Category: death

november 19

November 19, 2025

it used to be just a day
now it's the day
you died
alex

i woke up in the night
the veil had parted 
for just a second
a swirling 
crashing music 
heart racing 
warmth 
hope of heaven 

november 19
the day to go sit there
early
before the sun is up

to collapse on the pavement 
i barely made it there
and sob
using all the kleenex your baby nephew pulled out of the box last night 

wondering how he pulled out so many in 2 seconds

to take a deep breath 
and sob again

this november 19 is gray and cold 
the clouds so thick and heavy, 
the sky is hidden 

it's different this time
before i was numb and frozen 
with no tears
now the tears fall

i would have stayed longer 
but the cold sidewalk stole the warmth from my body 
even though i wore four layers, 
including the gray flannel and gray coat
that were yours

i gathered my pile of tissues
and walked away 
away into the mist to continue another november 19
 
to go home 
home 
this house where you grew and flew 
where you visited 
first a little, then a lot 
always welcome 
wish you didn't have to leave us 
wish you could have figured it out
 
november 19 
a day to listen 
to the beauty will rise album 
on repeat
 
and then to listen 
to anne wilson music, this time her local concert at the opera house

i wrote a letter to your brother
 
to the cemetery 
of course 
the walk to your grave was wet 
and the rainwater soaked through my shoes making my feet cold 

the path strewn with
leaves of all colors and sizes
and pine needles
both fresh green and old brown  
and pine cones

your stone had raindrops on it 
i liked how it looked 
the rain looked like tears

also at the stone was a cigarette box 
whose scent still lingered 
somehow 
in the air 
the person must have been here not long ago

november 19
confusing 
it will always seem like a sunday 
but somehow every sunday
seems like the day you died 
in the early morning 
when i'm alone 
at the kitchen window
even though it's been two years 

wish you were here alex
wish there was never a november 19, 2023

2 comments

on lamenting together: how a church is loving a family well

May 28, 2025

church, death, grief, loss

Monday morning, I heard about the tragic death of a young lady. I was immediately shattered and reeling for this family.

And so another mother grieves.

I drove to her house and hugged her and held her tight for a minute and cried.

She said “The Lexington Cemetery? You’ve found comfort there?”

I said, “Yes!”

I asked her if she wanted to see some recent photos from there and she did, so I showed her these Spring photos at the cemetery. And then I showed her the statue above of the angel weeping.

Loss. She knows I know. And that’s why I went to give her a hug.

This knowing I’m talking about-the mental sorrow that causes physical pain, the overwhelming feeling of despair, the tears, the fatigue and physical weakness, the nausea that won’t go away, the shaking.

This knowing. It’s the waking every morning and having to relive the news of death, the realization that she’s gone, of doing this over and over until it finally sinks in. It’s the waking up several times throughout the night too, of not being able to sleep.

This knowing. It’s the absence of someone who shouldn’t be gone. Losing a child messes with order. Old people die. Young people just aren’t supposed to die.

This knowing. It’s looking around your house and seeing her everywhere, except she’s nowhere to be found… ever again…

…Until heaven.

Now a couple days later…Tonight, their church family gathered for a time of lament for the family, and I attended. These people wanted and needed to be together–this death of a daughter affects them all.

They read and sang and prayed together. Although an outsider, I didn’t feel like an outsider. It was not impromptu; everything was planned in advance.

I especially appreciated the prayer that stated the family’s grief wouldn’t be over in a few months, that they were starting a life long journey and needed to learn how to support the family through it.

At this point, I thought, oh my God. yes! I couldn’t hold back the tears. I am thankful this family will be supported well, even if the church is going in blind. They admitted as much and some of the readings chosen were from those who had lost a child or children.

The pastor ended by encouraging the people to get together. To not mourn alone. I love this about this community. I grabbed the hand beside me and squeezed. We were not weeping alone. I had gone to her house the night before because I didn’t want to be alone. And I joined in with the church tonight because I didn’t want to be alone.

