Castaway

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Stuck

I stood alone in my classroom, leaning over a student desk as my eyes surveyed the room.

I was trying to decide my next move in the long process of preparing the space for nervous third graders who would arrive in just a few days. As I mapped out in my head how to plot the table groups just right to allow room for the kids to move about without congestion, the lock screen on my phone lit up.

Eager for a break from the mental gymnastics of my teacher tasks, I paused to pick it up and check my notifications.

My thumb flicked through messages which revealed

that after a numbing year of delays,

the trial was happening for real this time,

possibly in less than seventy-two hours.

This trial,

the trial that was supposed to seek justice in a matter that was…most unjust. 

In the scramble toward the start of school, I was deep into Get-it-Done mode, my mind already racing just trying to problem-solve, and plan, and prioritize. Now, I was desperately trying to figure out whether to drop everything and head home to be with the people I love, the people who also loved her and wanted to see this through, or if I should stay for these other children and families whom I was entrusted to serve. 

And then, the thoughts, the memories, and the feelings of the past

474 days

started to play out in my head as I began to hate that all of this was even happening. And I hated why it was happening. 

The noise in my head started to build, and soon it dominated my headspace as a deafening roar. Chaos welled up in my chest and tears dammed up behind my eyes as I tried to fight the feeling because

“there was just too much to do to fall apart right now.”

But as I tried to keep it together and stay in motion, I quickly realized that I had fallen

into that muddy pit again.   

I    was    stuck.   

Stuck once more in that impossible feeling.

The Impossible Feeling

Do you know that feeling?

In the wake of loss and tragedy, that is the feeling somebody’s loved ones carry in the “after” of that person’s life once they are gone. 

Some days, it’s being so overwhelmed by everything, that you want to do nothing, when “nothing” isn’t an option because you have places to be, things to do, people to look after, and life to live.

So you just…keep moving,

trying to hold it in, feeling like you’re underwater with air trapped inside your lungs. 

Other days, maybe it’s your mind calling a stunt-double onto the scene to keep up the performance while the original actor — that is, the real you — steps off set, absent from the present moment; absent from the chaos that might drag you under. 

And on the worst days, it’s more violent than just holding your breath underwater. It’s more like being in an ocean’s riptide, pulled farther and farther from shore. You’re fighting for your life as wave after wave pummels your body, tossing you about. And you feel powerless under the weight of the dark waters surrounding you, as that impossible feeling threatens to drown your soul.

To say it more plainly,

it is heartache

and longing

and sadness

and confusion

and anger

and pain.

Oddly enough, it is often triggered by things as simple as a song, a scent, a conversation, a picture, a piece of clothing, a memory, a drive past a familiar place, even a stranger’s face, or anything, really.

This feeling might arrive quietly, like an unpleasant, uninvited guest at a party.

Or it might barge in as a violent intruder at times or places where you would otherwise feel safe.

It is unpredictable, and it is indiscriminate. It does not care who you are nor your position in life. It never goes away for good; you just…learn to make space for it as you try to accept a new reality. 

That impossible feeling takes many different forms and truly it’s quite difficult to put to words, but I suppose people had to come up with some name for this beast which initially presents itself as an adversary.

Many of us

know It as “Grief.”

It is a feeling with which my family has become all too familiar in the wake of this tragedy.

And before I address the man responsible for this tragedy, I would like to say a few words about the wonderful person whose life was taken, and for whom our hearts are battling this impossible feeling. 

These are the words I composed on June 11th, 2021, the night before the funeral service of Sarah Jessica Lewis.

This

is the eulogy

I never expected to have to write for my younger sister.

The Girl Who Loved Small Things

When Jess and I were little, she always took an annoying interest in just about anything that was small. I suppose “interest” isn’t the right word. It was more of an obsession. Also, I call it “annoying” because, while this fixation was probably adorable to our parents and family, a sibling’s obsession is often annoying to you when you’re kids.

Anyway, more so than most little girls, Jess liked miniature doll-house furniture and tiny toys, but she especially loved little animals. From ladybugs and rolly-pollies to baby birds and, well, baby-anythings, small creatures were more precious than jewels to my sister.

