28
AT SUSAN’S REQUEST, our family arrives an hour early to the Life Exhibit. “I want you to experience this unrushed, before the doors open,” she told me on the phone that morning.
We walk into church and are greeted by a giant three-by-four-foot black-and-white photo in the lobby—a recent snapshot of Katie’s smiling face. She is winking at the camera—a gleam in her eye as if she is privy to the best secret ever and can’t wait for others to find out what she already knows. On either side of the photo board stand three huge white-and-cream floral bouquets: one from us, one from Dan’s family, and a third—a heart-shaped arrangement of white roses—from my parents. Next to this display, three of Katie’s large, abstract acrylics pose artfully on easels, a preview of what we are about to experience inside.
Susan opens the door and we step into the Life Exhibit: Katie’s entire life’s portfolio is displayed on easels draped with fabric in tan, cream, or black. New York style art exhibit! The spectacle of color that fills this room through Katie’s art takes my breath away. Beautifully designed black-and-cream placards provide details about each piece: the date, medium, Katie’s age when she made it, and a short backstory. A maze of tables holds smaller pieces of art, her childhood mementos that Sam brought to the church for me, flowers and plants that people have sent, and the half-dozen photo boards that Katie’s friends and siblings have created in her memory. Everything is elegantly arranged—and with an artsy edge that seems pure Katie. Susan and her army of helpers—Katie’s friends—have hit a home run. They stand unobtrusively against a back wall, witnessing our family’s first reactions. We are speechless and flooded with gratitude. It is lovely, lovely—the art show of Katie’s dreams. If she is watching, she must be wriggling with delight as we wander through her former world, admiring her skill and her life.
Each of us walks in silence through the exhibit, free to drift in our own thoughts. Seeing her portfolio in its entirety moves me deeply. How could one person have produced such a diverse and vast body of work in so little time? On display are acrylic abstracts in crimson, indigo-purple, yellow, and black; delicate floral watercolors in lavender and sage; lifelike landscapes done with oil pastels in rich blues, browns, and greens; ebony-on-paper sketches; contour drawings in pen and ink; graphic designs rooted in original photographs; architectural sketches; simple freehand sketches of friends; and several pieces she made with found objects. There are vivid watercolor portraits and a pen-and-ink pointillism homework assignment, which she detested creating (“I hate making all these stupid little dots!” she had complained to me over the phone). There are two master-style oils in earthy browns and gold on unstretched canvas, ceramic sculptures, the un-kidnapped pewter penguin, and even her first 3-D creations from about age eight—chubby babies formed from Sculpey clay with tiny black glass-bead eyes. Her works easily fill this vast room.
Making art was what Katie was created to do, and she felt God’s delight in it. Viewing her portfolio in its totality, I am swept into a bizarre dichotomy of sadness and awe. My daughter did what she was created to do. What was I created to do? Am I doing it?
On the final table of the exhibit lies Katie’s faded-pink baby blanket—the kind made of thermal fabric with a satiny border. It had been her superhero cape, a picnic blanket, the roof of a fort, and her bedtime companion. Does it still smell like her? I lift the blanket to my nose, bury my face in its softness, and breathe deep, but it smells mostly of closet shelf.
Nearby sits a shoebox covered in brown packaging paper and decorated with Katie’s characteristic swirls and doodles. “To My Future Husband” the box top reads in the artsy scrawl of thirteen-year-old Katie. Inside are notes she wrote over the past six years to her future husband, the anonymous man who would someday capture her heart.
“I’ll give this box to my husband on our wedding night,” Katie told me when she created it. Through the years, she added notes for this future love-of-her-life, dreaming of the kind of wife and mama she hoped to be someday. Earlier this week, I pulled the box down from the top shelf of her closet and peeked under the lid. It was three-quarters filled with folded notes and fat envelopes. I didn’t read the notes. I was not the intended audience. For privacy’s sake, I tied the box shut with a bow of hemp twine before letting it be displayed for this exhibit. Now I pick it up and notice the faint imprint of a lip-gloss kiss she’d planted on one end. Vanilla Swirl, perhaps? Such a romantic.
