I was nervous. I straightened my tie I was walking down a road I had been down many different times but not in quite the same fashion. I walked into the church and my throat was dry my hands were sweaty. In the same breath I was among honored friends and family.

I never truly understood funerals and death. I got the honoring the dead like the Vikings and the place in Valhalla where warriors reside and revel in the victories of their life and death in the afterlife. Do not add meaning to the reference instead just get this is the honor we give to the dead and those who had an impact on our lives.

For me death never struck me like others. I did not cry I did not sob nor weep. I simply was present to the remembrance of those who had passed on before me. This time was somehow different. I knew I was in a different space as I could feel something more just on the edges of my consciousness. My grandfather had died and I wasn’t prepared to really see that aspect of my life as I began to look at my own mortality in that moment.

The Church was packed there were people from all over in Missouri, Alabama, Arkansas, Texas, Illinois, and Pennsylvania to name a few states. It still was not registering it was so surreal and in that moment I just was in shock. My grandfather had over 20 legitimate children.

As the funeral began I was listening to the pastor at the podium. It was super intense and it was directly powerful. The words he used resonated about my grandfather. The words fit and I began to feel a weariness inside my soul. I knew this was a different thing. My Aunt went up to the podium and began speaking. In the initial stages it was about my grandfather and somehow it turned to a monument about her. Her first words were “I am the oldest and …” It all went blank and began to be a blah, blah, blah session about her and what she did and did not like. I struggled to stay present to her words. She said

“My daddy really loved his children he took care of.” There was something missing in the statement and I did not really get what all that was about.

When she sat down I felt my heart sinking as my grandfather was gone. I also felt my heart rise as I could be thankful for the time I spent with him and what it meant to me. I was compelled to go to the front of the church and speak. There was easily two hundred people within the church and I was not nervous at all.

“To start off I want to say I was my grandfather’s favorite grandchild. I have no Idea why and why really does not matter. Now to most people that may sound presumptuous or even arrogant. I want you to put that to the side for a moment and really get present to what I have to say. My grandfather would let me ride in the front cab of the truck while everyone else had to ride in the back. My grandfather would work on the farm all day and come home well after 10 pm when everyone else was sleep. I suffer from insomnia and my mind always runs and works. My grandfather would play checkers with me for a s long as it took for me to get tired and he would never ever let me win. I always had to earn the victor and he explained strategies of the game as well as strategies in life. I was really close with my grandfather. We would talk all the time and it was him listening and giving advice when he felt it would help never forcing it on me.

I found out something new about my grandfather today. If you look in the obituary I found out my grandfather was a Korean War hero. He had medals and things I never saw or knew anything about. My grandfather did not seek glory or to be glorified. He simply defended what he felt was right and as an African American back in those days must have been tough. My grandfather helped found a town which feeds into the town we are in right now with over 30,000 people in it. My grandfather again did not seek recognition so I want everyone to really get who this man was and the honor in who he was. I still have my grandmother and she is over there right now looking at me and I see her and all I can think of is what they mean to me.”

(By this time, I am not even aware that I have tears rolling and racing down my face furiously. The nervousness is gone and there is a bit of sadness. More importantly I am filled with the joy of having this great man as a grandparent.)

“I had a nickname that always bothered me as a child. My grandparents called me Frog or Froggy. I despised that nickname and how I got it was I used to hop around on all fours before I could walk. They never called me my name. Even this morning I went into my grandmother’s room to kiss her and she hugged me and was so excited that she called me frog. Now I am refined with master’s degrees and I am a nerd. And for today for her Frog is what is right and what fits. I love you, grandma.” And I walked to my seat I sat down. I felt a hand on my shoulder and it was familiar without even looking I got who it was and he leaned over and whispered in my ear “watch this and pay attention son.”

This man strode to the podium and there was an aura of respect from every single person in the room. The man began to speak. “That eloquent young man who you all just heard from Is my son. He is accomplished and I am so very proud of who he has become and who he still has yet to become. That being said I am the oldest of all my daddy’s children and after I speak no one else will be speaking here today.” There was a firmness in my dad’s voice that I did not get just yet, and it would be made clear as to the why all too soon.