It wasn’t just a phase either. If you’ve seen Jess in the past few years, you’ve probably seen her with her sugar gliders, Galileo and Luna. They were her “babies” and they went with her everywhere inside that special fanny pack thing of hers. And I mean everywhere. I imagine that if she went to pass through airport security with those things, and a TSA agent tried to stop her, that conversation would probably end up with the TSA agent apologizing to Jess and somehow providing her an extra seat on the plane just for the critters’ cage…

I had a theory that my sister had a soft spot for “the little guys” because…maybe she felt like she could relate to them.

Perhaps Jess loved things that were small

because for much of her life,

she herself often felt small.

She battled a lot growing up, and often seemed at war with herself. Of course, we all have our own battles, but some people’s wars are just particularly violent by no fault of their own, and her war was that.

Nevertheless, from one thing to the next, she always kept her eyes on things and people to fight for, reasons to keep moving forward.

And that’s who she was—an overcomer.

Jess was determined to overcome, but she was determined in a lot of other ways as well.

Like saving.

She was determined to collect and save.

When we were young, Jess would save up her candy, and I mean, for months. I kid you not, she still had leftovers from her Halloween candy by the time Valentine’s came around. Of course, this worked out pretty well for me…until she caught on to the fact I was stealing from her stash.

And if she was that good with her candy, you can imagine how good she was with her money. I guess it’s no wonder that she went on to be accepted into Kelley School of Business at IUPUI. Not only that, but just last month she finished her program and graduated with her bachelor’s.

Jess was always very hard-working, and anything she set her mind to, she made it happen. 

And she made some incredible things happen.

Her ongoing success with healthy eating and exercise was something she was very proud of. Jess was at the gym working out more often than most of us watch TV. If you’re wondering what happened to the energy you were going to put into your New Year’s Resolution to go to the gym, well, Jess somehow siphoned it from you and a hundred other people and burned that energy year-round grinding at the gym, often at midnight.

But what she was really proud of were her trips.

She worked hard all year and saved money every way imaginable to build up enough to purchase plane tickets for trips to other parts of the world. She first went to India in high school, and immediately fell in love with the country. She also later visited Thailand and Costa Rica. She didn’t travel to just the “touristy” locations, she didn’t stay at resorts, and didn’t travel with groups or anything. She usually only went with a close friend, and a couple times she even went alone. In fact, the second or third time she went to India, none of us even knew about her trip until she called me from the other side of the world. Her first words were, “Hey, promise you won’t freak out and promise you won’t tell mom or dad…” Which of course was usually followed by me freaking out and telling mom or dad…

Jess always had big dreams, and unlike most of us, she usually made them a reality.

That’s why I have little reason to doubt that she had every intention to follow through with her latest dream which was to move to Puerto Rico in a couple years to open a shop or a yoga studio or something “Zen” like that. In fact, she probably would’ve been there by now, but she put even that on hold because there was one thing that consistently held priority over absolutely anything else in Jess’s life,

and that was family. 

I admired Jess for a lot of reasons, but my sister’s love and devotion to the people in her life was what I most admired her for.

Anyone who knows her would agree it was her greatest and most shining strength.

She always stayed in touch with people, she visited frequently, she knew specific details about everybody, and she was remarkably authentic in conversation. She was uncommonly open and honest about herself, and she had a way of asking questions and creating space such that you’d find yourself telling her things you probably wouldn’t have spoken to anyone else about. She was invested, and she was involved. 

Someone asked me the other day if I was the older brother or the younger brother. I’ve never referred to Jess as my little sister. The first reason for that is because I’m only ten months older than her (which was enough for me, though, that I could still play the “I’m older” card when I needed it growing up).

More significantly, however, she always supported me better than I supported her.

I would get texts from her at random times with encouraging messages just to wish me good luck with different things, or just to simply say that she loved me. I dated a girl when I lived in Costa Rica, and Jess used a translator app to talk to her over text on multiple occasions because she wanted to get to know my girlfriend even though she only spoke Spanish!

Likewise, she was ALWAYS there for Mom and Dad.