Grief can be lonely.

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the sunday before thanksgiving

November 24, 2024

death, grief

The 19th of November has past, which is officially the first anniversary of Alex’s death. But just like Abby’s death isn’t necessarily March 22nd for me, but rather the Tuesday between Palm Sunday and Easter, here I have another child’s death forever tied to a holiday. Two holidays, actually — the Sunday before Thanksgiving and also the day after my daughter’s birthday.

This past year as I have stood at my kitchen window every Sunday morning before the rest of the house is awake, I remember. This is where I was standing when I saw the coroner’s vehicle turn down my street, followed by two police cars. Three official vehicles. I ran to the front window to see if they would pass. They didn’t. They weren’t coming. They weren’t just passing by on the way to somewhere else. I peeked out a side window and they had all stopped.

I quickly dressed, in case they were coming to my house. There was a knock on the door. My immediate thought was–was this about Caleb, my dad, or Alex?

I quickly took in the uniformed men before me, one up on the porch, two officers behind him with badges and holstered firearms. Kindness and concern.

The window. It was the last place I was standing, the last thing I was doing before I knew Alex was gone. I often think about that. The hallway. I often think about the last words, the last hug the night before when he said yes, he’d come over the next day to celebrate Mary’s birthday. Before he left, he reached out to hug me. That had become common in the last few weeks. Usually, it was me reaching out to him. Was he saying goodbye or was he trying to find a reason to stay?

This week has been filled with so much love and concern. Monday, a coworker took me out to lunch. Someone paid for my weekly eggs. Wednesday, another person brought me the most amazing box of pastries and a friend from church brought us a meal for the evening. An envelope with familiar cursive with a heart-felt card. A stone gecko from my brother arrived as well.

Wednesday the gravestone marker was placed. Saturday, the memory items were complete that I had ordered to be made with Abby’s and Alex’s clothing. Today, my sister and her family visited.

Life is good and life is full even in the midst of grief. People are remembering. People are supporting me.

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a few days after the funeral

December 2, 2023

a pictorial walk through the cemetery, death, loss

scattered flowers on the ground

a temporary grave marker

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the obituary i didn’t think i’d ever have to write

November 23, 2023

death, loss

Aleksandr Arthur Van Campen, 24, born on April 10, 1999, died on Nov. 19, 2023, leaving family and friends saddened that his life ended so abruptly. Visitation with the family will be 1 p.m. to 3 p.m. Friday, Nov. 24, at Tates Creek Presbyterian Church, 3900 Rapid Run Drive, Lexington, Ky. Memorial services will be at 3 p.m. at the church. There will be a private viewing and graveside gathering for the family. Burial will be in Lexington Cemetery.

In lieu of flowers, please consider donating to Assurance Care in Lexington where Alex had occasionally volunteered and where his mother currently works.

The eldest of five children, Alex is survived by his parents, Todd and Guinever Van Campen; siblings Caleb Daniel, Mary Suzannah, and Thomas Jonathan Jackson Van Campen; future brother-in-law Jeremiah Weyel; best friend Caleb Burgin; maternal grandfather Daniel Lance Herrick; paternal grandparents Arthur Frank and Luana Mae Van Campen; and numerous aunts, uncles, and cousins. He was preceded in death by his beloved sister Abigail Helene, affectionately called Abby; his maternal grandmother, Donna Lee Herrick; and all of his great-grandparents.

Noticing that Alex could retain surprising amounts of information at a very young age, his mother set him to memorizing the Ten Commandments – not just the bullet points printed on posters, but the entire chapter of Exodus 20 in the King James Version. While visiting with his Great Grandma Herrick, Alex launched into a recitation of the chapter that went on, and on, and on. He stood eye to eye with her as she sat in her wheelchair squirming and trying to interrupt. Like a seasoned preacher who can deliver a sermon while ignoring inattention, Alex was undeterred.