My dad went on to say “My daddy loved all his children equally. When I say all I mean all. My daddy had three children we just discovered were our brothers and sisters.

My daddy revealed them to me and I know he loved them as much as he loved the rest of us. We stand here not to build monuments to ourselves we are here to honor my father. We honor him by being a family in unity and handling any changes that come our way as such, as a family. My son spoke so that we all knew the kind of man we are here to honor. Take that memory with you out into the world and maintain his honor. Thank you!”

I have always been proud of my father and the life he gave to me. In that moment I could not be more proud of him and how he handled that situation. No one else spoke and they all respected my father’s words. I lost a grandfather and gained 3 aunts and an uncle and all the family attached to that.

Sometimes the most spectacular things can be gained in the blink of an eye and all from something that may or may not be what others may deem right. Leave right and wrong behind and be present to all that is in front of you. Be thankful for it challenges and triumphs alike for it is in these moments that we inspire others and ourselves. My grandfather was the First Giant I Knew!!

It seems as though as more time passes on, the more often I log in to my Facebook and find yet another post on my news feed written in honor and remembrance of a loved one that has taken their life.

Loved ones lost too soon due to the overlooked, underestimated, all-encompassing power that a mental illness has the potential to hold on our minds. Depression (alone, or in the wake of other mental illnesses) is more and more confused by the uneducated as merely just a feeling or phase, rather than a mental health condition with the need for understanding, attention, and treatment. To my point, it is imperative that society becomes more cognizant of the crisis we are facing, especially among adolescents and young adults, today.

One life lost to suicide is one life too many, and as time goes by we are seeing more lives being voluntarily taken because of the overbearing angst, crisis, and sweeping lack of hope those suffering are consumed by.

This form of epidemic we are seeing is one that should be completely preventable. Yet more people we know, or have mutual friends with, will continue to suffer from depression, take their lives, and that still may not be enough to bring about the awareness we all need pay careful attention to.

Which leads me to my point about compassion. It is crucial that we understand and practice the importance of being compassionate toward others, whether they happen to be close to us or not. We are all human, we all feel, and we all hurt. Most importantly, we all need to know we are loved. Yes, it may sound a little silly, but this concept is basic and our society’s mental stability depends on it.

To continuously know we are heard, to know we are cared about, and to know we are not alone all have the potential to foster a sense of faith and hope in someone struggling that could quite possibly be a leading reason as to why when we are suffering, we keep holding on. In the past few months I have trained to become certified in Mental Health First Aid in order to work as a volunteer for the New River Valley Community Services Raft Crisis Hotline, located in my college town.

It has been through my time throughout this experience so far that I have been fortunate enough to learn first-hand how one can impact another’s sense of well-being and assurance, while at the same time being a complete stranger. It is through the conversations I have had thus far that have shown me how truly vital a listening ear, a caring heart, and providing a sense of support for another can be to someone in need of just that.

So that the struggling person knows that not only is someone here for them, but here with them. Simply showing unrelenting compassion can dramatically influence the mindset of someone who is drowning mentally, whether you realize it or not.

For those who are contemplating what steps they will take to end their lives or experiencing suicidal ideas, it is as if they suffer from an irrefutable perspective of themselves that they no longer recognize. A perspective built upon the foundation that their life has little value, and is no longer worth fighting for. Although the hardships brought about by having a mental illness hold power in creating such a perspective, some individuals may have never reached the point of attempt and/or completion had they been shown and made aware of the fact that they are being heard, cared about, and accompanied from the beginning.

I strongly believe that suicide is an individual’s decision that ultimately only that person has sole power over, and in some cases, cannot be prevented in regard to what loved ones or those close to the person ‘could have done.’