She was always the brains behind the Christmas gifts we’d get for our parents. She made the hour and a half drive between Indy and Bedford frequently to visit. Now that she graduated, she was getting ready to move near home for a couple years to be there for them.

That was where her head and her heart were all the time: caring for others, especially her loved ones.

Although Jess had many accomplishments, nothing compared to the lasting impact she had on so many lives.

To know Sarah Lewis was to know love.

She lived a good life. And there at the end, she was at peace. Not everyone gets to have that before their time runs out. 

Jess loved things that were small.

However, my sister was anything but small. She was far bigger than she ever realized. 

But I’ll tell you what.

Today, I feel small.

I have no words to try to make what happened okay. It’s not okay. And I don’t believe that God “took her,” or that God “needed her in heaven,” or that “it happened for a reason.”

I think terrible things just happen.

But I do believe that even in the wake of devastating loss and unspeakable pain, God is still good, and that He can create beauty from ashes when it feels like everything has burned to the ground.

And I can say…

that this world,

including my own life, and yours,

is better because of the time Jess did have on this earth.

So as I wait, without words, for the day that I see her again, I will hold on to God’s Word, because God is faithful and trustworthy, and so is His Word. His Word is final, surpassing, and eternal.

I leave you with these few words from Psalm 30 which remind us that,

Reckless

Sherron Pinkin, that is the sum of the life you ended that fateful night. Accident or not, make no mistake about it, your lifestyle and your course of actions that evening are the cause of that crash.

As you replay in your head the events of that day, do not misconstrue or self-justify anything that took place.

It was not only a moment of recklessness, nor a series of mis-steps that led to your fatal mistake.

To find yourself driving seventy miles per hour at night in a zone of thirty, and blow through that red light; then, to be anything less than cooperative and honest in the initial aftermath of the catastrophic damage you caused, are all evidence of a deadly defect in your choices.

Your “moment” of recklessness terminated a lifetime of love.

You     took     everything. 

It occurred to me that you probably have no idea what went on in the lives of my family that day.

Perhaps you’ve wondered before, “What was going on on the other end of things?” Maybe you haven’t.

Either way, allow me to paint you a vivid picture of how those agonizing hours unfolded on the worst day of our lives.

I remember it

as “the day the lights went out.”

The Day the Lights Went Out

The morning of Sunday, June 6th, 2021, I woke up in a cozy hotel bed in Arab, Alabama.

Little did I know that I would cry myself to sleep that night at my parent’s house back home in Bedford, Indiana, with my sister’s vacant room just on the other side of a couple inches of drywall. 

It was the day before the first day of camp ministry that summer, and I jumped out of bed with eager expectation like a kid on Christmas morning. There is no energy like the start of camp. As I stretched my arms and walked over to check my phone, those feelings

of joy and anticipation

were quickly replaced

with panic and dread

as my eyes scanned over the unread texts and missed calls that didn’t make it past my phone’s Sleep Mode.

I don’t use Sleep Mode anymore. 

Having been awake for less than sixty seconds, my brain struggled to process the letters that spelled out my older sister Layne’s text saying

“It doesn’t look good for Jess.” 

Was I still asleep? 

It felt like the floor was giving out. 

I rushed out the door to meet with my director to tell her I needed to board the next plane to Indianapolis as soon as possible. As my legs seemed to move through water, I was genuinely convinced I was having a lucid dream,

a waking nightmare.

God, I HAVE to wake up.

My heart racing, I was frantically trying to get ahold of anyone back home to get more information on how my sister was doing. (Days later, looking at my call history, I discovered that the very first number I had tried to call at that moment was my sister’s. By force of habit, I must have tried to speak with Jess myself to check in on her and then realized, “Oh…right…”). 

I was about halfway down the hall when I finally connected with someone, and although I had selected the contact of my sister Layne, a man’s voice spoke.

That’s weird, I thought. Yeah, this is a dream. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey Johnny, it’s Chris.” 

“Who?”

“It’s your brother Chris.” 

My head was spinning a hundred miles an hour, and my brain couldn’t think straight enough to even recognize my brother’s name and voice.

I was, for the first time, experiencing the noise of that impossible feeling.

