Just over a month ago, a tragedy happened to a family who live on our street. An 18 year old girl, fell while climbing down a small mountain about 1 1/2 hours north of here.
She was climbing with her identical twin and her twin's boyfriend. Sadly, the boyfriend also died as he attempted to help the first twin who had already fallen.
Left terrified and completely horrified, the surviving twin couldn't climb down and needed to be rescued. She lost her boyfriend and her twin sister on the same summit trip that was supposed to be a fun day out.
We heard this news from news a few days after it happened. We had only just returned from a long road trip and (thankfully) weren't home when the mother hears the news as she apparently wailed at the top of her lungs, in the middle of the night, for hours on end.
Brad and I had only ever seen the Dad; we'd never met the Mum or the daughters. So, when we saw the Dad a few days later, I share my condolences and gave him a half hug - which felt about right for a guy I barely knew.
For several weeks, there were regularly unfamiliar cars on the street outside their house. So, AI felt happy knowing they had people checking on them.
And when I asked another neighbour about them, he said that "they're big church goers, so they have a lot of community". Again, I felt like they had support.
But this morning, I saw a woman sitting alone out the front of their place this morning. She looked old enough to had 18 year old daughters and so I went over to introduce myself.
It was her, the Mum, the woman who had tried for 7 years to have children and finally got twins through IVF.
Despite having only just met me, the moment I asked how she was doing with a gentle, enquiring voice she started telling me how incredibly difficult she was finding it.
It was like she was bursting at the seams with pain and the moment I showed compassion, the dam was ready to break.
I listened. I answered her questions she asked about me. I let her show me photos of her two precious daughters, the one who had died and the one had lost so very much.
Knowing that we would be interrupted by a visitor or a phone call at some point (as that's why she was waiting at the front), I tried to figure out what I could say that might, might offer even the tiniest bit of relief from the pile of pain she was in.
There was no way, even with all the skills and knowledge I have that I could take all her pain away. There was no way that I could help her jump to a place of acceptance of what had happened or gratitude for what she does have.
I couldn't do any of that.
But what I could do is show her that someone cares. Be the someone, on this day, that listens. Be the someone who offers some tiny specks of light as she navigates darkness.
