Jesus will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever. — Revelation 21:4
Take everything else away from me, as long as I have Jesus, I’m set. — Tatiana Blackburn
august 17th.
I pushed my body further into the airplane seat. Just a few more hours in the sky, then I’d be home.
“You okay?” Sarah asked.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Just sad. I loved England. I don’t know if I’m ready to go home.” I’d been in London, England for two months on a college internship, and my friend, Sarah, joined me for my last week. We did a few days in London and a few days in Paris together.
She gave me a sad smile and went back to watching Moulin Rouge on the tiny screen in front of her.
I rested my head, praying silently. I loved London, Jesus. I felt like I was truly me there. It was just you and me, together each day. I don’t want to miss that now that I’m coming home to Canada. You and me, okay, Jesus? You and me forever.
I closed my eyes and went to sleep.
A few hours later, we touched down at Pearson Airport in Toronto. Sarah and I found our bags from the correct luggage carousel, and went to find Nick, Sarah’s boyfriend.
I couldn’t believe how much sadness I felt being back in Canada. Something had switched within me in England. I tasted and saw the goodness of God in ways I never had before. I was scared to settle back into rhythm and routine, as if I’d lose the companionship I’d found with him there.
The three of us got into Nick’s car. Sarah chattered the whole way home, telling Nick stories and describing the food we ate — such delectable, rich food. She explained how I cried the first time I saw the Eiffel Tower — and it’s true, I did. It was nearing one in the morning when we arrived in Paris from London, and we’d turned the wrong way to go to our hotel. Suddenly, the Eiffel Tower was smack dab in front of us, sprawling heavenward and sparkling. Even though I knew we were going to see it at some point, I didn’t expect it to be the first thing I saw stepping off the Paris metro. Immediately I gasped and burst into tears.
Nick laughed. Sarah told him more stories. They dropped me off at my parent’s house in Hamilton.
I hugged Sarah. “That was fun,” I said. “Thanks for coming.”
I went inside my parent’s house, delighted to see my sister and her baby girl there. My niece, Selah, had only been two-weeks-old when I left for England. She was so much bigger than when I had left.
I grabbed her, pulling her tight against me. I wasn’t about to let her go.
My nephew, Noah, gave me a huge smile and a hug. I told him I’d brought presents. I unzipped my suitcase and started doling out gifts. I hugged and kissed my parents. A new surge of energy hit me. Even though I was sad to leave London, I love my family and had felt far from them. I was glad to be with them again.
Olivia, my mom, Selah, and I were sitting on the couch, catching up. My dad rounded the corner, his phone dangling from his fingertips. His expression was one I’d never seen before.
“I think Tat’s been killed,” he said.
Our faces jerked up toward him.
“What?” I said.
“I think she’s been in a car accident,” he looked down at his phone.
We all stood.
“Cyril texted me… he said he heard about an accident. Tat and Matt… were they on a trip?”
Olivia answered. “They were driving home from Saskatchewan. They were there to visit his family.”
“I think it happened in Wisconsin. Early this morning.”
The baby was crying.
“Here, let me take her,” Olivia said.
I realized I was squeezing onto her too tight. I gave my niece to my sister. When she was released from my arms, I wished I had something else to hold. I sat down again.
My mom stood, crying. Olivia rocked the baby, her face pale, her blue eyes huge. Immediately I thought of Tat’s parents, her brothers, her best friend, Brianna, her fiancé, Matt. Their faces flew through my mind at light speed.
“Is Matt okay?” Olivia asked.
“I think so,” my dad said. “I don’t know very much.”
We were silent for a while. I think my dad called Cyril. Cyril was Matt and Tat’s professor at Bible college. He was their marriage counsellor too, and a friend of our family’s. My dad took Noah to the basement to play trains so Noah wouldn’t see us crying.
“I don’t want him to be scared,” my dad said. He grabbed Noah and said, “Let’s go play trains with Papa!”
I could not comprehend how my dad wasn’t shattering.
Olivia’s husband wasn’t there. “You have to tell Mike,” I said.
“I will,” she said. “When he gets here.”
My whole family knew Tat. All of us. Somehow, she was connected to every single person in my family. Tatiana Blackburn was my friend first, but she knew all of us, and she loved all of us in different ways. She dated my brother a handful of years earlier. Through him, she became friends with my parents. She was over every weekend for seven months straight. I would always come home to see her duct-taped Honda Civic parked on the street. My mom and dad loved her.
She helped plant our church when it first started, and through that, became good friends with my sister and her husband. My sister’s husband, Mike, is our pastor, and he hired Tat to be one of his summer interns. She was the best one, hands down. She helped keep Mike organized, and he needed all the help he could get in that department.
“Aliza,” Olivia said at one point. “I’m so sorry.”
Tears filled my eyes. “We all love her,” I said. “It’s not just me.”
We sat on the couch. I cried. My mom cried. I can’t remember if Olivia did. We sat in shock and utter dismay. Finally I said, “I don’t know if I believe this. I can’t see how this could possibly be real.”
I decided to stop crying. Tears were a waste of time. There was no way Tat could truly be dead. I convinced myself she was kidnapped — that seemed far more plausible. We’d find her. She couldn’t be actually gone. She was simply missing.
I wanted to text her and ask her, “Where are you?” We had talked just days earlier. Our last exchange was about The Book of Mormon. I was about to see it onstage in London and was asking her about it. I hated the musical but Tat found it funny. To me, Tat seemed so innocent and naive — I was shocked she found the humour in it appealing. This was ludicrous. How could that be the last time I’d speak to her?
