19 Years Later

Monday, March 21, 2005 began like many others, but it ended in a way I’ve never fully recovered from.

That afternoon, like most, I was at The Belton Journal working on articles for that week’s paper.

Suddenly, I was jolted when I received a phone call from my mom. She was in a panic and didn’t have much to say beyond, “Jonathan, I don’t know what’s going on but pray for your sister, she’s gone code blue.”

I had no idea what that meant or what was happening, but I immediately jumped from my desk and began praying as I walked around downtown Belton. I don’t know what lead me do it or but I can still picture the businesses on Central Ave. as I walked past them that day.

My sister Amy had been in and out of the hospital for most of the month with severe headaches and several seizures. The doctors had done multiple scans and tests and didn’t find a cause until a few days before, when a tumor was discovered on her kidney.

I was planning to drive to Dallas on Saturday to see her, but she assured me she was fine and didn’t want me to go out of my way to drive up to Dallas. She told me they were waiting for some of her meds to leave her system and then they would operate on Monday or Tuesday, and she would look forward to seeing me after she was at home recovering.

I should have made that trip.

By the time I finished my walk, the rest of the week is largely a blur.

I received a call shortly after I walked back into the office that my sister was gone. I assume it was my dad, but I don’t even remember who called or what was said. I just know that at 24 years young, my sister breathed her last breath.

I remember making some arrangements with the staff to have the paper finished and then headed home.

My boss, David Tuma, arrived a short time later, providing some words of encouragement and offering me his credit card – essentially a blank check. He told me to use it for anything I needed that week and to take my family to dinner one night with it. That moment of encouragement, kindness and generosity has stuck with me ever since.

I remember the drive to Dallas with three songs on repeat most of the way, Blessed be the Name by Tree63, My Redeemer Lives by Nicole C Mullen and Praise the King by Cindy Morgan.

To this day every time I hear those songs I think of that drive.

I remember arriving at my grandparent’s house where my family had gathered. Most of the family was in the living room but I found my sister Kara on the back porch with my cousins, and we gave each other a long and needed hug.

I remember visiting the funeral home that week, looking at caskets, writing my sister’s obituary.

I remember a visit from our pastor and my mentor, Charles Diffee. We had a number of visitors that week, but his visit really hit home and meant so much.

I remember how my parent’s church rallied around them that week and for months to come – especially their home team.

We held Amy’s visitation on Friday evening. It was surreal.

I remember my aunt commenting, “I know there must be a God to see my sister stand their all night with such strength.”

On Saturday we held Amy’s funeral. It was also a blur but I remember it was a packed and overflowing service of several hundred at least.

She never considered herself as anyone important and often joked that she would always just be known as my younger sister. And yet, her funeral made it abundantly clear that she had made her own impact in so many small ways, for so many people.

Her colleagues at Presbyterian Hospital had a plaque installed in her memory a short time after her death. There’s a bridge dedicated to her memory at the camp where we spent so many summers.

I still receive notifications of people giving money to our university in her memory.

I’ve been told by several that they pursued a medical career because of her.

Her life may have felt small to her but her impact was beyond imagine.

It rained the day of her funeral, and it rained again on May 22, the day Amy was planning to be married. 

Rainy days in Spring continue to remind me of her.

My children remind me of her.

Tulips remind me of her.

Cooking with a pan she bought me for Christmas reminds me of her.

The pinning ceremony at our college reminds me of her.

Tequila reminds me of her (not that she drank frequently but I did give her her first shot of tequila when she visited me in Belton).

My sister Kara reminds me of her.

Multiple songs remind me of her.

When I’m at a hospital and hear an announcement of “code blue” I’m always reminded of her.

New life and death remind me of her.

It’s been 19 years since I lost my sister. It won’t be long till I will have lived half my life without her.

As CS Lewis writes, “death of a loved one is like an amputation. You never get over it, you just learn to adjust.”

I’m still learning to adjust.

But in the meantime, I keep living the best I can and try and live a life that would make her proud.

Onward. Forward.

Feels like yesterday

Amy Elizabeth Blundell
My sister Amy, outside her apartment in college.

It still feels like yesterday.

I was sitting in my office, March 21, 2005, at The Belton Journal when I got a call that my sister wasn’t doing well.

She was in the hospital and expecting to have surgery the next day to have a tumor on her kidney removed.

Something had gone wrong and the doctors were calling “Code Blue.” At the time of the call I had no idea what that even meant.

I got up and went for a walk around the block, praying that whatever was happening would turn out OK.

By the time I was back at my desk the world had changed.

My sister was gone.

My friend, my partner in crime, my counselor, my confidant and more was gone.

It still feels like yesterday.

Maybe that’s why as I sat feeding my baby daughter yesterday, I half expected to look up and see my sister walk around the corner.

I half expected to hear my phone ring and see her name pop-up on the caller ID.

I still half expect to answer the doorbell’s ring and see her standing on my front porch with my boys running to greet her — just like they love to do with their Aunt K — as if she’s only been a way on a long trip.

Nine years ago seems like such a long time ago – and yet it still feels like yesterday.

We miss you Amy — always will.

Our Zambian son

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We had a dear loved one pass away recently and someone asked, “Was it family or a friend?”

I had a hard time knowing how to answer it. Technically and officially in the light of the law he was “just a friend.” But to our family members he’s so much more than that.

“Friend” just doesn’t do the relationship justice.

In the same way, calling my best friend Matt, “my best friend” or just “Matt” doesn’t really do him justice either. Which is why we always refer to him as “brother” or Uncle Matt with our boys.

Have any “friends” like that?

All that to say, while it may confuse some, my “sister” Kathryn is living and working in Zambia right now and just sent us a number of photos in an email titled, “Your Zambian son.”

That does my heart good.

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Our family has sponsored Lupiya through Family Legacy thanks to Kathryn’s work. He lives with his grandmother and several cousins in Lusaka, Zambia.

Separated by thousands of miles and yet we can still call one another family.

Isn’t it good to know that family goes far beyond anything a law, a blood relationship or even geography can define?

There’s no blood or law uniting us – it’s something much stronger – love.

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Find out more about child sponsorship through Family Legacy.

A letter to my sons

Dear HDiddy and IDiddy,

Happy 1st birthday!

It’s so hard to believe that just a year ago we were anxiously waiting on a doctor’s appointment to determine if we would actually get to see you on Oct 21, 2010 or if we’d be forced to wait till a later date.

I’m so thankful the doctor said, “let’s deliver!” because I’m not sure I could have waited much longer — and yet I was still a nervous wreck. I remember pacing the pre-op room we were in, almost certain I would pass out during your delivery. Not only was I worried for both of you and your mother but I was also scared that I wouldnt have what it takes to be the best dad for both of you — I still have those fears (I hear they never go away).

Continue reading A letter to my sons