S1/ E3: Don't Forget To Breathe

It was time to go back to Denver; time to get out of Louisiana; time to leave behind the horrible experience of burying my daughter. There was nothing to live for any longer. I was cloaked in despair; a walking death-wish. But someone had another plan for my life. This is the story of a divine encounter that changed everything.

Transcript

Bruce: 0:31

Welcome to Don't Forget to Breathe. I'm your host, Bruce Barker. This is episode three, and it's entitled Don't Forget to Breathe. If you've been following along in the first two episodes, you'll know now that I've skipped over the details of the viewing and the funeral itself. But to have context for what I'm about to share in this episode, I need to let you in on a portion of what was shared at Kristen's funeral. As I mentioned in episode two, Terry, Kristen's uncle, was tasked with presiding over the funeral. And as he spoke, he told the ancient Greek myth of Daedalus and Icarus. If you remember and if you're familiar with this story, Daedalus was the father who made wings formed out of feathers, held together by wax and his own tears, for his son Icarus to use to fly and escape the island of Crete. Terry went on to say that we as Kristen's parents did our best to set Kristen free. We sweated and prayed and used our best gifts to fashion Kristen's some skyworthy wings, wings that would take her long and far, safe above the treacherous seas, wings that would set her free. Kristin took those wings we gave her and she flew. Both high and low, she flew. She danced and sang and dreamed she could fly sky high, she could drop valley low, but she flew. And though she never reached the limits that make us all more fully human, throughout her short flight of freedom, Kristen laughed and prayed and played with an honest and open love that most of us lack the courage to embrace. She sunk her teeth into what was wild and real and raw and would never let go. What we wished for Kristen would not be, not here. Terry went on to say we wanted Kristen to be more at peace with the gifts of her life just as she was and the gifts of this world just as it is, incomplete and frustrating and ultimately wondrous the wondrous world called life. We wanted Kristen's heart to know the sad beauty of it all, that in all life all symphonies remain unfinished. These things and more we wanted. Terry noted that in his mind's eye, he saw Kristen in much the same way Moses saw his people just before they crossed over into the promised land. In the last chapters of Deuteronomy, we find Moses standing on the banks of the Jordan before the ancient Hebrews. Terry concluded by offering an edited version of the scripture. He said, God found Kristen out in the wilderness in an empty, windswept wasteland. God threw his arms round her, lavished attention on her, and guarded her as the apple of his eye. God is like an eagle hovering over her nest, overshadowing her young, then spreading wings, lifting Kristen into the air, and teaching her to fly. And that was from Deuteronomy 32, 10 through 12. So as I look back at the summer of 2006, Kristen and I spent an extremely special and private time together. And I have the quote unquote comfort now knowing in my heart that God had given us that special time to clear many questions that had been between us that had been there for years. We discussed so many things that had bothered her in the past, answered all her questions that she was now ready to ask. Kristen got the clarity she sought. She was becoming more focused, even more thoughtful than she already was. Yeah, Kristen had some issues in her past to deal with. I mean, but she was finding her answers, I mean, her comforts. When Kristen went back to Louisiana, we were at peace with each other. The demons of the divorce that haunted her for so many years were brought to light, and they were confronted, then left behind. She could see the light, the hope, the life that just lay ahead. Problem was neither of us knew it would all end in a matter of days. So the funeral's over, and it's time to go back to Denver, and time to get out of Louisiana. I'd planned to leave and plenty of time to go to the cemetery alone. I needed to talk to Kristen before I caught my flight. There was just something I needed to know. So I said my goodbyes and borrowed my friend's vehicle and drove out to the place I just dreaded to go, but I felt compelled that I had to visit. I have to admit that driving that two-lane highway was basically done on autopilot, passing cars, and knowing that the occupants had no idea of the events that had unfolded during the last week. I mean, how could they? Why would they? And they were just blurry objects streaming past, going to work, two appointments, to their daily lives. But my life had changed forever. But they would have no idea of that, and why should they? Making the turn down the church drive was difficult. Approaching closer to the back of the property where the cemetery was, I felt the heaviness in my chest return. I saw the small dirt patch for parking and rolled the car to a stop without looking up. I turned off the engine, and that was my cue to take a look. I raised my eyes and saw the small gate, and then looking past, I saw again that tall oak