A girl who knew joy

The loss of life doesn’t get easier. Grief has no bounds. Some days, we reflect on the people watching down over us with a smile. Other days, it melts us down, destroys us internally.

In my room stands a small photo of a girl who knew joy. Who was bubbly, didn’t take life too seriously and radiated her light wherever she went. As a teenager, that light attracted me. Simply, she was free. Ellen was a free spirit, quick to forge her own path, laugh at herself, and invest in others. Her laugh floated freely as did her long, blonde hair. She was quick to love, quick to forgive and forget. If I could personify the word joy, Ellen would be the character. From her wide, blue eyes looking up at me on the bus as she made a goofy face to her squeals as she flew around the ice rink to her little yellow ‘Bug’ that perfectly matched her quirky character – Ellen was joy. Throughout high school, Ellen was often a part of making my day better. I simply loved being around her, for she made life fun. 

When I went to college, Ellen and I stayed in touch but drifted a bit due to the physical distance. Still, she would leave me goofy notes on my Facebook wall or we would text about the latest Tipp City drama and, of course, boys. Ellen loved boys. And drama. She was quite theatrical. I remember texting her in my college dorm room and missing her joy. 

Fast forward to my senior year of college. New Year’s Eve – 2013 – a new year; a year where I would graduate and start a new chapter. After consuming a few too many and staying up half the night, I found my way to my bed. As my morning hangover set in, I received the news. Ellen had been in a fire and was in a coma. 

As someone with a poor memory, it’s strange to look back and remember everything about that moment. Sitting in the worn brown chair in the corner of my small living room, I completely fell apart. “No. No! No!” I whispered loudly between sobs as tears streaked my face. I read the texts sent from our close friend, who was basically her sister. They grew up together. I sat there in that corner and cried for hours. For hours, I tried to recall the last time I saw her, our last interaction. I couldn’t remember it. Years of memories crowded my brain, one pushing another out before it fully developed. First, it was Ellen dancing around her parent’s house, showing off the different clothes and gowns she had made in the most Ellen way. She had us in stitches. It was falling down on the ice rink and laughing so hard we couldn’t breathe. It was hours in my car or her little bug catching up on life. It was band camp and Friday night football and her eagerly smothering whip cream on my face. It was joy. Every memory with Ellen was joy. What a life. A life in which I was not prepared to let go, one I prayed for continuously over the next week begging God for her to fight to pull through. 

Two days later, I made my way down to the University of Cincinnati Medical Center to see her. I learned more of the incident. The fire had started from her roommate’s space heater, which caught the bedding on fire overnight, bedding that quickly ignited. There were 10 people in the house. Three made it out on their own, five were rescued from the EMS, and then there were Ellen and her boyfriend.  The firefighters were able to get them out, but it was a long, hard rescue. They inhaled so much smoke, and their bodies were lifeless. As I approached that hospital waiting room, filled with people, I met the gaze of Ellen’s family and my good friend Sam for the first time. To see the pain in a mother’s eyes, in a sister’s, is penetrating. As I heard the update, every ounce of my body went limp, but I fought to hold it together for them, they were so strong. They brought me back to the room to see her. I remember holding her hand and looking at her swollen face and looking up at all the machines and her body laying lifeless and thinking this wasn’t Ellen. Ellen was joy. This wasn’t Ellen, it couldn’t be. In my heart, I already felt the words sting for the first time. Ellen was no longer here. While I continued praying fervently for my friend, I said my goodbyes that day at the hospital. I knew. 

Ellen spent 14 days in a coma before her parents decided it was time to say goodbye. Her boyfriend’s parents did the same a few days before. Two lives – 20 and 21 – lost. A tragedy. A tragedy that could have been prevented. One that made me angry. The space heater shouldn’t have been left on overnight, the house didn’t have working fire alarms, and Ellen and her boyfriend were in the attic that had been converted to a bedroom for campus housing; aka, there was no window or escape route. As soon as the fire ignited, their fate had been determined. For months, I struggled with loss, with anger. And yet, I moved on and lived my life. I graduated college and moved to my first apartment. I remember New Year’s Day 2014, where I lit a candle in my bedroom in remembrance of her light and sobbed in my bed. Over the years, I have never forgotten Ellen. Her senior photo is still displayed in my room. One where she is laughing deeply. One I look at and see nothing but joy, and it is a reminder. A reminder to live every day fully, for it is not guaranteed. A reminder of the joy I want to bring to others. Most days, as I am getting ready in the morning, I catch a glimpse of the photo and it makes me smile. “Hi El Belle!” I think. Occasionally, it sobers me. But most days it inspires me, to live more freely, intentionally, joyfully. 

Today, 12 years after her passing, the giggly girl with the long blonde hair, one of my “long lost sisters,” still inspires me. 

Lord, today I pray for all those who are mourning the loss of a loved one. For the long, painful goodbyes and the unexpected tomorrow’s without the one they held dear. I pray for you to enter their hearts and comfort them, to wrap your arms around them and hold them as a Father who lovingly cares for his children. Mighty One, you have the power to change situations; I pray for healing of those who are suffering and who are experiencing loss, that their pain may be no more. Jesus, the way and life, today I pray for joy — joy like Ellen. Joy that is contagious, loud and inspiring. I pray for that wonderful gift of light, even on the days I don’t feel like shining. Thank you, God, for the people you’ve put in my life and those who left a deeper impact than they may ever know. May we live each day joyfully in their memory.