Once he learned to read, Alex traded Legos and playing with his siblings for the adventures found in books such as Farmer Boy, Ralph S. Mouse, Narnia, Redwall, and Freddy the Pig. Weekly trips to the library always took him to books about animals. He quickly became a talking encyclopedia on the habits and habitats of lizards and mammals. He enjoyed his pet gecko Stripe for several years.

Alex participated in a first-grade spelling bee, complete with stage and mic, at the library. His parents were taken aback when he won his age group that day effortlessly and with poise. He went on to win bees each year and advance to the Fayette County bee. In 5th grade, he missed his first word, not because he didn’t know it, but because of the self-awareness and stage fright that can come with adolescence. He never wanted to participate again. Also he no longer hoped to compete on the TV show Jeopardy during teen week, which he had set his sights on to do once he was old enough.

In 7th grade, he was a Duke Tip Scholar. In 8th grade, he presented “How to Prevent Brain Freeze” as his science project. He had slapped together a hand-written presentation board that was crumbling and askew. The judges approached our family afterward because they found Alex’s topic unique, interesting, and well-researched, and they were impressed by his ability to easily and eloquently answer questions. He didn’t place in his category that day because of the way his board looked. The judges wanted to grant him a wild card spot at the countywide fair if he agreed to redo his board. After following the judges’ advice, he advanced through two more levels of the science fair competition.

He loved soccer and played on the Bluegrass United homeschool team. He was not gifted in athletics, but what he lacked in ability he made up for in passion for the sport, watching Newcastle United and University of Kentucky men’s soccer games with his father at every opportunity.

In high school, where he attended a Classical Conversations community, he loved debate, and he was good at it. He embraced the research and crafting of arguments involved in playing the role of lawyer during mock trial. The judge at Alex’s high school debates encouraged him toward a career in law. Alex pursued the idea until he realized how much schooling was required. At this point, his parents told him how bright he was and that he could do whatever he wanted to do, if he applied himself. What had been intended as encouragement and motivation unfortunately had the opposite effect. Alex admitted years later that one of the reasons he didn’t go to college was because he was afraid of failure and disappointing us.

After graduating from homeschool, he moved to Georgia with a friend. Being away from home afforded him the opportunity to read all the books he wanted – including authors that had been forbidden in high school. Additionally, he devoured every Jane Austen novel. He got his liberal arts education outside the classroom, figuring that he could study his main interests, literature and history, on his own.

He held a variety of jobs, including working in his Uncle Dan’s welding shop. Being on multiple construction sites piqued Alex’s interest in civil engineering. When he moved back to Lexington in late 2021, he met with a counselor at Bluegrass Community and Technical College, showing excitement about architecture. He registered for a class, which he quickly dropped because he didn’t like it. Recently, he started to revisit the idea of pursuing law. He took a practice test online for LSTAT just to see how he scored; he scored high.

We didn’t realize what was going on inside Alex. Why couldn’t he commit and follow through with a career path? He bought a Bible and a beautiful leather cover for it and read it constantly in our living room the last month of his life. When he wasn’t cooking at South of Wrigley, he was often at our house. Spending so much time in his childhood home was new. He also resolved to improve his personal habits and began to make progress. But at the same time, he admitted that he was struggling with mental illness and needed help. He started calling one of his uncles, and he talked a lot with his friend Caleb. During a counseling session, Alex said he hoped to be better by his sister’s wedding in December. He returned to church after being absent for several years. Only hours before he died, he said he would be joining his family at church the next day.

Scripture says God is light, and in Him there is no darkness at all. Alex, we are thankful that you are reunited with your sweet sister Abby. We are thankful that the darkness is behind you. And we are thankful that you are now in the light.