The sensation of free-fall, moreover, only got stronger as my brother told me that there had been an accident. A bad one.

With a shaky voice, he did his best to explain that she “still had a pulse” but was unconscious, her heart and lungs moved by life support alone.

Although the central organ in my chest pumped in overdrive as if trying to support my body through a triathlon,

my legs carried me nowhere.

There, on the hallway floor of a Holiday Inn Express at seven-thirty in the morning,

they had finally given out

under the crushing weight

of my whole world crashing down

on top of me.

“They tried everything Johnny, but it doesn’t look like she’s gonna make it.

I’m so sorry Johnny.” 

Like a thrashing child in overwhelming distress, there I was, snotty and sobbing, pounding the floor with my fists, and kicking the walls as I screamed at him through the phone,

“You’re lying to me! This can’t be happening. You’re lying to me!”

My lungs struggled to take in air during the violent lament of my body.

By this point, a few of my teammates had rushed out into the hall,

and someone held my hand as I tried to sink through the floor.

How was I not awake from this hell yet?

It took a moment before my brother could get through to me again, not because of the call itself, but because the cacophony of the chaos in my head felt and sounded like a steam engine train rolling over me.

It felt like I was being pulled from a crash, too.

He went on to explain

that he was sitting next to her hospital bed with the phone to her ear.

He asked me if I “wanted to say anything” to Jess.

All of this had transpired in moments, so I had only been awake for about three minutes and here I was, being asked to say final words to my younger sister.

In between sobs, I managed to get out,

“Jess, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I’m not there right now. I’m sorry I wasn’t there in a lot of ways growing up. I love you. I’m coming home. I love you so much. I’m so sorry.”

By the time I made it to the airport, most of me was still clinging to hope, praying desperately and urging other people in my life to do the same. I truly believed with all my heart that we would see a miracle, that God would pull her through.

Eventually, I was coming off a connecting flight in Washington, D.C.

I exited airport security, and with my duffel dangling awkwardly over my shoulder, I quickly gathered my things from the plastic bin. Annoyingly, my trembling fingers struggled to thread my belt through the loops on my waist. The frustration of failing such a menial task at this exact moment with everything that was going on caused my gears to just

jam up.

I stopped in my tracks as I broke down for a moment,

tears falling down my face. A lump in my throat. My face hot. My vision blurred.

The internal storm surge I was trying to keep at bay

pounded against the levies my mind had installed

in an attempt to keep me from going under.

There was that impossible feeling. 

But I knew I had to get home.

There was no way to feel what was rising up inside of me and still function.

So I did my best to mute that dark symphony, and keep moving.

In the weeks to come, this fight or flight response in suppressing that storm of emotions—sometimes even in the middle of simple, everyday situations—would become routine.

So many days I feel like I’m back

in the hopeless in-between

of the airport and my connecting flight that morning,

the sixth of June.

In fact, regretfully, that survival mechanism is the only thing allowing me to stand here and give this statement right now. What some might perceive to be strength is really just my hollow shell of a man who apparently is

too weak,

too afraid,

or too broken

to face this storm, and has retreated within himself.

But even in that retreat, my mind knows I have to keep moving, keep acting from my stage.

So I call up my stunt-double.

It’s not long before I find myself wishing that there was a more convincing actor available while the real me—a scared, little boy—hugs his knees in the corner of my mind, like a child lost and alone in Washington Municipal Airport.  

Knowing I needed to pull it together and continue to my gate, the poor excuse of an actor whom I had summoned wiped his face, finished looping his belt, picked up his bags, and kept moving.

Because life always seems to leave you with no choice

but to   

keep    moving. 

When I finally touched down at Indianapolis International Airport, I rushed to baggage claim and searched for my brother at the pick-up terminal. Determined to get to my sister as fast as possible and to keep praying for a miracle, the first thing I said to him was, “How far are we from the hospital?”

And he confirmed

what perhaps I knew deep inside

when his expression fell,

and he just said, 

“Johnny she’s gone.”

I didn’t cry, I didn’t speak, I didn’t move,

but in that moment,

a light died inside of me…

The lights in a few lives went out that morning. 