Eventually Mike came to pick up Olivia and the kids.
“Are you going to tell him?” I asked my sister.
“In the car,” she said. She took the kids and got into their car. They drove away. I think Olivia held it together until she told Mike. That night, the two of them had to call each of our church leaders and break the news. I couldn’t fathom having to repeat those horrific words over and over and over again.
I sat on the couch, silent, for most of the night. At some point, I went upstairs and called Sarah. I sat on my bedroom floor.
“Hey,” she said.
“Sarah,” my voice was thick with tears.
“What’s wrong?” She asked immediately.
“Tat died.”
“What?” I could hear her crying, suddenly.
“She got into an accident, Sarah. In Wisconsin. With Matt. On their way home from Saskatchewan.”
“Oh my gosh,” she cried.
“Anyway, I just wanted to tell you. I gotta go.”
I hung up. I laid on my hardwood floor for a long time, my cheek against the ground. I kept seeing Tat’s face, smiling, her eyes so full of life and sparkle. I tried to picture her dead, but I just couldn’t. It wasn’t an image that made sense to me.
Later that night, Tat’s dad called me. When his name came up on my phone, my heart sank. I knew it had to be real if he was calling me.
“Scott,” I said.
“Aliza… You heard? About Tat?”
“Yeah,” I said, starting to cry. “Scott, I’m so sorry. I am so sorry. I can’t believe it.”
He started to sob.
“Matthew texted us, ‘There’s been an accident’, and I knew, I knew then something was wrong. She was gone basically right away, Aliza.”
“Is Matt okay?”
“He’s okay, thank God. He’s in a hospital, I’m trying to send a pastor friend from the States up to him. You can call him, I’ll get you his hospital number.”
“Okay,” I said. We didn’t talk for long. We cried on the phone together.
I did not know you could hear someone’s heart break. But I heard his break from across the continent.
Crack.
Crack.
Shatter.
That night, I had a dream about Tat. I saw her with Jesus.
She was wearing a white, gauzy dress, and her hair was long and flowing even though she’d recently cut it. Her hand was entwined with his, and her facial expression was one filled with a kind of adoration I had never seen here on earth.
Jesus was gazing down at her, delight pouring like sunshine from all of his facial features. I could feel the warmth radiating from him, even though I knew I was not there.
Tat’s smile extended, and she tilted her head back.
And then, she laughed.
the next day.
My eyes were almost swollen shut when I woke up early the next morning. The daylight came too suddenly. I wanted to stay asleep. It hurt, physically, to wake up. Like a knife stabbing and twisting. The pain was visceral, the loss insurmountable.
Tat was still gone.
It was the first thought on my mind. Tat’s dead. Tat died yesterday. Yesterday was the last time Tat was alive. I’m never going to see my friend.
But I couldn’t stay in bed. It was my friend’s wedding — their wedding was the reason I came home from England when I did.
I sat up in my bed and took out my phone. Tat’s parent’s had posted the news. People would know the horrific truth now.
I did the only thing I knew how to do: I wrote an Instagram post about her. I found my favourite picture of the two of us — she was in a purple dress with a flower crown tucked around her hair, and my arm was wrapped tightly around her waist. I suddenly wanted the whole world to know about Tat. It made no sense to me that people could continue on with their day, with their lives, as if nothing had happened. I wanted the world to stop and understand that everything had changed. The world had been altered irrevocably now that Tat was no longer in it.
I knew many people from our church, Mountainside, would now know the news, so I started to text them. I wanted to talk about her — I wanted to check in with people. Were their hearts fractured too? Were they drowning in their grief like I was? I texted Celeste, Julia, Aaron, Chris, Ben, Jorge. I told them I was praying for them. I told them I was so sorry.
Olivia had booked our friend, Celeste, months earlier to do our hair for Seth and Carrissa’s wedding. I wanted to cancel the hair appointment. I didn’t want to see anyone. But Celeste knew Tat and she texted both of us: Please can I still do your hair today? I need to see you both.
I went to Olivia’s house, and Celeste came soon after. When Celeste walked in, I looked at her and said firmly, “No crying, okay? I can’t do anymore crying today. My eyes are swollen enough, and I really want to look happy for Seth and Carrissa tonight.”
Celeste nodded. Her normal vibrancy was muted. Olivia was kind. I didn’t have any energy.
Celeste curled our hair. We put on our dresses. Celeste cried. I left the room and left Olivia to comfort her.
I drove to Burlington with Mike and Olivia. My head hurt. Be happy for Seth and Carrissa, I kept telling myself. Be happy.
Carrissa wanted Katherine, Olivia, and I to come early and pray over her before the ceremony. We walked into the Burlington Art Gallery where they were getting married later that evening. I saw Katherine’s mom, dad, and brother. Normally I’d be happy to see them, especially after being abroad for two months, but I didn’t know what to say. I kept walking.
We found Carrissa; she looked beautiful in her strapless white gown, all ready to get married. I tried not to think about Tat but that felt impossible.
Katherine, Olivia, and I each took turns praying over Carrissa, asking God to be the foundation of their marriage.
We made our way to the garden where the ceremony was going to take place. There weren’t many seats, but I snagged a couple for Olivia, Mike, and I. I put Olivia’s diaper bag on a seat to save our spot. My friends Allie and Caleb came over, and I scooted along the row to let them sit.
Caleb looked at me. I could tell he knew about Tat. His brown eyes were sadder, dimmer. I looked away and tears filled my eyes.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I told him.
Both Allie and Caleb’s faces were tender, sympathetic.
