Samantha

I have a cousin named Samantha. She died less than two weeks ago. She was young--I think 43. I know I knew her when I was very young, but I don't remember the last time I actually interacted with her in any way. Before her death, this is what I knew about her:

1. She's around the same age as my sister Lola.
2. She and Lola were roommates for a time at BYU.
3. She had five brothers and one sister.
4. She's married to a man named Ken Moore and has children (didn't know how many).
5. She lives somewhere back east.
6. Thanks to a recent report from my mom who frequently talks to Samantha's mother, my aunt Lucile, I knew that Samantha had pneumonia in February and wasn't feeling well, but was still going--taking dinner to someone, going to church, running her kids around.
7. A lot of people call her Sam.

In other words, I didn't know her at all.

Now, after her death, this is what I know about her.

1. She has four children, Tyler, Jeremy, Alex, and Lanie (not sure of the spelling here). Tyler, the oldest, is serving a mission. The youngest, Lanie, is nine. They all love their mother. This is not surprising, but their whole lives revolve around her. Ken's, too, I believe.
2. She was a tutor.
3. She held her family together--checking in with her siblings, communicating. Phoning, texting, staying in touch. Particularly with her sister, I believe.
4. Her mother talked to her several times a day some days.
5. She had a gift for making others around her feel needed even when she was the one serving them. Her younger sister spoke about this at Samantha's funeral and then posted about it on her blog. I like the way Rach says it.
6. Her son, Tyler, knows her well. It's tragic that he will live his whole adult life without his mother on the earth, but he knows her better than I think most 20ish young men know their mothers. His letter home from his mission shows that and shows his maturity. What he writes is a tribute to her, and the fact that he could write it is another tribute to her.
7. By living her life, serving her family, being herself, she influenced hundreds of people in her family and her community. She wasn't rich or powerful or even successful, depending on your definitions of those words, but she was important and she made the most profound difference to those around her.

It's wrong, isn't it, that I know more about her just because she died. I don't want that to be true about the people I'm related to. I want to know my cousins, but I will have to do something about that if I want it to be different in the future.

But I almost feel I have very little right to write about her. I believe that the information I have written above is true, but I'm not certain about some of it. Like I said, I didn't know her. But I'm writing this because it's my way of saying that her loss has not gone unnoticed by even me, a cousin she hadn't seen in decades. I think about her and her mother and father. Her children. I think about her brothers. Her sister. Her husband.

I am a mother, wife, sister, daughter, just as she is. Usually when someone dies, I think about mostly about the pain I would feel if I suffered the same loss--when a friend's father died six months ago, I thought about my own father's death. But her death has also made me think about how my family would cope if they lost me.

And here's one thing I realized.

No matter how harshly I critique my strengths and weaknesses, no matter how much I wish I were a better cook or homemaker, no matter how hard I work at getting better without seeing results,

my family needs me. They need me every day, just as I am today.

I make mistakes when trying to teach and discipline my boys. I don't get on the floor and play with them enough. I lose my patience. The list goes on.

But I'm the best and only mom they've got. And they love me.

Husband guy is probably the person on this earth who is MOST aware of my faults. He's kind to me about them, just as I try very hard to give him the benefit of the doubt. But I slip up sometimes. Often. And guess what. He forgives me and we move on and live another day. That's because he loves me. I help him. He can't imagine his life without me.

There are other people who love me, too. Having a baby gives you a little glimpse of who the people are who are willing to go a little out of their way to help you or celebrate with you. And you feel loved. Or I do, anyway.

I hope I'm not being insensitive to the pain of my aunt and uncle and their family by saying all this, but I'm going to let Samantha's life and death remind me of how grateful I am to be in my life, with my people. Letting them love me for who I am and being the best I can be without underestimating my contribution to my family and community. Needing them and letting them need me.

I wish time could stop for Samantha's family. I wish they didn't have to have the pain of missing her. But they love her, so there will be pain.

And I will go on hating death but being forced to admit that it sometimes teaches me something.