by Sturm, Lacey
Memento Mori came to life in tragic ways, with my molar pregnancy and the death of my friend Rich Caldwell, who was killed in a car accident, and it came to life in beautiful, miraculous ways, with the birth of my two sons.
To remember we are mortal means to live one day at a time.
It means we must do the most we can with every day we have. It means we must learn to be truly alive right now. We must love people while we can.
To love others doesn’t mean we should try to be God for people. If we try to be God for others, we will always let them down and we will always be crushed under the weight of trying to be more than it is possible for us to be. To love others means to point to the God who is our only Savior. It means to look to God to find out where he wants us to go and how he wants us to live and to love. It means we must make the most of every opportunity—that might look like standing on stage in front of thousands and singing your heart out, or it could be bringing some fresh baked cookies to a cancer ward waiting room. Both are equally important. It’s just a matter of what your highest purpose is for each day.
We don’t know if we will have tomorrow. Sometimes it takes the scary prospect of cancer for that to really sink in. Sometimes it takes a healthy loved one dying in a car crash. Sometimes it takes going through a complicated pregnancy and giving birth to a healthy baby anyway. But we don’t require the experience of trauma to wake up, listen, believe, and truly live like our lives are precious, fragile gifts. The lives of the people around us are precious, fragile gifts.
All life is a gift from God.
So if you know you should leave home and tell the world about hope by being a musician, lawyer, doctor, missionary, businessperson, educator, or whatever; or if you are supposed to go home and be a mom, a son, a friend, or a plumber at your dad’s plumbing business, then don’t neglect what you know you should do with the short time you have here on earth.
For me, the season for being in Flyleaf was coming to a close, and I could feel it. When my son Jack was born, I wasn’t certain how having a baby would affect me as a full-time musician, but I knew my priorities were already changing.
I remember lying beside my baby boy, looking at his innocent face, and wishing that my only job was to be his momma. But I wasn’t sure this was what I was meant to do. I remember crying and praying and telling the Lord, “I’m willing to trust you, if you want me to hire help and keep touring. But if you honor me by calling me to stay home, then I will be so happy.”
It took a full year of praying and watching for the answer before Josh and I would make one of the hardest decisions we’ve ever had to make. But finally, the answer was very clear: this new season for us was best served at home, learning what it meant to be parents.
It was hard for a lot of people to understand (especially if they didn’t have children) how changing diapers was more important than trying to spread hope into the hearts of suicidal teens through Flyleaf’s music. The truth is, it isn’t more important. It is just as important. What matters is knowing what season it is for you and knowing what you are meant to be doing today. That is where you will be the most fulfilled and where you will be the most effective at changing the world.
Voice Less
I had been in Flyleaf for seven years before I ever went to a voice doctor. They stuck a camera down my throat to prove to me that I had destroyed my vocal cords. The first time I saw Dr. Pertzog, we had a show that night in Pittsburgh.
She was shocked.
“You mean to tell me that you are in the middle of a tour?”
“Well,” I said, “we are almost done. We only have three more dates.”
“And you are supposed to play tonight?”
“Yeah, at Mr. Smalls Theatre,” I rasped.
“You think you are going to sing for an hour tonight?”
“Well, our set is around an hour, yeah.”
“Listen. I know you are saying that you have these shows booked, but I’m going to strongly recommend that you do not sing at all. Not at all. I have no idea how you have any voice left, but if you do not stop right now, you will lose your voice completely.”
“You mean I won’t be able to finish the tour?”
“I mean you won’t have a voice to sing your children to sleep with.”
My heart sank.
“At this point, you are going to have to stay completely silent for a good three months. The only other alternative is surgery. With surgery you risk losing your voice or at least dramatically changing it. My recommendation is that you go on voice rest.”
“So can I at least finish these last few shows?”
“Absolutely not.”
After three months of vocal rest and some therapy, my voice was closer to being normal, but it has never been the same.
Toward the end, my voice was one of the most stressful things about touring. I never knew if it would work or not. My only peace, besides praying and being sure I was supposed to be singing, was knowing that Rich was behind the soundboard. He knew me so well. After ten years of playing live shows together, he could tell when my voice was tired. He knew exactly which parts I struggled with. He knew just when I needed effects, or to be buried or pulled up in the mix. He knew the songs so well. Most of all, he knew my voice and understood how it worked better than I did.
He took the blame when my voice was shot. He would turn up the guitars so no one could hear that I sounded like a dying horse. He didn’t care if anyone commented on the mix being bad because they couldn’t hear the vocals. He had my back and always knew just how to cover for me. Because of this, many times Rich was the only reason the show could go on. I never thought I would have to play a show without Rich—he was the author of the Flyleaf live show sound. In many ways, Rich was the person who gave me a voice to tour with.
The last time I saw Dr. Pertzog, we were finishing up what would turn out to be my last Flyleaf tour. I was five months pregnant and my voice was acting up again. She explained how pregnancy hormones affect the voice. Sometimes the effects are permanent, but most of the time they go away after nursing stops. She explained how I had lost some of my range, and she didn’t know if those notes would come back or not until my baby was born—maybe not until after I finished nursing.