tree towering over and shading the final resting place of my daughter's retired body. A body that gave up far before Kristen had finished needing it. A body that, for whatever reason, had cheated her of a long life. I saw the mound of dirt and flowers and wreaths surrounding it. Um and it was time to take my walk. So I climbed out of the vehicle and took a deep breath, much like I just did, and started walking toward the grave. And as I got closer, everything from the day before just seemed concluded. I don't know. The the arrangements of the wreaths, the flowers, the small mementos that were left behind, they just appeared just stark and like just stiff. Um it all just seemed finalized. Um but it wasn't finished. You know, I had a task at hand. So as I stood there looking down on the ground, it was hard to even imagine that Kristen's body was actually there. I looked again at the marker to see that the name had not changed. And there it was, Kristen's name. It was real. All I could hear was the breeze just lightly rustling a few leaves in the trees that surrounded that little cemetery. And then I began talking to my daughter and crying. All the questions one might think certainly came out. Like, why? What happened? How can we go on without you? And and then the anger came out, and then I started screaming those same questions. Like, this can't be real, this can't be happening, you cannot be gone. And then I had one more thing to know, and this time I wanted the answer, I demanded the answer. Now, my faith told me all the things about, you know, quote unquote being in a better place and no more pain and experiencing indescribable peace, but that just wasn't good enough for me right then. I didn't need to hear that from friends, from pastors, from family, I mean, frankly, even from God. I needed to hear it from Kristen. And I wasn't going to leave until she knew she had one more thing to do. So I started talking out loud. My voice probably was soft at first, then gradually kept getting louder, finally to the point that I was shouting. And I said, Kristen, I don't know how it all works, but I do know if you're allowed a limited number of contacts, this is the time. I don't know how you can do this, but you have to. I need to know. I need to know. I need to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are really okay. I need to know that you are really at peace. And I don't want to whisper, I don't want some subtle sign, I don't want a tree branch to suddenly fall. I don't want to have to guess if that was you letting me know. I want an in my face, no way to dispute it, answer that you're okay. And I want it now. And I said, and I remember saying, Do you hear me, Kristen? You were always stubborn, but you've got to do this one for me. You gotta do this for your dad. You've gotta let me know. I mean it. And let me know. And then it was quiet. The leaves were rustling, a bird or two moving through the trees. No sign. No voice. No miracle. Nothing. So it was time to go to the airport. And as I began slowly walking away, I said once more, I mean it, Kristen, but you have to let me know. I got back in the vehicle, looked up one more time at her grave, at the tree standing over it. And then I slowly began driving away. The closer I got to the airport, the less life meant to me. I hadn't heard my answer. Turmoil, I mean everything was just filling my body and mind. Unimaginable and undescribable pain and loss just dominated everything. The deepest emptiness seemed everywhere. Nothing but utter despair, no hope. Hope for anything was gone. Even that the next day would come, it was all gone. And frankly, I didn't really care. But little did I know, things were already in the works, supernatural things, God things. So from Monroe, Louisiana to Denver is not a direct flight. In fact, the last few times I'd flown there, it was less than a smooth trip. The trip consists of a commuter flight from Monroe to Houston, then jet service into Denver. The commuter flights had always seemed a little bit bumpy. I mean, if you've flown on a puddle jumper, as they call it, you know what I mean. So when Kristen would make the flight, she usually had a comment about that particular leg of the trip, and I expected much of the same on the return. The difference was this time I couldn't care less. My friends met me at the airport to see me off and pick up their vehicle that I was borrowing. Um it was within a few minutes of entering the small airport that I saw my flight to Houston was delayed, like very delayed. So I sat down and they sat with me. I told them I was fine and they could leave, but they wouldn't. They just sat, not saying much. I mean, there's just not much to say anymore. So as time finally arrived to enter through the little security checkpoint, I got up, got the hugs and goodbyes, and I went through. I looked around at my future fellow passengers and could hear jumbles of conversations, you know, bits and pieces of what they were doing, where they were going, what they had done, but I didn't care. I knew they had no clue what was ripping through my mind and tearing my soul apart. I didn't blame them for their lives as usual, but I was still angry and I was hurting. You know, I could hear a complaint or two about