I Said Yes: My Story of Heartbreak, Redemption, and True Love (7 page)

BOOK: I Said Yes: My Story of Heartbreak, Redemption, and True Love
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I felt like I was getting the first symptoms of the flu, so I stayed behind, which was rare. But there was something else that kept me home, something I have never before shared publicly.

Ricky and I had just gotten into a heated argument before he left the house. I don’t remember the reason for the unkind words we spat at each other, but our conversation wasn’t pretty. I’m sure I was at fault. I’m aware, very aware, of my strong stubborn streak, which in this case could have very well fueled the argument.

Ricky and I made a pact when we started dating. If we were ever going somewhere without the other, we promised to at least call or text to let each other know we arrived safely. It didn’t have to be a long message, just a simple “I made it. Talk soon. Love you.”

Ricky was scheduled to land that morning. But I didn’t get a call. Or a message. And still nothing even after I tried calling him every few minutes, leaving what seemed like fifty messages that said, “I don’t know where you are. I know we didn’t leave on the best terms, but at least call me back. Or text me. Something. Where are you?” I was getting frustrated. Was he really that mad?

As the hours passed without a word, I became anxious. But I still waited. For a phone call that would never come.

*
Anne Lamott,
Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith
(New York: Random House, 1999), 3.

**
Mark Twain,
Roughing It
, Project Gutenberg eBook, part 8, August 18, 2006, http://www.gutenberg.org/files/3177/old/orig3177-h/3177-h.htm.

four

I
sat on the living room couch, flipping through TV channels I wasn’t paying attention to and thumbing through magazine articles that looked like an incomprehensible jumble of vowels and consonants. The distractions were pointless. Why does time seem to stand still when you’re waiting?

Finally, my phone rang. My heart raced. I grabbed the vibrating phone so quickly that it almost flew out of my hand.

It was Ricky’s mother. Disappointed, I let out a sigh as I said, “Oh, Mrs. Hendrick.”

“Emily.” Her voice was firm and calm, but betrayed concern. “I need you to go to Lynne’s house right now.” There was an emphasis on the last two words.

I didn’t respond right away. I just knew something was wrong. Heart racing, stomach tightening, I felt like I was going to throw up. “Okay,” I heard myself saying, as if a part of me was already beginning to detach.

The problem was I didn’t know how to get to Lynne’s house. I’d been there a few times with Ricky, but I had never paid attention to what turns were made when or where. I didn’t even know my way around Charlotte yet. Mrs. Hendrick hung
up the phone before I had a chance to ask for Lynne’s address, so I drove off and hoped for the best. Somehow I found myself pulling into her driveway mere minutes after the phone call ended. There’s no other way to say this—I truly believe God guided me there.

Though Lynne was expecting me, she didn’t know what was going on either. We waited, mostly in silence, for her husband, who we were told had more information, to get home. When Marshall walked through the door, his face looked pale. Before Lynne or I had a chance to assault him with questions, he spoke, barely above a whisper. “The plane is missing.”

Everything froze in that moment. Shock slowly invaded my heart, my mind. I shook my head and defiantly looked directly into Marshall’s eyes. “No. No, that can’t be true.”

A missing plane is not a good thing. And while it suggested that the plane had crashed, I refused to believe that. I refused to even consider what was probably a tragic reality. I still believed Ricky was okay. I mean, Marshall hadn’t said the word
crash
, nor had he offered us any actual evidence, so as far as I was concerned, the pilot probably had to do an emergency landing or maybe his radar stopped working. “Missing” had to mean something other than gone forever. It had to.

While disbelief overwhelmed me when I heard Marshall say those four words, at the same time a heavy sadness fell upon me. I felt like every bone, fiber, tissue, nerve, and muscle in my body had turned into concrete. And there I was. Swinging between denial and pain. Pain and denial. As Marshall, Lynne, and I drove over to the Hendricks’, no one saying a word, conflicting emotions began to claw their way through me.

Still trying to wrap my brain around what a missing plane
meant, I wanted solid answers. I wanted to talk to someone who knew what was going on. I didn’t want to come up with a million definitions of what a missing plane meant or sit like some helpless puppet imagining a handful of worst-case scenarios. I wanted the truth.