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guinever’s “fleece”

November 21, 2023

a pictorial walk through the cemetery, christianity, death, loss

By Monday night, it had been darkness for 36 hours, a day and a half since I knew my son was gone. I usually see God in the details of life during the hardest of times, but He was just nowhere to be found in Alex’s death. All night long, I begged God for a sign that HE is in this situation. I just wasn’t seeing Him in any of the details, and I needed to see Him. I asked for my fleece like Gideon had done.

Tuesday, it was time to go to the cemetery to pick out a gravesite. I had something very specific in mind, but I tried not to get my hopes up because I thought it unlikely the location would actually be available. I told the man that I was hoping for a plot in one of the sections next to where our daughter is buried. (I knew Alex couldn’t be in the same section because Abby’s section is reserved for babies and young children.)

He pulled out a map and circled the ”Garden of Innocence,” indicating where Abby was buried, and then he put a pencil mark on one of the three plots he had planned to show us. YES! We drove to the spot and it was exactly where I had hoped. I looked around and thought Alex would have liked it. In the shade of evergreens and right across the little road from where Abby was, it was perfect.

We returned to the office to finish the paperwork and after we had wrapped up and were heading to the elevator to leave, I turned around and thanked the man and said the plot was everything I had wanted and was somehow even more perfect than I had imagined.

He said the interesting thing was that it had originally been part of a double plot that had been purchased, but the owner had sold it back to the cemetery as a single plot in 1999.

This was my fleece.

Alex was born in 1999, so this plot has remained unclaimed, unwanted, unpurchased for 24 years and it was exactly what I wanted. Ok, Lord, thanks! This is YOU being in the details for me. Somehow this space had been reserved for him since the year of his birth.

Below is a photo taken during the graveside service. At the bottom in the foreground is my daughter’s grave, off in the distance is my son’s gravesite. I asked the photographer to take this photo to illustrate how close they are.

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after loss: why my daughter’s birthday is the hardest day

February 26, 2016

christianity, death, grief, moving on

I’ve been mulling this post over since summer, waiting to write it on the occasion of my daughter Abby’s 13th birthday.

This post is my answer to the question that has been voiced more than once:

It’s been 10 years; when are you going to get over it?

The 10 years is in reference to the 10th anniversary of my daughter’s death which occurred last March.

To put it simply, I will never get over it. I will never forget my daughter. Not her birth. Not her death. Not her life. Her birthday is the hardest for me, even harder than her death day, her heaven day, the day that she stopped dancing with me and started dancing with the angels. For those of you new to my story, she died suddenly. No warning. An accident.

Abby grew in me. Thrived in me. Moved in me: just like her siblings Alex, Caleb, Mary, and Jackson lived in me.

On the eve of all my children’s birthdays each year, I remember these things and I bake a cake. Judging from facebook and talk at baby showers, I am not the only woman who does this. It seems that every woman whether the baby is still in her arms or in high school or her baby is a 50 year old neurosurgeon, the mother remembers how hard the labor was, or how short, or how horrendous, or how he came out butt first, or how the labor went on for 48 hours or how it was so fast,they barely made it to the hospital or the midwife almost didn’t make it in time to the house. Oh happiest of days is the day that a new baby is born into a family! Every single year, we women, remember those moments of labor and birth on our children’s birthdays.

Abby dying doesn’t erase the memories of her pregnancy, labor and birth, and 2 short years.

Just because Abby is dead, doesn’t mean that my mind stops going to my last hours of pregnancy, when I labored to bring her into the world so I could finally hold her in my arms.

I do this with all my kids. But with my other children, there is joyous celebration, and an anticipation that comes with a present or two, and a special birthday lunch followed by a birthday box or envelope from Grandma and Grandpa VC. Alex, Caleb, Mary and Jackson are right there in front of me and can smile at their cake and blow out their candles as I take photos. I can think about how small they once were, and revel in how much they’ve grown. My 8 pound babies are now tall, one is over 6 feet tall.

