Signs of Life

An unremarkable picture? I guess so, but I like it. If that dish got rustled up on a TV cookery competition, it might be called ‘carb three ways’ (followed by the contestant being voted off, I would imagine). I have many shots of similar culinary delights on my WhatsApp. They are all from my youngest daughter, a first-year student at the University of Nottingham.

In September last year we drove there, car heavily laden, and helped make her room in halls feel homely. We met many other parents doing the same. In an emotional goodbye in the car park, we said we loved her and were proud to be her parents. The next day, when I was feeling sad about the distance between us, I wrote a song that spoke of a father’s instinct to protect. In the interest of brevity, I will just give a sample of the lyrics.

To love you, to watch you grow and to guide you... this has been the work of my life... to protect you, to be by your side and to shield you... to defend you, to hold your hand tight and to guard you... to keep you high above the storm and to hold you... but even as the distance grows... angels will stand in my place... to teach you how you can fly, let you go in the breeze...

In the days that followed, she didn’t overwhelm us with communication. We took this as a good sign. As it should be, there were better things to do than keep in touch with the folks. No news was good news. After a couple of weeks, her mum dropped a hint that a tad more contact might be nice. For us, if not for her. After that, we started receiving a picture every evening of the dinner offering in the halls, often accompanied by an emoji rating. There were more yums than yucks. At our end, it became a standing joke the pictures were just to let us know she was alive.

It seems silly, but we treasured those little signs of life. At the end of May, totally against the run of play, she asked if we could visit for the weekend. There was a break between exams and the campus was quiet. We had a great time. We strolled around the large and beautiful campus, drank coffee overlooking the lake, and went deer spotting in Wollaton Park across the road. In the evening, we dined overlooking the castle, posing for photos with Robin Hood. Most of all, though, we just enjoyed being in her company and seeing how happy she was. We met some of her lovely friends and noticed how she was growing into a confident and independent young woman. Before we left, we told her again that we loved her and were proud of her. Term was ending three weeks later, and they were all excited about finishing exams and celebrating. The possibility of not seeing her again wasn’t in our thoughts.

A fortnight later, two of her peers had their lives violently ended without warning, walking along a road that she walks along. A third person lost their life nearby and three more lay injured. When the news came through, I was stunned. I could barely watch the vigil as the broken families stood where we had just two weeks earlier, stammering their words of loss and grief. Words they had never expected to need. The next day, I wrote the words of another song.

Fly free, always, always fly free... always, always fly free... let the doves go... point them into the breeze... let them go... they will find their way home... let them go... let the doves go... you have raised them to fly... let them go... they will find their way home... let them go...

Fly free Grace, Barnaby and Ian. We will remember you. Please join me in praying for their families whose loss is outside of my experience but whose dignity in the face of the deepest sorrow shone through.

‘The Lord is near to the broken-hearted and saves the crushed in spirit.’ Psalm 34:18.

Photo Credits: Author's own