I kept thinking about how Tat would never get married. In just a few short months, this would’ve been her. She would’ve donned a white dress and walked down the aisle, leaning heavily on the arm of her father. I bet Matthew would’ve cried when he saw her. Maybe he would’ve sang her a song at the ceremony. And then Tat would’ve danced all night.
I watched Seth and Carrissa, but couldn’t help picturing Tat.
It was a stand-up reception. A few of my friends and I found a tall table and leaned against it. We ate a little, and had some drinks from the open bar. All of my friends kept looking at me — Caleb and Allie and Katherine and Davy and Milka — and I grew frustrated with them.
“I’m fine,” I said briskly. “I’m fine. Seriously, you all need to stop staring at me.”
The dance hadn’t yet started when Olivia and Mike came up to me and told me they were leaving.
“Can you find a ride home with Allie and Caleb?” Olivia asked. She and Mike looked exhausted. “We have to get ready for the memorial service tomorrow.
The next day was a Sunday, and Mike was going to somehow create a memorial service for Tat at our church. My heart broke a little for him. I didn’t know how he was supposed to do that.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll find a ride.”
Later, I found out Olivia asked Katherine, Davy, Allie, and Caleb to keep an eye on me. But I didn’t hear her.
The wine tasted good. It loosened me up a bit. I felt less sad, and more free.
I danced. I spun myself around on the dance floor, grabbing Milka’s hand and pulling her close to come dance with me. I blinked thoughts of Tat’s death away. I grinned wide at Carrissa and danced with her.
I went to the bathroom, a bit wobbly in my heels. I sat down in the stall and burst into tears. Even the alcohol couldn’t keep the pain away. It was hard to breathe, as if pieces of my fractured heart had gotten tangled within my lungs. I knew I drank too much. I was a sad cliche.
When I emerged from the washroom, Allie was waiting for me.
“You okay?” She asked kindly.
I looked up at my beautiful, gentle friend and asked angrily, “Why did she have to die, Allie? Tell me that. Why couldn’t God have saved her?”
Allie’s eyes filled with tears.
“I don’t understand why God didn’t stop the rain or the car,” I continued, my voice growing louder. “She died! I thought God was bigger than that.”
“I’m so sorry, Aliza,” she said.
I felt like I was scaring her, the way her eyes flashed with concern. I dropped my voice and went back into the reception area.
“It’s okay, Allie.”
Allie and Caleb had to go, so I told them I’d find another way home.
Milka called an Uber for the two of us after the wedding. I took off my heels and walked barefoot on the pavement outside the art gallery. I felt tired.
We got into the back of the Uber.
Milka looked at me. “Liza, I’m really sorry about Tat.”
I was silent for a long time, staring out the window at the dark night. “Me too.”
We didn’t talk the rest of the way home.
the sunday service.
I cursed at God as I drove the country roads from my house to Binbrook the day after the wedding. It was Sunday, and we were going to have a memorial service in Tat’s honour.
I slammed my fist against my steering wheel. I screamed. I swore. I drove too fast. I pushed my foot on the gas pedal, harder, faster. I wanted adrenaline. Tears streamed and I rubbed them away. I wanted anything but the pain that dug its fingernails into me.
I wore a yellow dress and a lot of makeup. I’d written down a prayer I was going to pray at our church memorial. I wanted the people from church to try and grasp the colossal loss we were wading through. I wanted them to be just as horrified as I was.
I hadn’t been to Mountainside Church in months because I’d been in England. When I walked through the doors at the banquet center we were renting for service that summer, a few people tried to hug me.
“Please don’t touch me,” I said, perhaps not as kindly as I should’ve.
Olivia was gracious and kind to the people who were obviously mourning — I could see nothing but my own grief. I was coursing with rage.
That day felt like we all collapsed in our grief. There was a lot of crying. A lot of clinging. A lot of long hugs between people who had never hugged before.
Tat’s picture appeared on the screen. She looked so alive. The truth of her death crashed into me again. I ran into the banquet hall kitchen. My heart pounded so heavily, I thought it might explode. I grasped the titanium sink with both hands, leaned over, and wept. I had never cried like that before. I have never cried like that since. I thought my chest was going to split open with how vicious and relentless the tears were.
I prayed no one would follow me into the kitchen. I took deep, shaky breaths, trying to get oxygen back to my brain. After a few minutes, I returned to the service.
The worship band was playing. I didn’t know how we were supposed to sing the words about the goodness of God, but somehow, we all did.
Mike spoke beautifully about Tat. He cried. I think we all did.
After service, a girl came up to me who I did not know.
She said, “I met Tat once, and my heart is breaking. I can’t believe she’s gone. Can you believe she’s gone? I’ve never lost anyone before and I don’t know what to do.” She started to cry. “I know you were good friends with her. Can you pray for me?”
I was suddenly filled with rage. But I gritted my teeth and said, “Sure.” I called a few other people to come over and we prayed for her.
After she left, I looked down at my hands. I was shaking with anger.
I took my baby niece and sat down. I propped her up against my shoulder and drew circles on her back until she fell asleep. I kept drawing circles, over and over, a steady motion. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I did not want to be touched or comforted. I held Selah for a long time, alone.
When everything was packed up and we got up to leave, my friend Clayton approached me.
“Want to come over later? We can all talk.” Clayton wears his heart on his sleeve, and I knew his was shattered with sorrow.
“I don’t think I can, Clay,” I said. “I’m so tired. Maybe later.”
He looked sad but didn’t push me. I gave the baby back to Olivia, got into my car, and drove home.