I thought about the argument Ricky and I had right before he left for the airport. The unkind words. My pride. For the life of me I couldn’t remember what we had fought about. What was so darn important that demanded our good-byes in a fit of fury? What did I want? What was I trying to say? What was I holding on to so tight that I couldn’t switch gears? Regret became my new companion.

The mood at the Hendricks’ was tense, somber. Mrs. Hendrick’s eyes were red and swollen as she made her way, everyone else in tow, inside the home office. I still didn’t know what was going on and felt dreadfully out of place. Like a lost puppy, I followed the trail of family members. One by one, we formed a circle and held hands while the Hendricks’ pastor led us in a heartfelt prayer.

I only half listened to his words. I was still wondering if there was an update, if the plane had been found, when I heard, injected somewhere in the prayer for comfort and strength, “Nobody had made it.”

Nobody had made it.

My body went limp, releasing my grip from whoever’s hand I was holding at the time. Nobody had told me that no one had made it. That Ricky hadn’t made it. That he was gone. I began to drown in a sea of rage, violently pitched against massive waves, unable to gain my footing, let alone breathe.

I was angry. The rage blinding. Had I been the only one
in the room who didn’t know the news? Really? I was angry at God, tuning out the pastor’s prayer directed to a deity in that moment I wasn’t sure even existed. If God was real, then I didn’t like Him. He obviously didn’t think much of me. When the final “amen” was spoken, I stood invisible, staring at a group of people consoling one another through smothering sobs and weighted embraces.

During the course of the next hour or so, I learned details. The Hendricks’ private plane had crashed into the Bull Mountains, only seven miles from the airport where they were scheduled to land. No one on board had a chance to survive.

The waiting was over. The worst had come.

While I took the Hendricks up on their offer to stay with them for a few days, later that night I headed to the condo to pick up a few things—the condo where Ricky and I had been living together just twenty-four hours previously.

It was dark when I walked in. Quiet. Everything was in place, as if life hadn’t changed. As if my world hadn’t been turned upside down. I waited in the stillness, shutting my eyes, praying that when I opened them, Ricky would be standing beside me, playfully asking what I was doing standing with my eyes closed. Nothing was different when I opened my eyes. Ricky was still gone.

I walked slowly around the place, dazed. I could still smell Ricky’s cologne. I saw the bowl of cereal he had for breakfast in the kitchen sink, milk still in it. I brushed past his toothbrush lying on the bathroom counter, still smelling of mint. I noticed his laundry on the bedroom dresser, still waiting to be put away, clothes he’d never wear again. Denial crept its way in again and I panicked.
What if they are wrong? What if
Ricky’s still out there? What if he’s hurt? What if he’s waiting for us to come find him?

As quickly as I could, I shoved some toiletries and clothes into an overnight bag. I didn’t want to stay long. As comforting as it was seeing signs of Ricky all over our home, it was equally just as crushing. Before I left, I remember grabbing a teen Bible from inside my night table. I had never read it before, nor did I know how to read it. But as I held the book in my trembling hands, I felt something or maybe even Someone nudging me to flip through the pages. For what? I wondered. To read mumbo-jumbo stuff that was written thousands of years ago by stuffy religious folk who hadn’t just tragically lost a loved one? What comfort could I possibly find? What words to make this all go away? What verse to make Ricky walk through the door?

This particular Bible offered topical studies on subjects like dating, purpose, relationships, and self-esteem. When I closed my eyes, book in hand, I prayed, “God, give me a sign. Give me something.” I didn’t have a particular sign or a particular something in mind. I just wanted evidence, proof that God was with me. Proof that God cared. Proof that this wasn’t a perverse joke, a sick and twisted abuse of divine power. Proof that God didn’t just obliterate the love of my life and nine others, leaving a trail of grieving loved ones behind, simply just because.

I played Bible roulette and randomly opened to a page that blared a bold heading, “How to Deal with Death.” My eyes skimmed through a paragraph about heaven, about our souls belonging to God, about the Holy Spirit being available to us as a comforter, about how near to the brokenhearted God is. And then I read the words of Jesus: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. My Father’s
house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. You know the way to the place where I am going” (John 14:1–4
NIV
).