As I later trudged into my parents’ house, all of our family held each other as we grappled together with the unthinkable.

There, in the broad light of day,

our world

felt small and dark.

How did that psalm go?

Oh, that’s right,

“Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes in the morning.”

The day after, when my eyes opened, for a moment I was confused to see the walls of my room in my parents’ house.

And then I remembered the stark reality that yesterday’s events were indeed no dream,

only a living nightmare that would see no end.

Struggling to muster the energy to pick up my head from the pillow that was still damp from countless tears shed the night before, there was no joy that morning.

The months that followed blended together

into one interminable twilight

as we faced life with that impossible feeling in the absence of so much that had been taken away. 

Weeping through the Night

Mr. Pinkin, you took those things away. And allow me to be clear about what exactly you took.

From my sister you took away years, decades of life full of opportunities to embark on her career, to pursue her dreams, and to start a family.

Her book had so many blank pages in it.

You leave behind an incomplete sentence.

From me you took away the person I tried to protect the most. No matter how much we fought when we were kids, as her older brother I always believed that that was my biggest job.

I guess there are just some dangers that you can’t defend against.

You also took away my only loved one of shared blood and shared experience on the choppy river of life that she and I have had to navigate together since before we could even walk. You took away the chance for her to be an aunt to my future children. Finally, you took away the time I foolishly thought I had to become a better brother.

You leave behind a soul cleaved in two.

I was watching a televised trial and resonated with the words of one young woman who said about her late brother, “When I don’t think about him I feel guilty. When I do think about him, I feel broken. There is no peace.”

From our dad you took away the person who loved him best. You leave behind a man with Alzheimer’s who is forced to relive it all every time he goes to ask about his Jessie but then remembers, or sometimes doesn’t remember, the surreal truth.

As we sat inside Chastain Funeral Home on June 12th, 2021,

the same funeral home where he had buried his three year-old daughter Lynda fifty years prior,

he braced himself to face a kind of loss he never expected to go through again.

The cruel irony of life seemed to spit in his face.

With probably the worst possible sadness in a person’s heart, he muttered,

“Parents aren’t supposed to bury their kids.” 

From our mom you took away a pigtailed little girl who was fascinated with angels. You leave behind a woman forced to try to rationalize such a devastating loss, forced to swallow words she was still figuring out how to say but will never be able to express.

Last month, I spoke with our mom on the phone while I stood in that classroom where I had been visited by that impossible feeling two days earlier. I could hear in my mother’s voice that that same feeling was overpowering her in this moment as she struggled to find the right words. Through tears she said,

“He took her life, but he also took part of ours. He took a piece of every person who was close to her.” 

Indeed, from those who care for her and even those who simply knew her, you took a person who loved them in return twice as much, because my sister had a heart of gold.

You leave behind a world that, although it carries the good left behind by Sarah Lewis, is also robbed of all the contributions she would have put out into that world if she were still around. 

No one can fix any of that.

No one can make up for it.

No one can right that wrong.

And that, Mr. Pinkin, is my statement of the impact of your actions.

Let there be no mistake about it, that is what you took that night, on the corner of 21st and Meridian. 

At an Intersection

I do realize that in your humanity, you never intended for any of this to happen.

I am sure that if you could take it all back, that you would do so in a heartbeat. As callous as my words have been, please know that we have also wrestled to reflect on your situation with empathy. I realize that this tragedy has probably had a tremendous impact on you and your life as well, and that it is not in our place to make assumptions about the status of your heart.

As I have sought to examine my own heart in all of this, I look back at the terrible mistakes I’ve made and the things I’ve done. I think of the incredible, undeserved opportunities that life, that God has granted me. It’s overwhelming to ponder the second chances that I have been given.

Every one of us finds ourselves somewhere at the intersection of God’s justice and God’s mercy. Every one of us desperately wants a second chance.

Given the stakes, it is impossible for my family as a collective to weigh in on what that looks like for you regarding your sentencing. My hands certainly aren’t clean, so I can’t rightly say what you do and don’t deserve.

We are doing our best to navigate forgiveness in this situation, but what a “second chance” might look like for you and for your life is between you and your Maker. We will be neither your condemnation nor your absolution. We are entrusting the outcome of this trial to God and the judge. 

