This morning Finley showed me his latest studio creation at daycare. His first clay sculpture. Two pieces of brown clay stuck together. Yes, it looks like what you’re thinking. He is so incredibly proud of it. I can imagine him spending his time rolling the clay, poking at it, figuring it out. For his process, his effort, his discovery, I am so proud of him. This little clay sculpture makes me smile, and giggle a bit too.
As I left Finley with his friends, I thought of Molly. How many times had she held something in her hands made by her daughters, beautiful and meaningful not because of how it looked, but because of what it represented, because of who had created it. I took pause in my moment of joy and shared that with Molly, though physically we were miles apart.
Pure joy. That was a phrase that Molly used often when we traded messages or when she commented on a post of a family picture. In true Libra-fashion, she was kind, loving, and gentle.
Molly was an October 11 baby, just like Jeff. Our families were connected by the stars and by lung cancer. Both Molly and Jeff were diagnosed in November of 2013. There were so many parallels in our stories – young children, active lifestyles, professional careers, wonderful family and friends, the list went on. With the promise of the latest in personalized cancer care, targeted therapies, there was no stopping us. In my heart, and foolishly in my mind, I believed these two would be among the elite, the few who would survive this disease.
However, in recent months Molly’s treatments began to fail her, and this past week it was clear that her time was short.
And like that, she is gone from this earth.
And now we grieve.
Our friend who stood with us at the starting line so many years ago no longer runs beside us. We will honor her with the spirit in which she lived her life, with kindness in our hearts and with nothing but gratitude for every moment of pure joy.