In the corner of a coffee shop, I frantically type out my blurry thoughts, trying to meet imposed deadlines for publication. When writing, I usually enter another world and am able to block out the bustling sounds of the grinding coffee machine, chatter from patrons and the light jazzy style music that drips from the JBL speaker mounted in the corner over my head. But not today.
A mom walks in with her friend, both being followed by two little 5-year-old-ish girls. They take off toward the knee-high chalkboard in the “family-friendly” corner. I notice them because the mom calls out the name of her daughter which simultaneously calls out my emotions and memories.
“Makenzie” she says.
I look up expecting to see my oldest daughter scampering across the tan tiles of the shop. For a split second, I hope it to be true. I hope it is her. I hope the last years without her could be redone. But God doesn’t work that way. The reality of my Makenzie’s death sinks in again as a different little face turns and looks up at her mom. You never really get over those “hits” of reality. Some of you reading, know … you know.
So I pray for that young mom and her “Makenzie.” I pray that the joy my daughter brought me would also be hers. I pray that God’s plan for their lives doesn’t intersect with the same tragedy as did ours. All in all, I succumb to the numb that I haven’t felt in quite some time and I sink back into my coffee shop corner. Deadlines persist and I thank God for allowing me to hear her name again – “Makenzie.”