That being said, know that if and when you choose to turn to Him, everything you need you will find in the Almighty God. If you haven’t already, you will come to a point at which you realize you have tried every other possible solution to satisfy an incomplete heart and soul.

Comfort in pain, wholeness in emptiness, peace in chaos, and new beginnings, are found in Jesus alone.

We truly hope that you come to know and experience God’s love, and are transformed by a relationship with Him.

Let my sister’s death be a siren wake-up call for you to seriously reevaluate everything. If nothing in your life changes because of this, it would be an injustice as egregious as the one that brings you here today.

A Family United

Finally, I’d like to address my family.

Every time I speak to someone about this loss, I follow it up by speaking of you.

Thank you for being there for me, for my parents, and for one another. I am so incredibly grateful for the unity among our tribe. None of us could face this alone. In fact, we’ve been able to see our connections grow even stronger this past year. Thank you for loving well.

Jess and I would not be who we are today without your care, kindness, and support. She loved all of you so much, and you were the best and most beloved part of her life. And I know that she’s not, as she’d say, “salty” about any of this, because she did get to live a good life, because it was lived with you.

I want to encourage everyone to avoid entangling your healing journey with this trial and this sentencing. Although the conclusion of at least the legal proceedings might bring some comfort, I caution you not to look to the penal system for closure.

Put too much of your heart into your desperate need for justice, and you will find

neither justice

nor peace.

Meanwhile, we do know where we can begin to find wholeness and life again.

Continue turning to each other. Let your last words in every conversation be “I love you.” Always be reconciled to one another. Never leave anything unsaid. Send a text. Make a phone call. Drive for a visit. Hold each other a few seconds longer during a hug. Make time to be together, and make the most of it. 

In addition to these things, remember the God who is with you, and for you. Psalm 34:18 says, “The Lord is close to the broken-hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” I’m so grateful we serve a compassionate God who weeps with us and whose heart breaks with ours. I’m grateful that He’s a God who is bigger than the mountains of our pain. And He’s bigger than that seemingly impossible feeling.

The Eventual, Unavoidable Conclusion

When faced with loss, especially unexpected tragedy, we often come face to face with doubt. Doubt in ourselves, doubt in God, doubt in just about anything and everything. It’s yet another side effect of that impossible feeling.

“Is God truly good all the time? How could He let this happen? Why hasn’t He healed my heart yet? Where is He in all of this? Why can’t I hear His voice? Why can’t I feel His Presence?”

Sometimes it seems like there is no end to the questions and the doubt. 

A few days ago I was reflecting on all of this when I was touched by a message in my devotional that evening. Here is the hope we have that cannot be taken away. 

      “My ears had heard of you, but now my eyes have seen you.”

Job 42:5

Growing up around the woods and waters of Midwest America, I’ve been fascinated with the natural wildlife native to our region. But on a trip to the California coast, I found myself staring in breathtaking wonder at snorting elephant seals, barking sea lions, and a forest of silent redwoods. I watched pelicans soar in formation, and I saw migrating whales spouting in the distance. Together they are just a sampling of the millions of species that make up the intricate and delicate balance of nature.

According to the Bible, the variety of the natural world is designed to do far more than inspire childlike wonder. The mysteries of nature can help us come to terms with a God who allows inexpressible, unexplainable pain and suffering.

We see this in the epic story of Job. 

What emerges is this eventual, unavoidable conclusion: A Creator who has the wisdom and power to design the wonders of nature is great enough to be trusted with pain and suffering that we can’t understand. Job proclaimed, “I know that you can do all things.”(42:2). We can trust that kind of God — no matter what.”

Mark Dehaan

God is greater.

He’s so much greater than our sorrow and our pain. He’s greater than our anxiety. He’s greater than our heartache. He’s greater than our anger. And again, He’s greater than that seemingly impossible feeling. 

I leave you with this poem I wrote in the darkness of night, hours before my sister’s funeral.

This is the posture I have tried to embrace

since the day I became

a castaway

in the ocean

of that impossible feeling.

In Loving Memory of Sarah Jessica Lewis