However, perhaps if we as a society made it more instinctual to act in ways that are more compassionate, more kind, more supportive, more aware, then those we love would have more foreseeable opportunities to find the hope needed in order to take the appropriate steps toward recovery. To be reminded that our lives are valued, cared for, and paid attention to may have the ability to lead one to a sense of worthiness in valuing and caring for oneself that they otherwise would have never found on their own.

Perhaps the strength needed in those struggling to learn to love who they are and to fight for the value of their life can be (even just a little bit) sprouted by simply the way in which we pay attention to and show compassion for them.

I felt as though I had lost my innocence, like I had sinned. I was wrong and dirty. I could never be loved.

I was five when it started. Too young to fully understand what was happening, and old enough to feel violated. As a little girl, there’s no way I could have known it wasn’t my fault. There was no one there to tell me. Yet, the little girl still inside my soul, hiding back in the corner afraid of another attack, doesn’t know it’s not her fault.

To be honest, I had forgotten all that happened over the next ten years, but I carried around so much anger, hate, and depression.

I had fallen deep into this hole and it took me a while to remember why, but when I did, it was like a flood.

“Shh, I’ve got you.”

“No, don’t tell.”

“This is love.”

I fell deeper into my depression, a hole so deep and dark nothing could grow. Not my heart, not my love, and not the reality I would make it out alive. I became so fed up with the little girl I used to be. I pushed my problems back in the corner where she was hiding.

I have my own life to live now. How can I carry around the burden of being a victim when that little girl I used to be felt like an entirely different person? She was weak. She wasn’t even brave enough to open her mouth to make it stop. She has caused me so much pain and agony. She is why I’m here in this place; this place of distress and confusion; of fear that I’ll never make it out.

But then…I remember tears streaming down my face, but not making a sound because I was so scared. I can’t blame a child for being scared.

That little girl I used to be is why I’m still here. Because she kept fighting against the odds. Because, for over 19 years she has never given up no matter how deep the pain, no matter how many tears I shed, no matter how many times he whispered, “Shh, it’s okay.”

No matter how deep and dark it got, we worked together to survive. I grew up convinced no one would help me, so I learned to help myself.

I stand today, not as a victim of circumstance, not as a victim of child abuse, not as a victim of a sad story people cringe to, but as a survivor.

Because I am a survivor.

Father’s Day always brings mixed emotions for me. While I honor the important role fathers can play in a child’s life and I see my husband thrive as “dad”, I also lament the years of fatherhood lost for so many others.

My own dad died when I was 14 after a long illness. He wasn’t my everyday parent, but he was still very important to me. I have good memories of playing card games – he let me win a lot. I remember feeling bad that I always beat him, so sometimes I intentionally played bad to let him win.

We watched Cleveland Brown’s football, golf, westerns and Shirley Temple movies on Sundays in his top floor apartment in the small Michigan town I grew up in. He had one of those brown floral pattern couches that were so popular in the 80s and brown shag carpet. A small wooden table sat in his kitchenette where we’d eat, talk, or play games.

Sports and games were deeply-rooted in my relationship with my dad. I remember my first real catch playing baseball at Island Park in Mt. Pleasant, Michigan. One of my siblings hit a line drive right at me. I stuck out my glove and somehow the ball stayed in. My dad and siblings ran towards me and celebrated my triumph. That feeling of accomplishment and celebration is one I tried to capture for many years as an athlete.

When my dad was well enough, he’d pull up to my Little League games in his brown 1979 Chevy Impala and park in the grass just outside the ball field. A good hit or play on my part would always warrant a series of honks from him. How I loved to hear that horn.

After the game I’d run over and give him a hug. He’d wrap his arms around me, his button-down cotton shirt open in the summer heat, his chest emblazoned with a large bald eagle tattoo – a relic from his Army days. We’d talk for a few minutes before I headed home with my mom.

He loved to tell stories and jokes. I’d call him up on the phone and never know what silly thing he might say. Once he answered the phone and instead of saying “hello”, I heard “Hooked on Phonics worked for me!” I loved seeing that side of him.

He hated to be late to anything, especially church.