I didn’t take my dress off or change my clothes. I just got into bed and went to sleep. I didn’t want to be awake any longer.
the funeral.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Heavy bags were imprinted under my eyes. I applied my foundation slowly, adding more concealer under my eyes to try and hide the dark circles.
I straightened my hair, pulling the hot iron slowly through my hair, piece by piece. I felt like I was moving in slow-motion, as if someone had taken a remote and pushed pause, then play, then pause, then play. My joints and limbs felt slushy and slow.
I dipped my mascara wand and applied it carefully to my eyelashes. I did not want to cry.
I can’t believe I’m putting on makeup to go to Tat’s funeral.
I pulled my hair back into a half knot, the same way Tat always wore hers. There have been so many times when I’ve walked down the street and seen a girl with her hair like that — and I’ve gasped, loudly, thinking it was Tat. But the girl always turns around, and it’s never her.
I can't believe I’m doing my hair to go to Tat’s funeral.
I thumbed through my different lipstick colours, already knowing what colour to wear. Tat’s mom, Tracy, suggested we wear red lips for Tat. Tat could rock a red lip better than any girl I knew. I found the red, and started delicately painting my lips.
I can’t believe I’m applying lipstick to go to Tat's funeral.
I pressed my bright red lips against each other. I looked in the mirror. I had on too much makeup. I looked like I was going to a party, not a funeral.
I sighed. It was a hot day. I put on a black dress and sandals. Tat’s parents had said we didn’t have to wear black — we could wear colour, Tat would’ve liked lots of colour — but I couldn’t bear the thought of wearing a colourful dress to her funeral.
The funeral was a few hours away from Hamilton, at the church she grew up at in Barrie. I was going to the burial the next day along with a handful of others, so I needed to drive up myself instead of going with friends from church. Olivia was worried for me; she didn’t think I should drive up alone.
Tat’s dad had asked me to speak at the funeral, and to share a piece from Tat’s blog. I didn’t mind driving alone because I knew I could practice my eulogy.
The day was sunny and bright; even in the early morning you could estimate how hot it was going to be. I set out for the long drive, audibly reciting my eulogy over and over again. I hadn’t eaten — I felt nauseous at the thought of stomaching food.
My iPhone operated my GPS, but halfway to Barrie, I missed the exit and couldn’t figure out how to get on the right road. I was lost. I felt sick.
I called my sister, crying.
“Are you okay?” Olivia asked when she picked up.
“I can’t find it!” I cried. “I’m going to be late and I have to speak — I can’t find where to turn off, I missed it, I’m going to miss her funeral, I can’t find it—”
I was hot and hungry and sad and scared.
“If you pull off to the side of the road, Mike and I can come find you,” my sister offered kindly. Olivia was sick that day — she had a raging fever. She should’ve stayed home in bed, but she couldn’t imagine missing Tat’s funeral.
“It’s okay. I’ll find it,” I said and hung up.
I wiped my frustrated tears. “God, I need you so bad it isn’t even funny,” I told him. “There’s no way I can do this on my own. I need you to get me to Barrie. I need you to help me make it through this funeral.”
Finally, I found the right exit and eventually made it to the long road that led to Emmanuel Barrie Church. It was a massive building, built in the shape of a large cross. There was a flashing billboard on the side of the parking lot. It flashed with Tat’s picture and her last words: Be calm and pray.
I parked my car, stepped out into the sticky day, and watched as dozens of people entered the church. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my shaky nerves. I should’ve eaten something.
When I walked through the large doors, a blast of cold air conditioning hit me, sending goosebumps down my body. Already there were hundreds of people filling the large church foyer. There were photos of Tat everywhere.
It was stunning. Rustic signs painted with Tat’s words decorated every corner. Huge bouquets of white flowers draped along tables, and sat in vases. Poster boards with tacked photos were scattered on easels — a poster for Tat and her camp friends, one for her and her best friend Brianna, one for her and her family, one for her and Matthew, another for her and her days at Bible college, and so many others — and I watched as people made their way around the lobby, staring at the photographs, perhaps hoping they’d find a photo of themselves with Tat. As if for some form of security that they meant something to her.
Some friends from our church, Mountainside, came up to me. Tat was one of the founding members of our church, helping to start it from the ground up a handful of years earlier. Many people from Mountainside had driven the few hours to Barrie.
My friend, Beth, stared at me. She didn’t ask me how I was. She’s far more pragmatic than emotional, and in that moment, I was grateful for her sensibility.
“How was the drive?” She simply asked.
“I got lost,” I said flatly. “But I made it. Is Olivia here yet?”
Beth shook her head.
“Can you let me know when she’s here?” I wanted to see my sister. She has always been a rock, and I knew she wouldn’t crack on me.
I started to walk around, to view the way the church had been decorated.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Someone mentioned to me as I stared at a photo collection of Tat.
I nodded.
“Apparently it’s decorated just like how she wanted for her wedding.” The woman smiled sadly then walked away.
I tried to swallow the ginormous lump that had just formed in my throat. Of course that was why the decorations looked so familiar — the flowers, the signs, the photos… they were all meant to be at her wedding instead.
I paused by her casket. It was in the middle of the large room, pushed up against the wall. It was covered in startlingly beautiful white flowers. Hundreds of them. I wanted to open the casket and peer inside, just to look at her one more time. I wished I could stare at her pretty face once more. Just to ensure everything happening was real. Just to solidify that she actually was dead. Part of me still wasn’t convinced.
There was a long receiving line that was leading to a smaller room in the back. A woman came up to me. “Hi Aliza, I’m Jen.”
“Hi Jen.” She looked familiar. I realized she was Tat’s mom’s friend.