In losing Katie, I have lost a future son-in-law—the intended target of these notes—and the babies he and Katie might have had. The box is too tragic for words. I set it down and move on.
Next to the box sit her bronzed baby shoes. Could her feet ever have been this tiny? She learned to walk in those little shoes. And next to the baby shoes are her pirate boots—the suede boots she wore everywhere, including at yesterday’s viewing in the funeral home.
Boots bear symbolism. When a soldier falls, his comrades use his boots to form the base of the Fallen Soldier Battle Cross commemorating him on the battlefield. When a cowboy dies, a riderless horse escorts the casket from church to graveyard, and the cowboy’s boots are placed backward in the stirrups. To me, these pirate boots bear the same kind of symbolism. In recent years, Katie fulfilled her mission, touching people’s lives, pouring her full self into each day, often while wearing these boots. It is fitting that they conclude the exhibit.
Never another brushstroke, never another piece of clay to be formed. Never another coffee date with her friends, or story shared with a sibling, or batch of jam made with her mama, or pirouette danced beneath her daddy’s hand. Any fingerprints Katie was to leave upon this world have been left, and no more will be added. The portfolio of her life is complete.
On the wall above one of the tables, our friends have projected a short essay Katie wrote for her senior exhibit in high school:
On Beauty and Art
The relative beauty that is cultivated by pain—the growth, insight, and strength—compels me. I am learning never to waste pain, but to experience it fully, and my work is a reflection of that growth. This formation of thought has also inspired me to delight in things that are relatively lovely, like blushing cheeks and birthmarks. I want my work to be indicative of the beauty within struggle in a cover-your-freckles culture.
As a lover of the human form, I appreciate the drawings and paintings of Degas, who depicted women simultaneously as imperfect and beautiful. Many were flawed, with skin that was grey; still, their form as a human in the Imago Dei made them lovely. Degas’s figurative work really compels me to interpret the human form as something lovely in spite of, even because of, its flawed nature.
All art, whether it intends to or not, communicates. I want mine to communicate this.
Katie Vaudrey
“Beauty . . . cultivated by pain.”
“Beauty within struggle.”
“Never to waste pain, but to experience it fully.”
The irony of her words strike me. She sought to draw—literally—the beauty found within struggle and pain. And I wonder, What beauty can possibly be cultivated by this level of pain?
At five o’clock, someone arranges us into a receiving line and then opens the doors of the Life Exhibit. For the next several hours, people stand in line to express their condolences and pay their respects to Katie. It is heartrending to see everyone we love in such sorrow, yet I am struck by how their faces, white with shock and pain as they approach us, turn rosy for just a moment as they tell a story of how they knew our daughter or how she or one of our other kids has impacted their lives.
The junior high girls whom Katie mentored when she was in high school approach, their parents at their sides. A handful of memories flash through my mind: Katie at the kitchen table painting canvas tote bags for each girl for summer camp, Katie painting their names on chunky pillar candles as gifts, Katie telling me about challenging questions the girls asked and how she helped them navigate the wilds of middle school. Several of these gi
rls committed to following Christ as a result of Katie’s years with them. Now here they stand, freshmen in high school with tears streaming down their cheeks, telling us fresh stories about Katie and their parents telling us how she marked their daughters’ lives. She invested those years well.
Katie’s art teacher from her years at Jacobs High School, Ms. Ellis, approaches, carrying a manila folder. She is crying.
“When I heard the news,” she says, “I was so shocked. I went to school and pulled out Katie’s old file—and look what I found.” She opens the folder and hands me a tiny colored-pencil sketch I’ve never seen before—a four-by-five-inch drawing of a small Asian boy in a refugee camp, his little fingers laced through a wire fence, a haunting look in his eyes. The detail and realism of the tiny drawing are remarkable. I recognize Katie’s touch immediately.
“She was only fifteen when she drew this,” Ms. Ellis says, her eyes brimming. “What a talent she was. I’ve never seen the likes of her. And what an accomplished artist she became in these past three years. I will never forget your daughter.” She hands me the drawing.