Rich Less
Rich had taught our monitor engineer, Shawn, everything he could teach him about running the front of house soundboard. So Shawn was as close as we could get to Rich being behind the board. And tonight, Shawn was out there. But even though Shawn was good, he didn’t know my voice like Rich.
Shawn would have been fine on a good night, but this was not a good night. This night would be the most difficult show I would ever have to play. My thoughts overwhelmed me.
I can’t do this. I can’t do this. It’s just not right. Nothing is right anymore. I can’t do this.
I could barely breathe.
There was a room full of people out there waiting for us. They had all bought a ticket to the show so we could raise money for our tour manager, Katy, and her two-year-old son, Kirby. Katy was Rich’s wife—and now his widow.
Katy and Kirby’s lives would never be the same without Rich.
We were all aching deeply as we mourned with them.
Rich had given his whole life to Flyleaf. He had quit his big-money job—the one he went to college for—where he sat in a cubicle. He knew something was missing, like so many people do when they settle for less than the heights to which they’re called. But Rich knew how to live his life to the fullest: by faith.
Faith involves risk. Rich took a risk so he could pile into a 1988 Ford Club Wagon van with five kids and their instruments and tour the country with no guarantees. He believed in us. And more than believing in us, he believed in the impact and difference we could make. That was ten years ago, now. Over a million albums sold, many world tours, and thousands of letters from fans talking about how Flyleaf music saved their lives.
It turns out Rich made the right choice. Maybe it was Rich’s faith that brought u
s so far. He was definitely a place of creativity, peace, laughter, and perspective we all needed during those years.
Once we had the opportunity to travel to Afghanistan to play for the troops. Rich mentioned to me that his mother was terrified of him going into a war zone. He said, “Mom, all I can do in this life is go and do whatever God wants me to do.” He felt like God really wanted him to go. “If I’m supposed to die in Afghanistan,” he said to his mom, “then at least I can find comfort knowing that Afghanistan is where God wanted me to die.”
I think about what Rich said about this almost daily. So many men and women serving over there have left their families and carry such an emotional weight, risking their lives and missing their loved ones. We were honored to be invited to play for them and serve them in this small way. We spent a week there, traveling from base to base.
One day they told us that the base we had visited the day before had been attacked and several men had died. I wept, wondering if I had said what God wanted me to say—if I had said what I should have said. That night we were all exhausted because of little sleep and bad jet lag. But there were two soldiers we talked to earlier who were asking Rich questions about God. When I went to bed Rich and the soldiers were still sitting in the back of an ATV, talking.
The next morning I awoke as the sun was rising. When I walked out of my cabin, Rich was still there with those guys, watching the sunrise and talking about God.
“You never know if today is going to be your last, or their last. Memento mori, right?” he had said to me when I marveled at his sleepless night. His commitment to our message was humbling. He was living it out and challenging me with his love for others. He did this at our shows as well. While everyone was stressed and complaining, Rich worked to keep everyone positive and looking on the bright side.
Rich held so much of Flyleaf together that, on this night, preparing to play without him was too much. We were all a mess.
We hardly had any idea what to do. This show wasn’t going to be the same because Rich was the one who had always made it all happen. That was more apparent now than ever, now that he was missing when we went to load the trailer, load in the venue, set up our gear, and especially now that my voice, so unpredictable, had changed. We all needed him in order to do this well. It was painfully obvious. And we had been mourning about this, and so much more, all day.
I stood on the side stage as the crowd noise boiled into the room. It was time.
James, Pat, and Jared walked up the stairs. My stomach shot up into my throat and I crumpled into a heap. Sameer was behind me. He caught my arm as I went down. I started sobbing.
“I can’t do this, I can’t do this. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”
Sameer wrapped me up in his arms and started sobbing with me. His sobs were deep and loud. We let ourselves fall apart a little more than we had all day in that moment.
“I love you, Sameer,” I said as I cried.
“I love you too,” he cried.
“I’m so sorry that I haven’t appreciated you like I should. I don’t feel like I’ve appreciated anyone like I should, especially Rich,” I said, still sobbing. “I don’t know how to do this without him.”
We just held each other. He squeezed me so tight. It was the way you squeeze someone when you’re not sure if you’ll ever see them again. That was our message, wasn’t it? Memento mori. Love like it may be your loved one’s last day. Hadn’t all this painted that message in living color? Weren’t we living out memento mori as we mourned our brother Rich and as we apologized to and loved on each other? What else could we do?
“I love you, Lacey,” Sameer said again.
“I love you too,” I repeated. “Thank you, Sameer.”
I meant it with everything in me. I was so thankful for my brother in that moment. I needed to hold someone and be held by someone who had been a part of our Flyleaf family—someone who understood why everything felt wrong about going on with our show without Rich.
Thank you for that moment, Sameer. I will never forget it.
We pulled away, wiped our faces, and put in our earbuds as we walked on stage.