Around the time I turned eight, we started to go to church with him. It had red carpet and a bumpy white ceiling that I spent a lot of time staring at. I hated dressing up and sitting in the uncomfortable pews. When my boredom reached its peak, I’d nudge him and ask for a stick of Juicy Fruit gum or abscond to the bathroom just to get out of the service for a few minutes.

I was baptized at this church. I remember not feeling ready, but my dad was sick and I knew it would make him happy. Eventually he became too sick to come with us, so we’d go to the service and then walk the block over to his apartment and visit for the remainder of the day.

During the last few years of his life, it became harder and harder for him to breath. He’d have long coughing fits and I’d wonder if it would ever stop. Every couple of hours, he took breathing treatments to help clear his lungs.

The last time I saw him was New Year’s Day, 1997. He was staying at my grandpa’s house by that time. He had an adjustable hospital bed set up in his bedroom. I pulled a chair up to it and we watched football together. We talked about school and sports. There was a moment that day when he was coughing pretty badly and I wondered if he was going to die right there in front of me.

At the end of the visit, he told me he loved me one more time and we hugged. I remember feeling optimistic as I left. Despite the almost dying part, we’d had a really nice visit and I was looking forward to seeing him again soon.

Five days later I walked into my house and my mom gave me the news.

I ran to my room and slammed the door several times. Then I fell to the floor and cried. I was disappointed and heartbroken. And now, 18 years later, I still am. That’s the thing about death – it doesn’t ask for permission.

He never got to see me graduate from high school, college, or graduate school. On my wedding day, my mom walked me down the aisle. My kids know that grandpa is in heaven with Jesus. He never got to see me become the person I am.

It’s Father’s Day. I celebrate the great dads out there, but I’ll always be a little heartbroken. I’ll always lament the memories we could have made. I’ll always think about what could have been.

I believe that there are many different types of travel in the world.

There is the travel that calms you. When I think of this specific type of travel, I think of tropical beaches far away on a remote island where the breeze is warm and the water is clear.

The next type of travel is the type that excites you. Where you’re forced to be independent during the hustle and bustle of a crazy city so that you don’t end up lost. Exciting travel is where you don’t speak the language. When you’re constantly struggling to understand directions or hold a conversation with a local all while laughing hysterically and nodding your head throughout the confusion.

But the last type of travel is the greatest of them all. The type of travel that causes a revolution in your heart.

The moments that make you realize that the only thing separating you from the woman you see in the slums is luck. The experiences that sprinkle you with little reminders of how precious life is. The children you meet that give you a new-found appreciation for vulnerability and love. This is the type of travel everyone should experience.

It was 9:10 pm in Nairobi, Kenya when I landed after being on a plane on and off for the last twenty-four hours. I was anxious yet comforted, finally back in Africa after a year of being away. There is something about Kenya that illuminates a beauty that is hard to experience anywhere else. Even now, I find myself reminiscing about daily routines that I took part in while I was in Kenya.

I imagine myself taking a motorbike from the house to Junction Mall where I’d then hop on a matatu (big taxi bus) for ten minutes as I headed towards Riruta Satellite. This was where Mary Faith Child and Rescue Center was located. No matter how many times I’ve taken this route, my heart always skips a beat when its time for me to get off at my stop. I’ve come to the conclusion that this is for two reasons. 1) I’m automatically the center of attention because I’m by myself, have red hair, and am the whitest person a local has probably ever seen- literally and 2) I have so much happiness built up inside knowing that I’ll get to spend the entire day with my favorite kids that this world has to offer.

Even thinking of a routinely task such as this, a commute that I often dreaded at first, causes great happiness in my heart. My hands get sweaty. My heart races. My mind thinks about what activities the girls and I would do that day. I am happy in this moment- and for every moment up until the time I close my eyes to go to sleep for the night. This daily activity truly became an experience that I looked forward to each day. I felt reassured in the fact that I would soon be back with the girls at Mary Faith and we could pick up where we left off the day before when it was time for me to leave.

If someone was to ask me what I learned from traveling to Africa twice I would have a million answers for them.