“Thank you, thank you,” I say as we hug.
The line seems endless. Teachers from Fremd are here—including Curt Pinley—and the manager and owner from Bandito Barney’s have come.
“I have never interviewed anyone like your daughter,” the manager tells us. “She was all energy and joy. I knew within a few minutes I was going to hire her, but she was so much fun that we kept talking for another half hour. What a loss.”
Bethany, ever the mother hen of the sibs, keeps an eye on Tember and Sam, comforting them as needed. Adam, in turn, is supporting Bethany, and Andrea is providing strength and comfort to Matt. For nearly four hours, we hug and cry and listen to kind words from so many incredible people. I steal glances at those who are weaving their way through the Life Exhibit, and I feel a surge of pride at their expressions of amazement upon seeing my daughter’s art. But it is their words and stories in line that touch me most.
One friend shares how earlier this month, Katie spotted her sitting alone at a table at church. “As she walked by,” the friend tells us, “she simply stroked my face with a single finger and said, ‘You’re lovely.’ And as I watched her continue on her way, that is just how I felt—lovely. I saw myself as she saw me.” Just a simple, reflexive gesture—another chance to help a fellow woman see her beauty.
Several of her friends mention that Katie had a safe way of mixing unconditional love with high challenge. “She wasn’t shy about calling me out on stuff when I was not being my best self” was a common thread we heard—paired with “but I knew she did it because she wanted what was best for me. It made me feel loved.” Others share funny stories or poignant moments, or they simply hold us and weep. But the most common refrain Scott and I hear is this: “Your daughter squeezed more life out of nineteen years than most people squeeze out of a lifetime.” We can’t help but agree.
By the time we greet the last people in line, it’s almost nine o’clock. Scott and I gather the kids and thank Susan and her army of helpers who created this exhibit. What a gift they have given us. May I never forget what it feels like to be on the receiving end of such kindness in a time of loss.
We step outside to the parking lot. The sun’s golden rays cast long, velvet shadows as we walk in silence toward the minivan. I don’t know what I expected from a wake, but what we just experienced was beyond my wildest imagination. My sorrow begins to mingle with a dawning awareness that God is doing something powerful through Katie’s death, something moving and holy and—dare I say—something stunningly beautiful. Beauty cultivated by pain.
29
BY SEVEN THE NEXT MORNING, everyone is up and moving. Over a scattered breakfast, Scott announces, “Family meeting in the Bug Room at eight thirty. All Vaudreys dressed and ready to walk out the door by that time. We’ll load up at nine o’clock.” The memorial isn’t until ten, but we will meet with our pastor, Bill, at nine fifteen.
We crank everyone through quick showers. The ironing board comes out. The guys scramble for dress socks, belts, and ties, and the women crowd around bathroom mirrors, sharing curling irons and hair spray. At eight thirty, we assemble in the Bug Room. The kids, freshly scrubbed, sit motionless, eyes alert, faces pale. Matt and Sam wear their new funeral suits, but the girls have put on two of Katie’s dresses. Their newly purchased funeral dresses from Kohl’s hang in closets upstairs, untouched. A better plan, truly.
“Kids, this is it,” Scott says. “I am so proud of each one of you, and I know Katie would be proud of you too. Are you ready? Do you know what you want to say?”
They nod. Over the past five days, each has found time to assemble some thoughts on paper and print copies of their eulogies, which they now hold in nervous hands. Tember also holds the enlarged Costco photo.
“Hopefully we aren’t all going to tell the exact same Katie-stories or say the exact same things,” Bethany says. “What if we repeat?” I’d had the same worries myself. And I probably should have read the kids’ eulogies. Too late now.
“It can’t be helped,” says Matt. “We haven’t had time to coordinate or double-check with each other about stories. It’ll all work out.”
“And let’s face it,” Sam adds. “People will cut us some slack today. No one’s gonna say, ‘Hey, I’ve heard that story before!’”
