Where do I even begin?
Exactly one month ago from today, I received a text that forever changed me. My sister-in-law, assuming that I had already heard the news, felt impressed to send me a message letting me know that Jason Connolly, one of my best friends from high school, had been tragically killed the day before. He was entering the freeway when he noticed debris on the on-ramp. While trying to clear the road of the debris, he was struck and killed. The worst of it was, his kids were in the car and witnessed the entire incident.
Upon hearing the news, in the solitude of my own car, I was instantly hysterical; I couldn't comprehend the news. I've been fortunate enough to have never experienced a personal loss such as this prior to Jason's death. And it wrecked me. After the immediate shock wore off, I began reaching out to the other friends in our old group, letting them know of his passing. Each message, each phone call made the ache hurt deeper as we all came to the realization that our next reunion will be without him. It is a heavy thought to know that the next time we fully reunite with one another, it will be at his grave.
The days following his death were rough. I was flooded with emotions, both the good and the bad. So many memories came pouring in. I immediately set about gathering every photo, every letter, every tangible thing that I had of Jason. His name filled my journals from high school, first as a person of interest and then later as a most trusted friend. I have pictures from making pizzas, from going to school dances, from Halloween parties, from New Years get togethers, from our trip to his cabin in Taylor... and more. I have the letters that he wrote to me while he served his mission in the Philippines. I sent him care packages often and was there the day that he returned home. In turn, he was at my baptism, there for me the first time I went through the temple, and at my sealing. Thankfully, I have so many things to remember him by. Every nickname. Every song we shared. Every inside joke. But how do you say goodbye to someone when you don't have the opportunity to say goodbye?
The funeral was held ten days after his passing. I was hesitant on whether or not to attend, but in the end I knew that I needed some sort of closure - some sense of peace. The service was beautiful. Listening to his father (Papa Bear), his [not-so-little] little brother, and his cousin speak made my soul feel... comforted. I knew that I was where I needed to be. And the biggest tender mercy of all was that I was in the company of three of the remaining friends. We had made so many memories together in our younger years; we had carried one another through pivotal moments in our youth. And here we were, sharing in a new moment together. We shared the weight of a death.
In the weeks since the funeral, the seven of us remaining in the wake of Jason's passing have been able to reconnect and rekindle friendships that we (more or less) have forgotten to nurture as a result of the thief of time. Our relationships with one another aren't the same as they once were when we were younger, but Jason's death has helped each of us understand that it is important to value meaningful connections. We've been reminiscing and relearning about one another all over again. And I know that Jason would have loved it.
He also would have loved that, despite the situation, I have been able to reconnect with another sweet friend as a result of his death. After high school, I was convinced that I was going to marry my missionary (spoiler alert: I didn't). My missionary's sister-in-law just happened to grow up with Jason, so she has been an integral place of comfort for me in the last few weeks. She asked if, on the one month anniversary of his passing, we wanted to do dry ice bombs out in the desert in Jason's honor. So yesterday morning, that is exactly what we did.
I will not get to see Jason again in this lifetime, but I'll always be able to carry him with me through the memories and good times we had together.