“Tracy wants to see you. Want to come back with me?”
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see Tracy just yet. But I nodded. “Okay.”
We skipped the long line and she led me through another set of doors.
“Aliza!” It was Tat’s youngest brother, Jaxon. He gave me a wide smile and flung his skinny arms around me in a tight hug.
“Hi Jaxon,” I held him for a minute. I wasn’t sure what else to say.
When I looked up, I saw the rest of Tat’s family. There was Caleb, her other brother. Her mom, Tracy, and her dad, Scott, standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by people. And then there was Matthew, the man she was supposed to marry. He was in the corner, people talking to him. His big shoulders stooped and he seemed smaller than before.
Tracy’s eyes lit up when she saw me. I bounded over to her, wrapping my arms around her and Scott.
“I love your hair,” I told Tracy. Her hair was done the same as mine: half down, half up in a top-knot.
“I like yours too,” she smiled.
Her dad told me he liked my lipstick. “Red,” I said, even though that was obvious.
There were hundreds of other people waiting in line to speak to them.
“I’ll talk to you after, okay?” I said. We all nodded.
I dashed out of the back room, and started to walk, briskly, hoping to find a bathroom. Tears flooded my vision — I knew Tat’s parents would be there, but seeing them shook me to my core.
My body collided with someone. I looked up. It was Susan.
Susan was one of the head leaders who worked at camp when Tat and I were there. I clung to her tightly. I felt like a wounded animal with wild eyes staring up at her. Susan was no-nonsense. Immediately, I felt safe.
“Her parents—” I gasped.
She clutched my shoulders.
“Sue, her parents are here, and of course they’re here, but if they’re here she must really be gone—” My voice broke and tears poured from me.
Sue held onto me. She didn’t say much, but her grasp was firm and made me feel less breakable.
An endless loop of Taylor Swift songs played from the speakers. I could hear Love Story playing. Immediately, I flash backed to Tat standing in my green polka dot dress singing the song at camp years earlier.
People began walking into the sanctuary. I found Olivia. A group of us from church walked in and found seats near the back. I felt like I was buzzing. Everything in me was quivering. My hands, my knees, my lips. I would’ve bet all my vital organs were buzzing and vibrating too.
Scott had asked my brother-in-law, Mike, to read some Scripture. I looked at the program I held between my sweaty hands to double check the order. A few songs. Then Mike with Scripture. Then me.
At some point, Mike steered me to go down towards the front with him. I followed behind, and we found a few chairs closer to the stage. The sanctuary was packed. Everywhere I looked I saw people. There was even an overflow room somewhere else in the church for people who couldn’t fit into the auditorium. I couldn’t count the people. Later, I learned it was almost 1,500.
A worship band got up to play some music. They played Cornerstone, I think. Maybe In Christ Alone.
I could hardly sing. I started to cry. Mike turned to me. “Don’t cry yet,” he said kindly, gently. “You still have to speak.”
But I couldn’t seem to stop.
Mike and I walked up the large staircase to the stage. I didn’t realize her casket would be beside us, and as Mike shared some Scripture verses, I kept staring at the casket. I pictured her asleep, inside it. Two massive screens on either side of the stage played giant photographs of her face, and it felt like Tat surrounded me.
Please God, I prayed. Please don’t let me be sick. Please help me honour her.
When it was my turn to share my eulogy, I stepped up to the microphone. It was attached to a podium, thank God, and I clung to the pedestal for dear life.
“Scott said I could take as much time as I wanted,” I quipped. “So here we go.”
People laughed. Tracy said, “Oh boy,” from the front row. I smiled at her.
I stared out at the thousands of people my friend’s life had touched. I had always known she impacted people, just having a brief conversation you could gather that much. But here was tangible, physical proof: thousands of people had come to her funeral. It was a sea of bodies I could hardly see the end of.
I delivered my eulogy, citing a large portion of Tat’s blog. Nothing I could ever write or say would ever be good enough to encapsulate Tat. But I took a deep breath and tried. I will always be grateful Scott and Tracy gave me the chance to talk about her.
It was a long funeral, drenched in sadness.
Tat’s whole family spoke. Brianna and her parents spoke. Matthew spoke. Cyril — Tat’s prof, Matthew and Tat’s marriage counsellor, and the person who texted my dad about Tat’s death — gave a sermon.
At the end, Tat’s family shared how they wanted to play a song. Matthew is a musician, and he’d written a song for Tat. They’d been working on it together before she died.
Halfway through, Tat’s voice rang out. They’d recorded her vocals a month earlier, and she was harmonizing the chorus alongside him.
She sang about love. About loving him better. About loving him always.
The room was silent and thick with tears.
At the end of the song, just when I thought I couldn’t take it any longer, another video played on the giant screens.
It was Tat saying yes to her wedding dress.
There were audible gasps and cries in the room. Her aunt moaned loudly a few rows away from me.
I had never before been enveloped in such sorrow; thousands wept watching the video.
Tat gave the camera a big smile.
“Yes!” She said, twirling in her dress. Her hair was pinned up, her wedding dress was white and sleeveless. You could see her video calling her mom in Peru. Her soft laughter floated throughout the sanctuary.
The video felt cruel — a sharp reminder of what would never take place.
And then it was over. Her family got up, and in a procession, they all walked down the aisle. There were many long minutes before anyone else moved. There was a thick cloud in the air — the anguish was palpable.
I stayed seated long after everyone had left. I could not stop crying and I didn’t want to go out into the hallway and have to make small talk over cheese cubes and egg salad sandwiches.
Someone sat beside me. I looked up. It was Susan again.
