Sometimes a deeply held story changes in a heartbeat. Or the cessation of one.
Christopher, a fellow parent in our intimate Waldorf community, died of a heart attack a few days after his 54th birthday while preparing dinner for his family. As we’d each had a daughter in the same class for 13 years, I knew Christopher in simple, consistent ways: attending parent meetings; co-volunteering at school events; dressed-up and handsome at the annual Spring Benefit, his beloved wife, K., a Waldorf kindergarten teacher, transformed in evening attire.
Over time, we’d shared more direct conversations about our daughters, as they navigated first employment, shared trips to music festivals, and the “what’s next after high school” trajectory. I found him caring, thoughtful, and articulate. In particular, I witnessed and felt how much he loved his three daughters.
I learned Christopher had died on my way to work, my car pulled over to take the call from my husband. When he asked: “Where are you?” in the universal ‘brace yourself’ tone, I immediately asked about our daughters. He told me in one, short sentence. Then paused.
Stunning loss is always the same. The words initially crash against belief, not permeating, then linger in the air, bouncing back and forth between belief and the glass wall of denial. Eventually, as has to happen when enough belief…