But with Abby? She is not in front of me laughing at her cake and presents. There is nothing. Only 2 years of memories. Only flowers to take to a cemetery. And sometimes it just gets to me. The absence of her overwhelms me and I weep. I cry hard. I need a hug and a little understanding. Is that bad? Is that wrong? To borrow a friend’s line, I just want to be extended the “grace to grieve.”

Remember my first sentence? My daughter Abby’s 13 birthday? Oh. My. Word. 13 years old she would be. 13 years old she is in heaven at the feet of Jesus.

Happy birthday baby girl. I know that I’ll see you again someday.

These are the flowers your sister picked out for you 🙂

7 comments on after loss: why my daughter’s birthday is the hardest day
i didn’t get to say goodbye to my mom

December 19, 2013

death

Not too long ago, my dad and I sat in the tiny hospital room facing my mother. Behind me, the discharge plans were written on the dry-erase board; we were waiting for a room at a local rehab center. My mom was being treated for pneumonia and she had been hospitalized for eight days. She was looking forward to going to a step-down facility so she could get moving and go home soon.

Two doctors had visited earlier in the day, and both had said she was breathing better. One of them said he’d be back in the morning and they’d draw labs again–there were a couple numbers that didn’t look that great.

The physical therapist came after lunch. It was time for some leg lifts. With great exertion, my mom lifted her legs one at a time. I sat across from her, lifting my own to match her rhythm and counted the lifts. It was time to stand up from the chair and lie down on the bed so she could extend her legs; she had been sitting for so long.

That was it. She stood with the aid of a walker. She turned and backed up a couple steps. She sat on the bed. She went stiff and collapsed.

As the therapist guided her body so she’d stay on the bed, I went to the other side and leaned over my mother to press the call button. If I had looked at her face just then, I would have known she was gone and maybe the next 20 minutes would have been different.

But I didn’t look at her face. I just reacted. I ran into the hall; I knew this was a situation beyond the physical therapist, and we needed help. (She thanked me later, by the way, for my quick response.) Soon, there was a crash cart in the hallway and medical personnel filled my mom’s half of the small curtained-off room. They were working on her. I was not with my dad when the doctor asked him if he wanted them to continue the resuscitation. I was coming and going, in and out of the waiting room. Pacing. Breathing. Praying. Inhaling essential oil. Calling my husband.

I asked if I could see her. A nurse let me in. I looked at my mother’s face, her open eyes, and saw emptiness. Death. I had stared death in the face before and this was it: life and soul and breath are no longer. Only a body is left, the person is gone.

I shouted, “Give Abby a kiss for me.” And then I left the room. Yes, I shouted. Not that she could hear me if I shouted. But the room was so loud, loud with beeping machines and men giving orders. So I shouted.

I didn’t believe it. I went in the hallway and told my dad that on my drive the day before to visit them, I had imagined her dying peacefully, but this wasn’t how I had imagined it. This wasn’t peaceful. His response was that it was peaceful for her; it just wasn’t peaceful for us. I realized he was right and expressed my agreement.

Also, I didn’t believe she was gone yet because I thought I’d get to say goodbye. No one had told us she was going to die. The doctor said he’d see her tomorrow. I just thought that sometime in the years to come, we would know her time would be short, and all the family would be there, singing and reading psalms and then we’d all say goodbye and have sweet words and then with a great Hallelujah, she’d enter heaven. Others have recounted stories like this. Why would ours be any different?

I didn’t get to say goodbye. No one did.

When my dad told me that the doctor had called it, that she was gone, peace flooded me. Might seem weird. But I knew her earthly struggles were over and she had been released from the pains of this earth. This peace continued for a couple weeks until I went back home and crashed. I stayed in bed for a few days and read Pride and Prejudice, only getting up to fix meals for my family and to start another load of laundry.

I thought of all the things that my mom was going to miss–the important events in my children’s lives: Alex’s graduation followed by that of his 3 siblings. Mary dancing the lead in a ballet someday. Soccer games. Debates. Weddings. Births of her great-grandchildren. Holidays.

