I drove to Linden Hill Road today, a kind of pilgrimage.

     When I arrived at St Mark’s High School in 1989 I had no idea how to work with teenagers and no idea what the future might hold. I had been taught that God is the all-powerful, all-knowing, ruler of the universe; you know, the One who is in charge, the Mighty One who decides everything, including who lives and who dies. So I prayed to that God, trying to make a deal. I remember saying, “Okay God, I’ll work with teenagers.  But don’t let anything terrible happen to any of them.  I don’t think I can handle the death of another young one.” 

     My first funeral as a priest had been for a 17-year-old boy.  Michael Acker was a beautiful teen who was killed in a car accident on the day he finished high school… Monday June 2nd 1986. The accident was caused by a drunk driver.   Michael was to graduate from Concord High School on Friday June 6th.  Instead, his stricken classmates carried his coffin into Holy Rosary Church on Thursday June 5th for his funeral mass. 

     To this day, I have not gotten over that tragedy… or any of the many tragedies that have become a brutal place of transformation throughout my ministry. 

     During my first years at St Mark’s, I began to learn how to become a priest. Teens, young people, taught me the best stuff I’ve learned.  Too often those lessons came through tragedy, trauma, and heartbreak. Previously, I thought the big problem for teenagers would be fighting with one’s boyfriend or girlfriend. I learned that young people deal with every tragedy imaginable.

     Classes finished on June 9, 1995 and the summer vacation began.  I breathed a sigh of relief. We had “made it” through another school year.  

     But, a phone call on the evening of June 12th brought terrible news: There was a car accident on Linden Hill Road; four teens were on their way to see a movie at Christiana Mall.  It was lightly raining, no drinking, no speeding… Everything should have been fine.  The car crossed over the median line and an accident happened, not far from St. Mark’s High School.

     I hurried to the emergency room where I was met by Jim and Sue Vavala.  I knew by looking at their faces that the worst had happened to their daughter.    

     Kim Vavala was 15 the day she died.  She had just finished her sophomore year.  She was a superstar in every way: an athlete, a scholar, someone who was dedicated to service, to helping others. And now she was gone.  It seemed incomprehensible.

     Today I drove to Linden Hill Road, to the place where the accident happened.   Not necessarily to pray.  In truth, I no longer pray like I did when I was a young priest. I no longer know a God who is the all-powerful, all-knowing, ruler of the universe… the One who is in charge, the Mighty One who decides everything, including who lives and who dies.

     I can’t even say that I know what it means to pray.   I’ve moved far from the days of requesting good things from a God who was too far away.  I don’t even find myself “conversing with a higher Power” so as to deepen a relationship. That God never responds and the conversations were very lopsided (always about stuff that I wanted, not once did God begin the conversation).  

     Now, I choose to “ponder.”  I like the word ponder.  It means “to gently weigh.”  It’s about being attentive, and present, open, and receptive.  Beyond just thinking, it suggests a quiet state of wonder and vulnerability.  To ponder welcomes mystery.  Whereas praying is boundaried and wrapped in beliefs and doctrines, pondering moves me beyond thinking to a stillness and a deeper appreciation of the here and now.  I am drawn into a place without judgement, to a moment of peace where breath happens more fully and I feel settled and grateful.

     I went to Linden Hill Road today and remembered.  I pondered the short life of an awesome, beloved child.  I watched as cars drove by and I listened to nearby birds.  I wanted somehow to connect with Kim.  I suppose I was looking for her.  I wanted to be given a “sign.”  

     But no sign was given.

     Still, I left feeling grateful. I am very grateful for having known Kim Vavala.  I am a better person because of her, that she is in my life.  She died 31 years ago but continues to be with me on the journey.  Her goodness continues to shape who I am.  I continue to know blessings through Kim.  And I am grateful.  

     Perhaps no “sign” is needed. Perhaps it’s enough to remember, to ponder, to never let her go.