Taylor's Gift (18 page)

I remembered Taylor writing the poem. It was due the Monday before we left on spring break. At the time, it was just another piece of homework. The assignment was to create an autobiographical website, and the poem was just one element among many. We first saw the poem shortly before the funeral, when her language arts teacher emailed us the password to Taylor's website so we could decide what to do with it.

Since then, Todd had read it at the funeral and to the kids at school during lunch. It had taken on a life of its own, spawning “I Am Taylor” videos of her friends reading it on YouTube. With tears in my eyes, I thanked Gayle for her thoughtful gift. Later, I found a special spot to display the plate in our kitchen.

“Tara, listen to this,” Todd said one day. He'd been holed up in his office, and I knew he was working on something related to the website or the foundation. “I was doing some research on organ donation, and I just downloaded the annual report from Donate Life, and it says that only 37 percent of Americans are registered donors.”

“That's not very high,” I said.

“But listen to this: Texas is the second lowest state, with only 2 percent registered! That isn't right! We can do something about that.”

“How?”

“I don't know, but I'm going to figure it out,” Todd said. Though it was a huge issue, I knew Todd well enough to know that if he got his mind around it, he'd figure out a way.

A few days later, Todd came to me with a request. “Look, I know you don't like doing interviews, but WFAA has been wanting to
do a follow-up piece to see how we're doing, and I've been holding them off,” Todd said. “But in light of the low number of organ donors registered in Texas, I think telling our story could help more people register.”

Though it had been weeks since the funeral, and the foundation was only getting started, there still seemed to be a lot of interest in Taylor's story and our desire to promote organ donation. The media continued to call, and it wasn't unusual for Todd to do a radio, newspaper, or occasional TV interview. Though he wanted me to be a part of them, I mostly stayed away. However, in light of the statistics he'd recently shown me, I now felt differently.

“I think we should do it,” I agreed.

Cynthia personally picked the reporter who would interview us. His name was Gary Reaves, and we immediately liked him. We were seated in the dining room when Gary noticed the plate Gayle had made. He asked about it, and we told him the story behind the poem.

“Can you read it out loud?” he asked.

I picked up the plate without thinking and began to read it. Certain lines jumped out at me, like I was hearing them for the first time: “I wonder how long forever is . . . I want to touch people's lives. . . .”
If she only knew how many lives she's touched and is continuing to touch
, I thought. “I cry at the thought of losing a member of my family.”
I wonder if she knows how many tears we've shed for her.
By the time I finished, I was crying. The only good thing to come out of Taylor's death was the lives she touched—some through inspiration, but five through direct organ donation. Though I didn't like it, I was starting to see a purpose in our pain, and it was a purpose she'd written about in her poem.

During the interview I said to Gary, “I can't wait until I can hug the person who has her heart.” It was the one hope I'd clung to—the hope that I would one day hear her heartbeat again this side of heaven.

The interview ended, and as we said goodbye to Gary and the crew, I realized that if we really wanted to promote organ donation, there would be more interviews in the future just like this one.

Oh, God, if this is what You want for us, if there is some purpose in Taylor's death for us, I need a sign. And I need You; I can't do this on my own.

Todd

I'm a light switch guy. I'm either on, or I'm off. When I read about the low number of registered organ donors in Texas, something in me clicked on. It infuriated me and made me resolve to work harder to get Taylor's story out there. The foundation was the mechanism to make that happen, and I truly believed we could get the needle to move higher than 2 percent.

Things were already happening. The website was up and volunteers were working in several areas. A documentary producer and crew were in place, and they were beginning their initial interviews of people who would tell Taylor's story.

Not only were my days filled with the details of the upcoming garden dedication but I was also having numerous conversations regarding the foundation's evolving mission and vision, associated website photos and graphics, and the educational strategy for organ donation. While I tried to include Tara in these conversations, she couldn't participate in long drawn-out discussions; she didn't have the focus. But she helped to make simple choices, like deciding
between two fonts for the website. I wanted to include her but not overwhelm her.

On April 19, a month and four days after we lost Taylor, we celebrated her birthday by dedicating the newly completed garden at her school. It was unbelievable how much work Jay, his team of professionals, and the community volunteers had gotten done so quickly.

Hundreds of people turned out. It reminded me of the visitation, except this time everyone was wearing Tiffany blue (the color of Taylor's eyes) T-shirts. Taylor's friends had designed them, and everyone who came wore them—students, teachers, neighbors, volunteers, and the community at large. The crowd looked like a sea of blue, with swelling waves of purple balloons. The guests sat on the freshly mowed grass. Several people spoke, including two of Taylor's friends, Father Alfonse, and Principal Laura Springer.

I planned to speak and I looked forward to it. When I spoke in front of the kids, it energized me and fed my soul. I had no expectation that Tara or the kids would get up too; I was just pleased that Tara had come. But when I stood up, Tara, Ryan, and Peyton all stood too. They wanted to stand alongside me. As I spoke, I thanked those who had made it happen and encouraged the kids to make this garden their own. In many ways, they already had—students had painted the stones lining the garden with their original artwork. Though the space started out as a way to honor Taylor, it had truly become a community park.

The ceremony ended with tearful voices singing “Happy Birthday” to Taylor.

After the ceremony, I spoke to some parents. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a girl waiting to talk to me. I didn't remember meeting her before, but I could tell something was troubling her; tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“Hi, I'm Mr. Storch,” I said.

She started to talk, then sob. I could barely make out what she said.

“When my mom died, Taylor was the only friend who ever asked how I was.”