things that had gone wrong in their day or something someone said that hurt their feelings. And I thought how insignificant it was. You know, how it really meant nothing in the big picture. I just lost my only child. I had just had to make the funeral arrangements for my 20-year-old daughter, and I had just left the cemetery where she was buried. Their problems were so minor to me, but a real issue to them. But all I could do is just shake my head. Now I've traveled quite a bit and have my preferences on seating, and I always ask for an aisle seat as close to the front as possible. I know my way around airports and make sure I know where my gate is located, and make sure I arrive early so I don't have to rush to catch a flight. And if I'm making a transfer, I check the time, plan how to get to the connecting flight as soon as possible so I don't miss it because I hadn't thought ahead. But this trip was not like any other I had taken. There was nothing typical about this return flight. I wasn't doing my normal planning. But what I did know was there was planning going on. So when we finally boarded the plane, I was in the last row in the middle seat of the narrow little plane. Next to me was a man, talkative man, a big frame guy who was cramped in the little seats on the last aisle. And here I was with my legs extended straight into the aisle ahead of me, and I didn't care. You know, a single row of seats to my left and a double row of seats to my right, and I in the last row, and I just didn't care. So soon after takeoff, everyone on board realized that the air conditioner wasn't working. A full cabin of passengers on a small computer commuter plane capturing that humid July heat in Louisiana. Well, that can make for a really uncomfortable flight. And with no air conditioning, it's not a good combination. And then the turbulence started. And that started from the typical summer storms. But this time that turbulence was rough. I mean, the plane was really bouncing. Passengers were gasping occasionally at that unexpected high and low as we were tossed around, and the heat was thick. I mean, sweat poured down the faces of everyone I could see on the back of the plane. And there I was, arms crossed, leaning back, legs stretched out, the calmest person on the plane. I was calm because I simply didn't care. I mean at that moment the plane could have taken a nosedive, and I knew I would only smile. I knew that because if this were the time for death to come to me, I was ready. Because I was ready to see my daughter again. I wanted desperately to see her again. I was ready. I was really ready. But someone else had a different plan for me. So the landing was less than stellar, and we taxied slowly to our deplaning spot on the tarmac. And I looked at my watch and and I knew that there was no way I was going to make the connection. Having a shuttle bus ride and then a very long walk to take. So I was in no rush. Again, I just didn't care. I ambled onto the shuttle after we deplaned and leaned against the glass. I heard the big guy next to me tell the person next to him that he was going to Denver for a work project. So I knew he was on my flight as well. So once we got off the bus, rather than know where I was going, I just trailed the big guy at a distance. And he hurried down the concourse and through all the different travelers. And then I saw him make a quick dash toward a ticket counter, and I knew I was close. And I glanced at my watch again and saw it was well after the departure time. So I continued to just amble my way there. As I got closer, I saw that he was actually handing his boarding pass to a gate agent and thought, well, I guess I'll make it after all. But again, I still didn't really care. I walked up to the gate agent, boarding pass in hand, and she said, You must be Mr. Barker. You're the last one on board. So I went down the jetway and on to the plane. It was obvious that most on board were excited to leave, but my attitude was a bit more callous. I was still in a fog, I was still in shock, I was still angry, I was still being ripped apart inside my very soul. I was certainly not looking forward to getting back to life. I mean, for what? I still had no sign, no message, no clear answer that Kristen was okay, at real peace, that she was still there somewhere. So with this hard, callous shell securely around my body, I walked my way down the aisle looking for my seat. I could see the seated passengers watching me move down the aisle, I'm sure anxious to go. I also knew they had no idea what I had just done over the last 72 hours. I'm sure some were wondering why I was the last to board. You know, is he the reason that the plane is departing late? Well, little did they know, or even that I knew at the time, but yes, I believe I was the reason that the plane was late departing, because I was meant to be on that flight, but not just me. So as I saw my row and that my seat was next to the window, I had to slide past the seated passengers there, and the person in the aisle seat got up, you know, as most do. But the girl sitting in the middle seat remained there, of course. So I could see out of the corner of my eye that she was watching me. And I glanced at her in that moment, and she just seemed to have