

Caroline came home symbolically that day, but on the 24th, she went to a home that’s a lot better than the gig we have on Porter Road. 

She got to go home, and she got to embrace the faithful Savior who knew and who carried every joy and every hurt she ever felt- every deep-seeded wound she’d never disclose to any of us. 

This is the ultimate good ending. This is the good. 

But for us, as we keep on in our human brokenness, it wasn’t the preferable ending- at least, not yet. I’d have liked sixty or seventy more years.

I don’t prefer that side of things, but compared to what she can see now? How could I ever say that good didn’t come of this?

My sister wouldn’t choose to come back here to this place. And knowing she’s that happy? 

I am content with that fact.

God can grow grass on scorched earth.

And for that, I will always be grateful. Four years, and this thing has not changed: He is faithful.

Always. Forever.

The Resurrection, the Life, our Redeemer: Jesus, you are worthy of all praise.