We love this girl. For the benefit of those of who had not the privilege of knowing her as we did, I think its more than appropriate to relate a bit about her to the room. Briona Jawhari had a richness to her life, compared to which any words will fall flat; but such is our lot today.
I’ll start with her very early youth, the dawn of what should have been a very glorious day. From a young age, I think it an incontestable fact that Briona was, to put it lightly, strong willed. She was immovable, and we would learn to call sure-footedness later, was just plain stubbornness then: at four year old, the girl had a will like bound cords of iron. (We used to call her Angelica from “Rugrats”).
But, for as strong as she was, we cousins were older than her and much bigger, so often this immovable mental surety could not help but give way to our brute strength. Ah, but then the soft petals of her personality would show, for with one little word all our schemes against her would crumble: “Baba” she would say, “Daddy,” and the day was lost, because she was a daddy’s girl if there ever was one. Her daddy loved her with a heart as big as the whole world, and she knew it.
Her capacity for stubbornness was, in time, shorn up with no small amount of wit, and her acuteness of thought in debate would later earn her college scholarships by the time she was in middle school.
Now, its impossible to talk about Briona without talking about her two ‘sister,’ Courtney and Kamyn. For those who don’t know, Middle-Eastern women have children in batches: when one woman is pregnant, her sisters catch it from her like the flu! And so Briona alwas had allies, because no matter who was right and who was wrong, those two were always on her side, and (just like with her daddy) she knew it.
As strong as she was, Briona had need of their strength. Her mother, the Lord keep her, fought a losing battle with drugs even when Briona was a young girl. Now, Bre was as smart as we all say she was in part because she learned things no child should ever have to deal with, much less understand: she lived with the constant fear that her mother would die. It was unsafe for Sam to let her spend prolonged time with her own mother, and she understood exactly what was going on. She knew that it was a fight that Tina would probably lose.
But do you know what she did? She knew that she was the only thing her poor mother had that was worth holding onto, worth holding onto, worth fighting for, worth hoping for. So she took her heart, knowing full well what was going to happen to it, and she gave it to her mom. Knowing what it would cost her, she loved unconditionally. She could have been smart, could have cut herself off from her drug addled mother, could have protected herself from the pain and sorrow that would come, but she did none of this. And her mother died, and the heart that Briona gave her was broken into so many pieces.
I’m going to relate a story to all of you that Briona told me this year. It took place some months ago, but it has stayed with me. At the time, she was in the midst of a terrible situation in a terrible place. (But her daddy went and brought her home, because that’s what dads do, they bring their girls home).
We were talking about where she was, about the struggles she faced daily and her determination to keep her path straight. She looked so tired, and I asked her why she had trouble keeping her eyes bright and open, and she told me she had been up all night. Why? Well, where she was staying, there were several small children, you see, and, well, one of them had an accident. He didn’t wake up his mom; he didn’t wake up his dad; no, when he found himself lying awake in his own bed covered in the filth of an embarrassing mess, he went to the most loving person he knew: he went to Briona. And she spent the rest of the night bathing this boy, cleaning the filth and embarrassment from him, putting him in her bed, making sure his sheets and blankets would be fresh and free of shame in the morning.
So that’s what she did with her life. She picked up all those broken pieces of her heart, and she gave them all away again, a light of grace in places that would have been utterly dark.
And then she was overcome, and we lost her.
There is nothing more unnatural than writing a eulogy or memorial speech for a child. Nothing I can say could make such a thing less tragic, nor could any set of events surrounding the passing of a child make it more bearable. Death under any circumstance is an aberration, a loss, a cutting short of the good things of God; but how much more do we feel the truth of all this when the song cut short had only just begun to be sung. Briona’s life had just begun, and then it was stolen from her, but also from us.
And so we mourn, and so we cry. And like Rachel we refuse to be comforted, because or loss is real.
The most human impulse would be to now try to explain to ourselves and each other why we’re in this place, speaking about the loss of this beautiful girl, whose life was stolen. She was vibrant, with a laugh like a spring morning cut short. Her heart was a lion’s; her voice was magnificent. And what could be the point of some plan or explanation that could make sense of all this? Thankfully, we know that this was not the plan for her life, that our golden girl was simply stolen from us.
Some may say to not weep, but we do, and we will. For what else can we do but mourn?
And yet we find some comfort in our tears, for with them we declare the absurdity her death, the wretchedness of our loss, and the beauty of her life. And as we mourn, we find comfort somehow in one another, because our tears do not fall singly but flow together. And in seeing our own tears join with those of our neighbor, we look up, and we join hands, and we hold one another in our grief, and we keep one another standing in our sorrow, afloat but not drowning in sadness.
So do not fear to weep, for we mourn together, but do not forget to reach out your hands, for without one another we have nothing to keep us from sinking into the despair that overwhelms us.
And still our tears bring us yet this unexpected mercy, that they remind us of the God who wept at the death of his friend; and we recall that this same God, the man Jesus, said, “Talitha cumi, little girl arise” and the dead girl did; and that at the end of time this very same Jesus has pledged to declare, “Behold, I make all things new,” and that this same Jesus weeps with us now.
So for all assurance, we weep still, we grieve still. We are thankful for the grace that gives us one another, and as we go on, we’ll remember with thankful hearts the time we had with Briona, and her parting will be remembered among us in the love we give each other daily.The peace of God keep us all.
Thank you James.
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