the face of an angel. I mean, at least that was the first thought that popped into my head. But, you know, what does an angel really look like, you ask? Well, I'm not really sure, but this one was in her twenties, freckle-faced, light complexion, dark red hair, and dimples when she smiled, which she did as I stepped over her. And as I stepped past her and began to sit, my hand brushed against her knee slightly as I was reaching for my seat. And at that very moment, that split second, the most incredible sense of peace and calm that I had ever felt in my life or ever since, rushed over me in an instant. I mean, it rushed over me. And I cannot begin to describe this feeling. There's there's no words I can conjure up to even begin to describe this feeling other than to say peace and calm a thousand times greater than those two words alone. Pure peace. Once I sat, the first thought that came to mind was to ask her, who are you? But common sense told me to keep my mouth shut and get back into my shell. So I did. I just sat there and started staring out the window, wishing the world away and trying to keep from crying uncontrollably, as I had many times over the last few days. I kept looking at my backpack on the floor and wanting to take the pictures of Kristen out that I'd brought with me and some that I got while I was there. But I found it hard to do, not knowing how I would react in this very public setting. But she was my world, and we were alone in that world on this flight. At least that's how I felt. I noticed the girl to my left occasionally looking over at me, and I would, in my mind, stealthily wipe away a small rolling tear. I went ahead and pulled out the packet of pictures from my bag and I turned my body away from everyone and started going through the pictures one at a time, with tears beginning to escape my eyes a little more frequently now. And after a few moments, there it was again, that feeling of pure peace and calm. And it came when she placed her hand on my shoulder and asked, Are you okay? And I couldn't answer. I could only shake my head, no. And without saying a word, she reached out and took my hand and held it with both of hers. The silence went on for a few minutes, all the while I was trying to gather myself enough to talk. I could see through the corner of my eye that she was just looking at me and smiling, but more of a concerned, caring type smile. There was compassion all over her face. And when I could talk, the first words I uttered were, Who are you? And I had an overwhelming feeling to know. I knew there was something very different going on, something I could not describe. And she didn't really answer other than just smiled, turned her head to one side, and shrugged her shoulders slightly. But I guess that was her answer. Strange, I guess. She then looked down at the pictures in my hand and asked, Who is she? I told her she was my daughter, and then I told her I was on my way home to Denver from her funeral. And then one hand holding mine, she put the other hand on my shoulder and began to comfort me and tell me that she was so sorry. More tears and time slipped by. Then she asked, What's her name? I told her it was Kristin. And she said, Well, my name is Christine. She looked down again at the pictures in my hand and said, Oh look, she has dimples just like me. She also said that while her name was Christine, her friends called her Chris. And Kristen had started having friends call her Chris that last summer. So then she asked me to tell her more. So I began telling her how Kristen had just spent the last three weeks visiting me in Colorado and then went back to Louisiana and died suddenly in her sleep as a result of complications of her diabetes. Christine then told me she had just spent the last three weeks visiting her dad in North Carolina. She said she was originally only going to spend two weeks, but decided to stay an extra week because her dad wanted to teach her to fly. I asked her if she meant literally or give her wings. She said both. And immediately I was taken back to the story that Terry told at Kristen's funeral. She said that the three weeks she spent with her dad was extremely special, and she began to tear up herself. She began to tell me the time she spent talking about things they'd neglected over the years meant so much to her. And when she said he wanted to teach her to fly, she just felt like she had to stay. She told me that the flight lessons had actually been going on before, but that she had never taken her solo flight. So after the end of the week, she said it was time for her to solo. She said that. Her dad told her that he was very nervous when she got in the plane, knowing she would be on her own up there and he wouldn't be able to do anything. But once the door closed, he looked down, and there on the ground was a single feather. She saw him reach down and pick it up and at once knew she would be fine. It was time for her to fly. Christine then reached down in her bag and pulled out her little flight book. She opened it up and said, See, here it is. My dad taught me to fly, and here's the feather he picked up. I I couldn't help but ask her again, Who are you? And with that same smile, head turned to one side and shoulders shrugged