You Can't Pack a Life in a Trunk

by Beth Saadati

It took nearly three years and one month. Or, to be precise, 1111 days.

It took seeing the cruel swirl of ambulance lights, attending another funeral, grieving the beautiful life of a young man gone too soon.

It took reliving the nightmare of the evening I was delivered the devastating news about my daughter before I could face what I hadn’t yet been able to do.

Once upon a time I’d taken pride in meticulous organization and the gleaning of anything unused. Not anymore. I could no longer step into my side of the small walk-in wardrobe. Overflowing with baskets, bags, and boxes, my bedroom closet heaved and swelled like a dam about to burst.

The tangible memories of what once was engulfed me. Jenna’s trophies, plaques, awards. Special logo tee-shirts. Her marching band hat. The white blouse she wore to play Juliet in an eighth-grade skit. A ballet dress she’d twirled in, a pearl bracelet presented to her on the evening of her only formal dance. School papers. Funeral cards. Notes.

And so much more—all of it screaming Jenna was here.  

Now it begged for closure, except closure is for bank accounts. It was never meant for love.

Why Stay When the Fairy-Tale Ending No Longer Exists?

by Beth Saadati

It was a gathering I’d neither expected—nor wanted—to host.

From 5-9 p.m. the Mackey Mortuary visitation line refused to end. Truth be told, I didn’t want it to. In order to stand, I needed the comforting presence of family and friends.

One after another they paused then passed by. From Miracle Hill Ministries, where my husband worked. The places where I taught. City Church. My daughter’s schools. Jenna’s extra-curricular activities—orchestra, Awana, homeschool co-op, Upward and rec-league sports. And, at the end, the entire Southside High School marching band.

Beautiful faces met my gaze with unspoken questions and tears. With tenderness, “I’m sorry” was said again and again. A scent-blend of perfume and cologne lingered on my clothes as I cherished the warmth of held hands and hugs.

And I cried when a friend whispered the words I’d begun to doubt: “You were a good mom.”

But the unexpected occurred when John Burdick—Sterling School’s science teacher everyone loved, whom Jenna had confided in and considered a friend—and his wife, Kathy, stood there.

If Only My Daughter Had Known

by Beth Saadati

At 10 p.m. my husband, Komron, said goodnight to our birthday boy.

Then it was my turn to finish Josh’s preferred routine. “It’s because he likes to save the best for last,” I said with false conceit.

I stepped onto a stool to reach his top bunk. After a day of no school, extra screen time, nerf wars with friends, Chicago-style pizza, Cook-Out shakes and a Minion-decorated cake, I expected to see a smile as big as the moon. Instead, he was snarling, growling, about to transform into the Hulk.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

Josh climbed down the ladder. A second after I sat on the floor, seventy pounds plopped onto my lap. A couple of minutes passed. With arms crossed and brow knotted, Josh said nothing. Then he yelled. “Why do I have to be so greedy inside?”

Confused, I held my tongue.

“You’re not greedy,” I finally said. “Usually you’re quite content.” The scowl lining his face showed me he wasn’t convinced. “Is it because you had a great day, but you’re not completely happy with it?”

Under his breath he muttered. “Yeah.”

“There’s a greedy part in all of us,” I said. “Here’s what helps me. I try to remember things I’m thankful for rather than focusing on what I may not have. Does that help?”

“Not really.” For a moment his gaze met mine. “There’s a big, empty place inside me. Like something isn’t right.”