“It will be fine,” Scott says. “We’ll just have to trust that whatever needs to be heard today will be said.”
Scott walks us through the order of when each of us is speaking, and then we all hold hands as he prays. “Father, never did we imagine such a morning as this. Thank you for these kids. I am so proud of each one. Help us get through these next hours, and may everything in Katie’s memorial point to You. Amen.”
We pile into the minivan and pull onto the road. The McConkeys, Adam, and the rest of our friends and family will follow later. The kids talk quietly in the backseats, but Scott and I are silent. My eulogy trembles in my hands, and I fight tears. Scott sets his hand on my knee and squeezes. We are one in this.
I rest my forehead against the cool glass window next to me. Familiar neighborhood scenes slip by, but the same wide-angle-video feeling I had in Costco washes over me once again. I close my eyes. I cannot freaking believe we are driving to Katie’s funeral.
All week long, we’ve been racing toward this morning, toward this event. Always there was something else—a task yet undone—that stood between me and, and . . . this. Now here it is. No more planning, no more blessed details to shield me from the finality we are about to face.
The church parking lot is already filling with cars as we pull in. I think of my brother, alone in his wheelchair this morning. Please, Lord, send someone to be with him today.
Scott parks the van, and before he can turn off the engine, Pastor Chris Hurta approaches from the side door. Dressed in a black suit and smiling, he exudes a comforting mixture of professionalism and warmth, opening doors, helping everyone out, taking command. “Hey, everyone,” he says, tenderness in his voice. “Good to see you guys. Follow me.” I take a deep breath and follow.
Chris leads us to the senior pastor’s office, where Bill and his wife, Lynne, greet us. Lynne slips me some Kleenex and wraps her warm hand around mine. Bill checks in with each of us, then addresses us as a family.
“I can’t imagine what you are going through, with this kind of loss,” he says. “But I know a little bit about God’s character—and Scripture tells us He draws near to those who are brokenhearted. Today you would qualify for that definition, I think.” Everyone smiles. “He shows up the strongest when we need Him most. And I fully believe He is up to something powerful in your situation. I sensed it at the Life Exhibit last night—and I think you will sense it, too, when you walk into that auditorium in a few minutes.”
Bill prays for each of us, one at a time, and then prays for each person who has come today to remember our girl. “God, may You use our wo
rds today to bring comfort and a deeper understanding of Your presence in this broken, often pain-filled world.”
After “amen,” Chris hands each of us a program and reviews the order of the service one last time. “Friends, you will make it through this,” he says, “but it will be exhausting, and when it’s over, you will need some time alone to regroup. Exit with me during the closing prayer. We have a room set aside for you.” We nod obediently. At ten o’clock, Chris leads us to the doors at the back of the Lakeside Auditorium. He opens them, and we follow him in. Lynne and Bill are already seated down front.
A slide show—the handiwork of Matt’s friend Bowman—is projecting Katie’s life onto the big screen above the stage. My eyes adjust to the dark as we follow Chris down the aisle, and the magnitude of this event begins to sink in.
The auditorium is near capacity with familiar faces—reddened, grief-stricken faces, each one precious to our family or our daughter. Chris guides us to our row up front, and we take our seats. Videos and photos on the screen show Katie growing from toddler to teen to young adult. A photo of her with my brother, her arm draped around his wheelchair as both of them grin, prompts an unexpected sob from my throat.
Jon, the college pastor, welcomes everyone and shares beautiful words about Katie. Then Kati Harkin and Dan take the stage.
“Katie is not a friend who lets you stay the same,” Kati shares from a college essay she wrote about Katie earlier this year. “She helps you grow, she holds you accountable . . .”
“She didn’t settle for the people who were easiest to love,” Dan says when it is his turn to speak. “She actively sought out the overlooked and the underdogs. She searched with great passion for the people most desperate for God’s love. She had eyes that allowed her to see Jesus in all His distressing disguises, to find beauty in brokenness, and to shine light in dark places. She loved you first, no matter who you were . . .”
Colors of Goodbye Page 16