slightly, she said, I'm just Christine. I said, No, there's more to it than that. And she asked what I meant. So I began telling her about my previous flight and how I shouldn't have even been on this one because I was so late. And then she told me that she had made a last-minute change of flights and was even supposed to be seated somewhere else on this flight, but for some reason she asked the gate agent to move her. And now here she was. She said without blinking an eye, Well, it seems pretty simple. Kristen wants me here. I meant to be here with you. Christine and I continued to talk for the remainder of the flight. It was as if no one else was on board. We were in a capsule talking about Kristen, talking about fathers and daughters, just talking. She told me that she was a teacher in Colorado Springs. She said she was married and how understanding her husband was with the extra week away. Each time she would hold my hand, I felt such peace. I knew that this was no coincidence. I knew this was arranged. I knew I was getting my answer. Once we landed in Denver, we walked together toward the escalators leading down to the shuttle, to the main terminal. She would just look at me and smile, sort of checking on me to make sure I was okay. Once we stepped on the down escalator, I looked down and and I saw a little girl from behind, who from behind looked just like Kristen. Same height, hair, everything. And then as she made the turn to take the second escalator down, the little girl reached up and caught her hair with her thumb and pulled it back over her ear, exactly like Kristen always did. But as this little girl pulled her hair back, she looked straight up at me, directly in my eyes, no hesitation, no looking around, just straight up and into my eyes. We looked at each other for several seconds, then she smiled and turned away. I can only describe it as a moment. I don't know how else to describe it. Christine and I we located our carousel for the baggage and stood back away from the crowd. I told her that I knew there was no way my bags had made the connection in Houston. But we just stood there watching bags go by. She called her husband, who was almost at passenger pickup. We continued to watch bags and she saw a big pink bag and commented how she really liked it and wanted a set of luggage just like that. And I told her that I bought Kristen a set of pink luggage just like that the year before, because she just had to have it. And then she said, Well, we just have good taste. As the passengers started to thin out quite a bit, I knew her husband must be there by now, and I said to her, It's it's probably time. And she said, probably so. But she just stood there with me, watching bags on the carousel. And I asked if she had seen hers, and she said, Oh yeah, it's there. It was a large black piece of luggage that I had seen go by at least a dozen times or more. She went and pulled her bag from the carousel and came back to me. I gave her one of my business cards and wrote my cell number on it and told her if she ever needed anything, don't hesitate to call. She looked at me, told me she would, and said she probably should go. That her husband was probably wondering where she was. I reached out my hand to shake hers, and then she said, Oh no. Kristen wants a hug. You know that. And we hugged there by the baggage carousel. And she was right, Kristen always wanted my hugs. Both arms, she would say. After our hug, I knew I had my answer. I knew Kristen had answered my question. I knew she made sure there was no doubt in my mind that she was still here, but that she was okay. That she was at peace, that she was calm. Kristen was behind this meeting. Yes, God made it happen. And I'm not sure what God and Kristen worked out, but they did something. And as Christine walked away, she stopped and turned to me, smiled, and said don't forget to breathe. She turned, walked away, and I've never heard from her since. It may sound odd, but there are times when I even wonder if she was real. I mean, maybe I did look into the face of an angel, a real angel. It was about a year after the funeral when a very good friend of Kristen, his name's Mike, he was a work colleague where she was a radio disc jockey at one point. He wrote a message on her memorial website that referenced her saying, Don't forget to breathe. Well, when I saw this, I thought he was simply putting the past together with the bracelet that he now had and simply making the relationship between the two somehow. You see, I had made these memorial bracelets after this, and they said, Don't forget to breathe, and sent them to a lot of people. And Mike was one of them. So I just assumed that's what he meant. But it did stay on my mind, and the more I thought about it, the more I needed to know. So I contacted Mike and asked him about that statement. And he said that while working together, Kristen would see him getting stressed about work, about life, and would say to him all the time, don't forget to breathe. He thought she said the same thing to me, since that's what was on the bracelet. But Kristen never said that to me. She had never told me, Don't forget to breathe. Until August first, two thousand six, near the baggage carousel at Denver International Airport.