I can’t tell you that reading those words immediately made me feel better. I can’t tell you the tears stopped. And I can’t tell you that the heavy weight of loss was lifted. What I did feel was confirmation of God’s presence. He was with me. Silent, perhaps. Maybe even somewhat distant. But as I stumbled through the shifting emotions of numbing shock, insufferable sadness, and seething anger, a part of me was assured that God hadn’t abandoned me.

The days before the funeral were a blur. I retreated into the shadows as Ricky’s immediate family members spun in a flurry of phone calls. Of making arrangements. Of blocking out schedules. You know, logistics. When something traumatic happens, the world doesn’t stop. You can’t just bury your head in the sand without doing what needs to be done. Eulogies and obituaries need to be written. Programs created. Ministers called. Service details relayed. I can’t even begin to imagine what Ricky’s parents were going through, needing to finalize the last pieces of his life while their hearts were exploding.

I camped out in the Hendricks’ guest room most of the time, aware that though Ricky and I were going to get married, I wasn’t officially family. I didn’t feel like I fit in or even deserved to be there. I never felt so alone in my life. Maybe I was overly insecure or so consumed with losing the love of my life, but I felt out of place, wearing the insignificant, temporary label of “girlfriend.” Though deep down I knew it wasn’t
true, it felt almost parallel to a fling. This feeling would come and go during the course of the next few months, sometimes even making me question whether or not our relationship was real. It’s mind-boggling how grief can doctor, even contaminate, your thoughts.

The night before the funeral, in a rare moment of intimate quiet, Mrs. Hendrick and I sat on her living room couch. Tears slipped down my cheeks as I stared out the windows that surrounded the room. The view was empty, pitch-black, void of even a hint of moonlight. I looked at her with a sadness only she could understand and asked, not really expecting an answer, “When will I stop hurting?”

Mrs. Hendrick looked at me with eyes of compassion, understanding the fullness of loss, of pain, of emptiness. As she cupped my hands in hers, she began to pray. I had always admired the strength and grace she drew from her faith. As she prayed over me, I felt the Holy Spirit moving in my own spirit. His presence was unmistakable, covering me with a feeling of settling warmth. Mrs. Hendrick prayed that I would know God, that I would experience His peace, His hope.

I’d been prayed over before, and though I’m not thrilled to admit this, most times I’d zoned out, thinking about things other than God. But when Mrs. Hendrick prayed, I devoured her words. I wanted so badly what she was praying over me. And in that moment, I knew God wanted me to have it, too, to have a deeper connection, a relationship with Him other than showing up at church services or praying occasional glib sentences. I didn’t know it, but this moment was another drawing me toward God, another step in the long journey of finally coming home.

During the funeral services, which celebrated the lives of all ten people aboard the plane, I sat in the front row of the Central Church of God. The same church where Ricky and I had visited together, the same church where we both experienced a move of God during an altar call. Hundreds of black-clad mourners, family and friends, gathered together that morning, filling every seat in the large church. Beautiful words were spoken, thousands of tears shed.

As the scene that surrounded me faded into a muffled background, I stared at the large picture of Ricky that was placed in his honor at the front of the church. My eyes trailed over each feature of his beautiful face. His Romanesque nose. His winning smile. His perfect teeth. My body sat rigid in the pew, immobile, while on the inside I screamed,
No, no, no! This isn’t happening! This isn’t real!

I was mad as I stared at the photo of Ricky. Mad at him for leaving me. Mad at God for taking him. Mad at Ricky’s sister for not mentioning my name as she spoke eloquently of Ricky’s life. Mad at myself whenever I remembered the last conversation Ricky and I had, filled with regret at how I allowed anger and pride to stand in the way of peace.

I was mad when the funeral came to a close and I was offered what sounded like empty or generic condolences. Nobody could say anything right. I was so angry at how Ricky’s life was cut so tragically short that I wanted to punch anyone in the face who said trite platitudes such as:

BOOK: I Said Yes: My Story of Heartbreak, Redemption, and True Love
8.28Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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