She handed me tissues and I blew my nose. I could already feel how swollen my eyes were from crying.
“I hated that video,” I told her.
“I know,” she said.
“And I—” my voice broke. “I didn’t expect to hear her voice. That was shocking.”
Sue was crying too.
We sat for awhile. Then she suggested, “Let’s go to the bathroom. You can wash your face.”
I nodded. We waited in line for the bathroom, then I put cool water on my cheeks and forehead. My head had already started to hurt from the tears. I exited the bathroom and went to find my sister.
The afternoon passed in a sluggish blur. There was Inca Kola, a sugary soda pop from Peru, and slices of cheesecake. Fruit and cheese and some sandwiches. I knew someone had put a lot of thought and intention into the spread because everywhere I looked I saw all of Tat’s favourite things.
I talked to people I hadn’t seen in years. Their faces all blurred together in my mind.
My sister’s boss was there. I remember seeing him, surprised he came. His thoughtfulness deeply touched me. I saw my brother out of the corner of my eye, but then he was gone.
People started to leave.
Eventually, the church was almost empty save for a few of us.
Danielle, Brianna, and I sat in small bistro chairs in the church cafe. We didn’t say much. I think Brianna’s brother came over and talked to us for awhile, but I can’t remember.
I told the girls, “I’ll be right back,” and then I left the church and got back into my hot car.
I flipped down the mirror, grabbed a tissue, and rubbed hard at my lips.
I didn’t want the red lipstick on any longer.
the burial.
It was cold, the morning of her burial.
The day earlier had been sweltering, and I was shocked by the chill on my legs in the black dress I wore. Other people wore dresses too. Some people had on jeans. It was a mismatched cacophony and I think Tat would’ve liked it that way. I wondered briefly what colour lipstick she’d be wearing had she been there. Then I realized afresh she was there… but in the casket in front of me.
It was a small plot of land, and it was pretty. Had it not been a cemetery, it could’ve been an ideal setting for an old Taylor Swift music video. There was a sprawling field to my right, and the cemetery to my left. A tiny white church called Knox Presbyterian sat behind some grave markers. No matter what city you’re in, there’s always a church called Knox Presbyterian.
Danielle, Brianna and I had stayed in a hotel the night before. Brianna hadn’t intended on staying, but I invited her after the funeral. I said, “We can go in the hot tub,” as if that made sense after the funeral of our friend.
I didn’t know what else to say to her. She’d nodded, like she liked the idea, so she came.
We got A&W burgers and root beers and took them back to the hotel. We walked into the lobby, our bags slung over our backs, and I wondered if the hotel staff who checked us in assumed we’d been planning an overnight adventure for weeks. Just three girls on a girl’s trip.
We ate the fast food in our room. My stomach hurt, but I hadn’t eaten all day and I was hungry. We changed into our swimsuits, wearing our pajamas over top. We walked down to the hotel pool, but the pool was green and it seemed like the water hadn’t been cleaned or changed in years.
The hot tub looked unremarkable, but it was something to do.
We shed our pajamas, left them on the side of the tub, and got in.
We talked about the Enneagram. I don’t know why. It was a subject that felt comfortable to me. We tried to guess Tat’s Enneagram type. I was going back and forth between a Two and a Nine, but we were pretty sure she was a Two. I launched into a deep explanation about the history of the Enneagram, explaining each type, and tried to help Brianna and Danielle figure out which type was theirs. No one gives you a list of topic suggestions to cover the night of your friend’s funeral. I felt like it was my job to create conversation. Silence felt suffocating. So I chattered away about personality types. We even laughed sometimes. Maybe I should’ve talked less.
We got out of the hot tub, and grabbed our pajamas to slip back over our damp suits. But the water from the tub had splashed on top of mine and my pajamas were soaked. I hadn’t brought other clothes — just a funeral dress, a burial dress, and a pair of pj's.
We went to Walmart.
It felt strange, driving to Walmart the evening of Tat’s funeral to purchase new pajama’s because mine had gotten wet. I’d tried drying them with a blowdryer in the hotel bathroom, but it was already late and the dryer didn’t have much power, and we knew we’d have to be up early for the burial the next day.
For some reason, all of us purchased new pajamas even though mine were the only ones that had been soaked through. I think we needed something to do, and it felt like it gave us a purpose. I held the soft fabric in my hands at the checkout and wondered if those pj’s would always feel slightly sacred because of the day I purchased them.
We drove back to the hotel. We ate chips and gummy bears. Comfort food.
The next morning, we got ready silently. I can’t remember if we were tired yet — it’s almost as if your body and mind and soul knows intrinsically that there is still work you need to do.
We drove in separate cars to the burial site. Danielle and I in mine, Brianna in another.
Danielle put worship music on in my car, and we listened to Reckless Love as we drove.
“I love this song,” Danielle said. She sang along, and I liked to listen to the sound of her voice. Her voice took me back to summer camp — when she, Tat, and I would sing loudly to the campers to wake them up in the mornings. Her voice took me back to Peru — when she, Tat, Brianna and I would sit on the tiny bunks in the room we’d painted at the girl’s home. Tat strummed Blank Space on her guitar and we’d attempt three-part harmonies.
The burial site held a long, gravel road. There were cars parked on the side, so I manoeuvred my silver Mazda behind a pickup truck. She was being buried in Oro-Medonte, what her family simply called “Oro”, near Barrie, and it felt a bit like we were in the middle of Tennessee.
When we got out of the car, I didn’t know what to do. I tried to take my cue from Danielle, but I don’t think she knew what to do either. I was awkward and afraid.