There is no way to easily describe the way your heart and spirit transfix when you’re put in scenarios you’ve never prepared yourself for. I learned great things, like how someone can be happy with nothing. I learned the reality of the world, the violence and the destruction. I learned that my heart has been forever cultivated by the people I have formed relationships with overseas.

The biggest thing I took away from my traveling experiences was learning to listen to understand and not to listen to respond. The best way to show someone you care about them is by listening to them. Letting them speak. Hearing their voice. Learning to listen to people more also helped me learn to appreciate relationships more. Whether it was with a taxi driver I had just met or a child at the orphanage I worked in- talking with them, building a relationship with them (even if it was short term), and letting them know how much they were loved and appreciated truly amazed me. It is so beautiful to watch peoples eye light up and their hearts flourish because of the joy they feel when they are acknowledged.

One of the most memorable experiences I had when I was in Kenya was when I met Salma for the first time. Little did I know that this 6 year old little girl would become my sponsor child. There will never be enough words for me to describe the impact she has had on my life and the passion and desires she has placed on my heart. It was Christmas Day, I remember it so clearly. She was wearing a faded green dress and gleamed with joy. She was so happy. She had this light about her. An aura that burst from the seams of her being- gracing us all with her profound spirit and playful heart. Within ten minutes of being at Mary Faith Orphanage and just interacting with her my heart felt heavy. I watched her play from a distance as I spoke with the head of the orphanage.

I knew within that moment that I needed to sponsor her.

Later that day Salma had asked me if I was coming back. I told her no since I had only intended on going to Mary Faith for just that day. This was a crucial moment during my trip, something that I vividly remember and will never forget. Her eyes changed. Those big chocolate brown eyes that held such a sparkle in them instantly became filled with sadness. She grabbed her face and ran away. I followed her as she ran into the kitchen (which wasn’t much of a kitchen) and saw her sitting on the floor crying. I went over towards her and sat down. I picked her up and placed her in my lap as we cried together. I told myself, “Nicole you cannot leave her.” After a massive amount of snot and tears (gross, I know) we had agreed that I would start coming back each day until I left for Uganda (and even then, not knowing that the distance would be unbearable, that I would end up flying back for a week).

This moment paved the way for my one way ticket back to Kenya.

“What is depression like?” They ask her.

The number of times she has tried to explain this, put her feelings into words, was innumerable. There’s no way they would ever understand, but at least they were trying. It was nice that they wanted to know her.

“It’s hopelessness,” she replied, “It is walking into a room and knowing that you don’t belong, you aren’t wanted now nor will you ever be. It is that feeling of someone pulling away when you try to reach out and touch them. It is pitch-black nights, staring at the ceiling until morning because your brain will not let you sleep. It is the chill in the breeze that sends shivers down your back, but you have no place to take refuge. It is leaving home knowing you can never go back again.”

“So it’s like sadness?” they respond, “I have felt sadness, grief even.”

“Yeah, but it is more than that,” She continues, “It is sitting out of recess when your friends are all playing Red Rover. It is serving time for a crime you didn’t commit. It is wanting to be heard only to learn that you have no voice at all. It is the lump in your throat, the pit in your stomach, the slouch in your shoulders. It is being convinced that it is all your fault and you are the problem with this world. It is thinking that you probably deserve it.”

They sit with puzzled looks on their faces, unsure how to respond. “But you know it isn’t your fault, don’t you?”

Her face softens. “Well, yeah, I do, but that’s what makes depression so much darker than sadness.”

“It tells you that you are wrong, that you are the problem, that the whole world would be a hell of a lot happier if you had never existed.” Her voice catches in her throat, “You become so numb, that any feeling will do, even if it leaves scars in its wake. The wave crashes over you and you are drowning, but you were never breathing anyway, so what difference does it make. It follows you around and takes away the light in your eyes, as you pray that someone might notice you are being held hostage.

You want them to see, but depression always hides. No one is going to notice. No one is going to care. That is depression.