“Oh, sweetie,” I said, hugging her. I calmed her down, and she told me the whole story. Her mother had been in a car accident. People asked about the accident, and they asked about her mom, but Taylor had asked about
her
. She told me how Taylor made a point to stop every day and ask how she was. Taylor texted and sent her notes.

Through her tears, she said, “You have no idea how much that meant to me.”

That young lady had no idea what her story meant to
me
. It was one of the first times since Taylor's death that I'd heard a story about my daughter that I didn't already know. Learning about this beautiful thing my child had done was amazing. If the garden never served another purpose, to me it was worth creating just to hear that one story.

It had been more than a month since Taylor's death—and since I had last been to work. I had an amazing job at the Center for Sales Strategy helping media companies develop their digital initiatives. Until we lost Taylor, I'd loved my work. But going back would be hard. If I was having a bad day, I didn't have the kind of job where I could hide in a cubicle pretending to answer email while crying inside. In my job, I had to fully engage one on one with clients, give presentations for as many as sixty people at a time, and lead team meetings. I didn't work out of an office; I worked at my clients' offices. There was no place to hide and no way to fake my emotional state.

Jim Hopes was the chief executive officer, but I reported to John Henley, the chief operating officer. Both were really great guys to work for. Though John was technically my boss, a better description
would be to call him a dear friend or a brother in Christ. When we were in Grand Junction, John was one of the first people I called. We had several deep conversations as I told him what was happening with Taylor, and many times he prayed with me over the phone.

John and I hadn't yet talked about my starting back up, but I knew it probably would be soon. I wasn't sure how, or even if, I could return to work. I certainly couldn't travel. Tara was still deeply grieving. In my absence, she couldn't take care of herself, let alone the kids.

With my mind preoccupied with thoughts of the future, I needed to keep my hands busy. Tara had planted some tomato plants, and I started fertilizing them. Then I bought more dirt and planted rosemary and mint. I found some larger pots and carefully replanted the tender tomato shoots. Each day, I'd water them and check for new growth. My time with the plants became a kind of therapy. While I was outside tending to them, I would think and pray. Sometimes I cried, and often I cried out to God.

What is it that You want me to do? What is Your plan for my life? How am I supposed to serve You in the midst of all this?

When Tara was awake, she spent a lot of time outdoors, and she would watch me work in the yard. One day, I sat down next to her and said, “I feel as if there is something more for me. I feel like I need to quit my job and be the executive director of the foundation.”

Tara and I weren't talking much at this time, which, in hindsight, was a good thing. Instead of asking for her advice, I had been seeking God and praying harder than ever. While I knew my words came as a surprise, she listened as I explained my thoughts and prayers. More than anything I wanted to follow God's will. “So, I am waiting. I'm waiting to see what God is doing,” I said.

Grieving people are hard to be around. Grief can get ugly. It's messy. Some people don't want any part of it. Others choose to get involved. They enter your story without concern as to the sacrifices
they'll have to make to love you. Father Alfonse was one of those people. He left our house late the night of the funeral, but he came back. And he came back often.

Father Alfonse was only a couple of years older than Tara and me, but he was experienced in life's mountains and valleys. He understood faith issues, not only from his priestly duties but also from walking with families through God's Word as it met up with the messiness of their lives. I didn't know why he took Tara and me on, but we were glad he did.

Since the funeral, we'd see him at least once a week, sometimes more. He'd come over to visit and hang out with Tara and me at night. Sometimes we'd call and see if he wanted to have dinner with us; other times I'd meet him for coffee. He and I would spend hours discussing suffering and grief. Occasionally, Tara would text him questions about God or just let him know how we were. He became a sounding board as we tried to figure out God's plan for our lives.

Father Alfonse encouraged me to read about Christ's suffering on the cross so I could understand my own pain. That led me to read about other people who had suffered. I began to pray and read my Bible more, something I had never done regularly. I felt the need to get up early in the morning and spend time reading and praying before I officially started my day. Often, I returned to the Scriptures late at night as I searched for purpose in my own life. Father Alfonse encouraged me, answered my questions, and comforted me as I tried to find meaning in my suffering.

I wanted to make something good come from Taylor's death. As a consultant, I often came up with solutions for my clients. That was my first instinct—to
do
. To create. To write a report. To research it to death. To fix it. But instead, a very different feeling now washed over me—God was doing something. I needed to wait on Him to see what it was.

Part of me wanted to go to work to escape my life at home. But I was also scared. I knew the statistics of how many couples got divorced after they lost a child. I'd stood by helplessly as my own
parents divorced, so that also fueled my thoughts. I wanted the best for my kids, and that meant being home with them.

Then there was the foundation. We were getting ready to file paperwork for a business license and our tax-exempt status. It was time to decide whether I was all in or not. It wasn't an intellectual decision; it was a spiritual one. In the past, I wouldn't have waited for God; I would only have waited for Him to catch up with me. This time, I didn't want to get in the way of what
He
was doing. So I waited on Him.

Each day, I heard new stories of how our work was affecting people. Instead of stagnating, things seemed to be growing. Nearly every day, God brought a new volunteer to join me in our work. These weren't just idle people looking for something to do. These were gifted professionals with busy careers. If I had an unlimited budget, these were the people I would have gone out and hired. Instead, I randomly met them at a Starbucks, was introduced to them by a mutual friend, or they contacted me after hearing our story. Each one was a gift from God and filled a much-needed spot on my advisory team.

At times, I'd be so busy working with or talking to my advisers that I'd go a few days without talking to friends or neighbors. Inevitably, one of them would say something like, “Tell me what's happening with the foundation,” or, “Catch me up since the last time we talked.”

I'd honestly have to say, “I can't. I literally can't. Dude, you miss a day, you miss a year. Things are happening that fast.”