Turning Leaves
The show wasn’t anything close to normal. There was a sweet encouragement and kindness between us all on stage. There was sensitivity among us with this being the first show after Rich’s death. My voice worked and then it wouldn’t. My memory worked and then it wouldn’t. My heart broke over and over until the last note played and I exhaled.
The show was harder than any other show I’d ever played. It was obvious to me that this was the most beautiful and saddest part of the winter. It was a season ending. Flyleaf would never be the same.
I knew that my time in Flyleaf was over. I mourned so many things that night.
I’m jealous of Rich for making it to heaven before me. I know he would tease me about it if I could talk to him.
“Haha! I know more about this place than you!” he’d say.
And although I can’t wait for Rich to show me around, I have to wait, because I am still breathing. I have to learn from the way Rich lived his life so fully, with faith and risk.
I must always remember that I will die, and I must remember this so that I can remember to live. Heaven is Rich’s new horizon, and until we get there we all have our own new horizons here on earth to explore.
Memento mori.
Memento vivere.
18
The Reason
God Will Always Love Us
I call my son Jack the Brave. I believe he has a gift of bravery even though the little guy seems to have been afraid of almost everything since he was born. The more I tell him he is brave, the braver I watch him become. He will say, “I scared, Momma” as we walk past a weird-looking mannequin in a store. I respond, “No, Jack isn’t scared. He is brave.” He will peek out from behind my legs where he is trying to hide and say, “I bave.” Then he will stare the thing down with courage, even though he is still really, really nervous about it. That’s when I just want to cheer for him. He always looks at me in those moments, to make sure that my face is telling him, “It’s all going to be okay.” It helps him tremendously to know I am not scared of the weird-looking, frozen, plastic person.
Sometimes Jack the Brave has bad days. With meltdown after meltdown he will hit and kick and throw things, trying to break stuff in his frustration. He will scream and cry, cry, cry. The easy thing would be to do whatever I can to just make him happy, so he will stop crying, stop having fits, stop throwing things. The easy thing would be for me to tiptoe around him, doing whatever I can to appease him and avoid a breakdown. It would be easier for me to stick him in a room by himself so he can destroy whatever he wants and have his rampaging way all alone. It would be easier to distract him and change the subject, ignoring the tantrum so neither he nor I will have to deal with his “issues.”
But I don’t believe any of these things represent the loving thing to do.
Listen, I’m not trying to give parenting advice. I’ve only been a mom for two and a half years. I have taken no classes and read very little on the subject. I’m just being vulnerable with you right now and talking about what goes on in my heart while trying to love my son. I care about Jack the Brave’s heart. I want to train his heart to be kind, loving, generous, self-controlled, patient, hopeful, and full of faith. I realize that these things must be in me in order for him to really get it. If I throw my grown-up version of a tantrum, I can’t be too shocked when I see him throw his two-year-old version. If I am always complaining, I can’t be surprised when he whines. So when I’m praying for Jack and trying to discipline his heart to develop good character, I pray for myself and work to discipline my own heart as well.
But disciplining a strong-willed two-year-old who is just as passionate as I am is hard work. Sometimes he consumes my focus for an entire day. Sometimes I feel like I have disciplined all day long. The whole day I search for ways to encourage Jack for the slightest sign of any
thing praiseworthy. I tell him, “If you obey Mommy, and follow directions, if you stop pitching fits and whining, then we can have so much fun today.” I watch for moments of fun and seize them whenever they surface.
But some days we hardly have any fun. Sometimes he falls asleep in my arms, crying, saying, “Oh, Momma, I sawy. I sawy, Momma.”
“I forgive you, Jack,” I say. “I love you. Momma always loves you, Jack. I’m so proud of you. You are so brave. You are such a good boy.”
Finally, when he relaxes in my arms, and his breathing becomes slow and heavy, I lay him in his bed. When I look down at his sleeping face I am overwhelmed with love. He is my son. Even though we had a bad day, he possesses my heart—I love him with a crazy and deep love. I thank God it wasn’t the kind of bad day we used to have whenever he struggled with asthma as an infant. Those bad days were of a different sort: staying in the hospital with breathing treatments, IVs, and pneumonia, over and over. I’m thankful for Jack no matter what kind of day we have together: a bad day at a hospital, a bad day at home, or one of the many wonderful days we have. I love him so much.
You Are the Reason
My encounters with God have taught me how extravagant and high his love soars above earthly love. His love is infinitely greater in capacity, patience, and perfection. Even so, being a mom helps me to understand God’s love for me in a much deeper way. After a long day of discipline, meltdowns, disobedience, and fits, I look at my sleeping boy and love him so completely. My hope for him is so full and beautiful.
The Bible says that to God a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years is like a day. I believe even after we spend a lifetime sinning and being deceived, confused, angry, heartbroken, and hateful, and after we have made a reckless mess of our lives, God looks at us with love. He has an even deeper love, patience, and hope for us, his creation, than any mom could ever have for her child. His love is so much better than ours. His love for us is perfect. There is no one outside of that love. There is no one God would reject, only those who might reject him.