“Death is a sniper. It strikes people you love, people you like, people you know — it’s everywhere. You could be next. But then you turn out not to be. But then again, you could be.”

- Nora Ephron

Dear Readers,

There are few certainties we are guaranteed in this world — we hope for love in all its forms whether it comes from the gentle touch of a parent or in the eyes of an eternal lover. We wish for a successful job that can feed the mouths of our loved ones and foster their dreams. We pray for peace and kindness in the world, especially in the wake of tragedy and terror. We yearn for forgiveness and acceptance from both our friends and foes, hoping that even the smallest of hearts can be turned. Unfortunately, these are aspirations we often take for granted despite the fact they are never signed and sealed with a guarantee. The only certainty we are assured of but never truly believe is the loss of someone we love. Although it is dismal and heartbreaking, we forever carry around the burden of the first loss we’ve ever experienced. It shapes our lives in enormous ways — some good and some bad — but it forever changes our perspective of the world and our individual mortality in this lifetime.

My dad was just 16 years old when his mom died. He was on a camping trip with friends from high school — drinking beers and laughing about his desire to never grow up when he heard about her death. He was ripped from youth and teenage naivety and dumped into the truest form of this world. There were tears shed and windows smashed, but ultimately his first loss became the catalyst for the greatest chapter of his life: meeting my mom.

Ironically, I was 16 too when I experienced my first loss: the death of my uncle. As a kid you see death from a different angle; the awkward funeral of a great Aunt you never met or the passing of a friend’s grandmother mean almost nothing to you, but everything to someone else. It’s the phone call at 2 a.m., the late night visit to the hospital, and the numbing funeral procession that drown you in a sea of emotional confusion. You question the world — your purpose — and ultimately why we even experience love if it is only taken from us in the end.

The realization doesn’t come initially like the flipping of a switch or the illumination of a light bulb; it takes months, and sometimes even years to process how the first loss of your life makes you stronger, wiser, and more forgiving. You start to appreciate people while they’re still around — you smile and laugh more with them because you know someday you’ll use that memory as a way to fight back the tears and pain. Your first loss becomes your first lesson in just how short and fragile life is.

As years pass and you finally have the time and strength to look back at those blurred weeks after your first loss, you’re able to pick out the tiny lessons nestled between the dozens of sympathy bouquets and casseroles. You smile at pictures. You share his or her funniest stories and wildest adventures with new and old friends. You let love in again because you know that it was the best part about your relationship with the person you lost. And ultimately you move on with your life because it’s the only thing you can do.

Loss is guaranteed, but hope is never far behind. It’s the hope that their love is still out there somewhere in the warmth of the sun or the eternal brightness of the night stars. It’s the hope that we can bring joy and love to someone else’s life like they did for us. It’s the hope that eventually we’ll see them again — whether it's in the eyes of a child — the laughter of a friend — or their soul in another world.