But most of all, she is going to miss our every days.

And I thought of my dad. alone. He didn’t get to say goodbye either.

I miss you mom. I know I’d miss you even if I did get to say goodbye…

5 comments on i didn’t get to say goodbye to my mom
happy birthday, beautiful

February 26, 2011

christianity, death, grief, heaven, life, loss, moving on

A lot of my friends have been asking me how I’m doing…I haven’t been writing except little snippets on facebook. Blogging is virtually non-existent and has been replaced with one liners.

I’m good. Most of the time, I’m great. I really am. God has blessed me and given me peace and joy. I am living my life and enjoying it. Tonight I’m thinking back eight years ago waking up in labor with a certain baby girl.

I want to go kiss that baby girl right now.

But she’s getting all her kisses in heaven from her great grandparents right now. And from the angels. And from all the other little girls who have slipped from their parents’ arms into Jesus’ arms.

About a month ago on facebook, a friend asked for inexpensive ideas for her daughter’s 8th birthday party. We had been pregnant together. A few minutes later, another friend posted pictures of her daughter’s 8th birthday cake. Another blonde girl. BAM BAM. I hadn’t really had any moments of grief for a long time. Tears. But that’s not all. Then another friend whose baby was stillborn just a short month before Abby’s life ended was writing about her grief too. More tears.

I want MY birthday girl where I can see her and touch her and watch her eat cake.

Today is Abby’s 8th birthday. Where has the time gone? We only had 2 birthdays with her. Then she was gone. Now she has been gone nearly six years.

As I was thinking of my labor, I decided to look through her photo album. When I got it out of the cabinet, my tears fell. Then I opened it. On the first page is her name:

Abigail
“father rejoices”

Helene
“the bright one, the shining one.”

Then on the next page is this picture.

Do you see her praying hands? I remember her folding her hands quite a bit her first few days.

So sweet!

It’s almost as if she was born to worship, born for heaven right out of the womb. With this thought and looking at this picture and the others on the page, Forget a couple quiet tears, my body was racked with sobbing.

I miss my Abby girl!

It’s been a long time since I’ve cried like that, and I want people to know! This has been the EASIEST February ever. I can’t even believe it. My growth is phenomenal since last year and the previous ones. Part of the reason is I haven’t had time to have a personal pity party because my heart has been heavy, so heavy for others in recent weeks. I was reminded of something I wrote a month after Abby died:

A month. 4 weeks ago tomorrow, our journey of death began. When we were driving home yesterday, Todd asked me if I was doing a lot of crying that he didn’t know about, and I told him not really. I asked him if he cried when Rachel died. The answer was no. I asked him if he cried when Petros died. No. I asked him if he cried when Corrie died. No. And I asked him if he cried when baby Anna was stillborn. No. And I asked him if he’s been broken and weeping and praying for Beth’s recovery. No.

I have spent 9 months, many nights sleepless, just crying and praying for other people. Now, there’s a million people crying and weeping for ME and God is answering their prayers and God has brought me peace and grace.

I don’t think I’m holding it in (so to speak). I asked Todd if he remembered that Thursday morning. How could he forget? I screamed at the top of my lungs and relived every detail of those almost 2 hours of agony where Abby was hurt and dying. I scared him, he said. He kept telling me to relax. He said he reverted into his Bradley mode because it reminded him of labor (before I wrote about it in that way in the funeral memoir) My release was in every way physical, emotional and spiritual. And now I have peace. And my tears are much less than his.

Happy birthday, beautiful. My pretty dancing, singing girl in heaven. I miss you.

I never got past those first 2 pages of the photo album. I’m saving those for the morning when I go to the cemetery with whoever wants to go with me. Not sure which of the kids, if any will want to come. I have some tulips from church that I’ve been enjoying all week that I’ll toss on Abby’s grave.

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