We followed people down the gravel road. There were a few large, sweeping trees. Their branches shielded us from the morning sun. But I was cold. My legs were covered in goosebumps.
I saw Tat’s parents. They were strong. I was almost envious of their strength — I couldn’t grapple or understand how they were still standing. I saw Tat’s fiancé, Matthew. Tat’s mom, Tracy, wrapped her arm around him, and he held her close. He was much taller than she; her head seemed to fit snug in the crook of his shoulder. She burrowed herself into him.
Eventually someone summoned us all to come closer, and we gathered around the plot of land she was going to be buried in. There were thirty of us, maybe. I didn’t know everybody but I recognized a few faces. There were a lot of young girls, and I was struck by their youth — these young students Tat had gone to Bible college with. I looked at their youthful faces. Tat was that young too. There was a vibrancy about them. Girls that young shouldn’t die.
I stood near the back. I couldn’t see well, but I wanted to stay out of the way.
I can’t remember who spoke — it was an older gentleman. I didn’t know his name or his relation to Tat. His voice was soft, soothing. He said someday Tat’s body will be resurrected and we’ll walk and talk and drink together again.
Is that what will happen, Jesus? I asked the Lord quietly. Will we get to hang out with one another again, eating and drinking? I didn’t hear an answer. I hoped the man was right. I liked the thought of having a slice of cheesecake with Tat again.
I watched Tat’s dad’s shoulders shake. Her family stood close together. I stared at Jaxon, her younger brother. He was so little.
There was a framed photo of Tat on the casket. Silent tears streamed down my cheeks. I tried to brush them away so no one would notice. I didn’t understand why I was embarrassed to be crying.
Someone began to hand out flowers. They were the flowers that had decorated her funeral the day earlier, the kind of white flowers she had planned to have as the floral arrangements for her wedding. They were beautiful.
We stood in a line to accept our flower, then one-by-one dropped them into the ground on top of her casket. Tracy held Tat’s picture in her hands.
I took the flower someone gave me, it was long stemmed and plush and soft in my hand. I pressed my fingertips against the velvet petals, trying to memorize the feel of it.
How could I tell Tat everything I wanted to say in a few seconds with a flower?
It was my turn before I was ready. I didn’t want to hold up the line. I dropped the flower slowly, and whispered, “I miss you. I love you. I’ll see you.”
The tears increased, and I moved away before anyone could see how hard I was crying. Immediately, I wished I could turn around and do my turn over again. I didn’t do it right. I didn’t say the right thing. I wanted to tell her how much she meant to me, how much I loved her, how ripped apart I was that she was gone.
But the line had continued moving, and I couldn’t go back.
When it was Tracy’s turn, she knelt by the casket. Her body was as close to Tat’s as she could manage. She clung to the wooden chest that held her daughter. It was as if no one else was around her. She whispered words to Tat, words that felt private, and I felt like the rest of us were intruding.
I don’t know if Tracy cried. She laughed a few times. She called Tat “Baby Girl”. She said something like, “Everyone says you’re dancing in Heaven right now, but, Baby Girl, we both know you’re a terrible dancer.”
And then, Tat was buried.
The funeral procession broke up, people mingling, others staying closer to the grave, others moving cautiously away. The tears kept pouring from me. My nose was clogged and I wiped it against my black long-sleeved dress. I didn’t have Kleenex.
Tat’s friend Abbie came up to me. We’d never met, but we both knew who each other were.
“Aliza,” she said. Her eyes were swollen, but she was beautiful. Tat had told me a lot about Abbie, and at Tat’s funeral the day earlier, Abbie had carried Tat’s precious aloe vera plant down the aisle of the church.
“I’m Abbie,” she said.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” my voice sounded hoarse. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Likewise,” Abbie said. “Tat would always tell me that she was so proud of you because of your book. She loved that she had a friend who was an author. My mom and I read your book because of Tat.”
“Thank you,” I said softly. My face was wet.
We were linked in that moment, Abbie and I, even though we hardly knew each other. But I felt an invisible link form through our Tat. We hugged one another — long and tight and desperate.
Abbie invited Danielle and I back to her family’s house. There would be food, pictures of Tat, and conversation.
Danielle and I didn’t have anywhere else to go, so we said we’d come for an hour or two.
I looked back at Tat’s grave, a hole in the ground with dirt piled beside it. Her headstone wouldn’t come for weeks, months maybe, but I wondered if people would know she was there because of the distinct dug-up ground. Now when I go to cemeteries, I look for the fresh plots without the headstones. I whisper a quiet prayer for their families.
We had sandwiches and fruit at Abbie’s mom’s house. I didn’t know who to talk to. I didn’t know what to talk about. All of us had just been through a horrible process of burying Tat — I wasn’t sure what the after-burial etiquette was.
We looked through photo albums. Danielle and I talked a bit with Brianna and Matt. When we felt ready to leave, we hugged her parents. We cried.
I said, “We’ll see you soon, okay?” even though we all knew they were going back to Peru. I just couldn’t bear to say the word goodbye.
Danielle and I got into the car to drive the two and a half hours back home.
We didn’t feel like talking. I put the Hamilton soundtrack on in my car and blasted it.
We sang the whole way home.
the kingdom is coming.
I think of her when I see lightning flash in the dark sky.
Lightning reminds me of one evening when we worked at camp together. We had just finished a worship set in the Pavillon. It must’ve been a Friday because it was Tat’s and my idea to decorate the Pavillon with white triangle bunting and stringed lights and have a hoedown on Fridays. Tat seemed to belong in the South. She often said “y’all” and loved Taylor Swift with every inch of her heart. The hoedown was almost certainly her idea.
On those Friday evenings after dinner, Tat and a couple girls would lead the campers in line dancing. She taught them “The Cotton Eyed Joe” and was surprisingly good at it for not being a very good dancer.
After our hoedown, the campers would get their candy from the tuck shop, then make their way to campfire. We had a specific campfire area, like most camps do, but for some reason that evening we had campfire in the Pavillon. Perhaps because we knew it was going to rain and the Pavillon had a covering.
Tat led worship that night. I liked when she would lead because her voice was sweet and clear. She and I would lead together sometimes. We liked to sing Good, Good Father that summer. It was long before the song blew up with popularity. Sometimes if I shut my eyes tight enough, I can still hear her singing it.
There was nothing special about that evening. I can’t remember what we talked about or what she sang. But when campfire was over, and the campers were given their evening snack then herded back up the hill and off to bed, Tat and I walked together.
We crunched down the gravel road toward her cabin. I was in the main building that summer; she was junior leadership so she had to stay in a cabin connected with campers. I reminded her of that often. It was snarky, but Tat was gracious and said she didn’t mind. She liked the campers.
That night, we both looked up to the sky at the same time.
Lightning flashed. The air was warm and balmy, but there was a slight wind — the kind that gets stronger when a storm is brewing. The wind picked up a few strands of our hair, blowing.
Tat and I didn’t say much. We just stood in the middle of that gravel road, staring up at the onyx sky watching the flashes of lightning flare every few seconds. I felt small and steady.
And then we went to our different rooms. I never paid much thought to that night again.
Except now when I see lightning, I think of her.
I think of her in a hundred other ways too.
I think of her when I see someone wearing red or brown or black lipstick. I think of her when it comes to aloe vera plants. Tat had an aloe vera plant and was mildly obsessed with it. My sister purchased me one a few days after Tat died. I pray God helps me keep it alive.
I think of Tat when it comes to memorizing Scripture. She had this trick to memorization. She would pen the first letter of each word from the verse onto her hand, as a visual cue to remember. Her hands had pen marks on them for weeks.
I think of her when I think of mangoes. When I first moved to my apartment in Binbrook, I went to the grocery store. I wandered down the aisles and came to a fridge. It was the smoothie section. My stomach dropped when I saw the familiar yellow label on the familiar orange bottle. Amazing Mango. Tat and I would always purchase a massive bottle of Amazing Mango smoothie every week before camp started. We’d pour ourselves a little each day as a treat. The orange bottle brought it all back and I cried in the middle of the grocery store.
I think of her whenever I hear a Taylor Swift song. On the days when I miss her fiercest, I shuffle old Taylor Swift songs in my car and sing as loud as I can.
I think of her whenever I get on a plane or stand in an airport.
I think of her whenever I see a mountain.
I think of her at our Mountainside Movie Nights; remembering afresh when we painted children’s faces for hours. Joe had snapped a picture of Tat painting a kid’s face, her Mountainside shirt on, her hair in a messy bun, her face grinning wide. We gave the picture out to everyone at church a few weeks after she died.
I think of her when I hear someone speaking in Spanish. My friends Tia and Chava speak Spanish, and everytime Tia says vamonos, I can’t help but think immediately of Tat. I can still hear Tat conversing with the locals in Peru when we were there, her hands gesturing. She was our fearless leader. She was quiet, but firm. She demanded no attention, but she was effervescent. People couldn’t help but look at her.
I doubt Tat ever grasped the effect she had on people. She always blogged about feeling not enough — and now I wish I’d spent more time affirming her enough-ness. I wish I’d told her every single day just how special she truly was.
I think of her whenever I get into my car. I strung a Polaroid picture onto my rearview window. It’s one of my favourites of the two of us. Tracy gave it to me after Tat’s funeral. I hooked a feather earring onto the picture; the one we got in the Peruvian marketplace when we went shopping on Saturdays. Every time I drive, I look up and get a glimpse of her.
I think of her when I hear songs from the movie Tangled.
I think of her when I hear about injustice taking place in the world.
I think of her when I see people’s tattoos and I wonder what other tattoos she would’ve gotten.
I think of her when I spy mint Aero chocolate bars in the convenience store. At camp we would freeze them, saving them for a hot and sticky day.
I worry I’ll forget. I worry more years will go by without her than with, and that I’ll forget her interests, or the sound of her voice, or the way she and Danielle nicknamed me, “Aleeka” after the bird I’d had growing up as a kid.
I worry I’ll forget, so I choose to remember. I choose to think of her. I choose to remind myself of my friend, over and over and over again. Through lightning storms and smoothies at the grocery store and pictures on my walls and car.
And I know — with great hope and absolute certainty — that Tat and I will make new memories someday. I think of this often, dreaming of the day Jesus will return to earth to make all things new, the day Jesus’ kingdom will be complete. I think about the new bodies Jesus will give us, and how we will be able to run and dance and laugh together again.
I think of the memories Tat and I will create: how once again we will send off paper lanterns, roast dinner around a bonfire, stare at brilliant stars in an inky sky. And Jesus will be there too.
This is how grief can feel: like shattered glass in the middle of your lungs, and at the same time like the greatest certainty — knowing with every fibre of your being that someday you’ll laugh with your friend again.
Because there will come a day, the day Jesus promised, when every tear will be wiped away, where pain will be impossible, and when we will all be together — fully and vibrantly alive — once again.
Oh, Tat — I can’t wait.
When we can fully know and trust Jesus, we can be confident in the fact that even if our plans change, Jesus never will. — Tatiana Blackburn