Voice Memo
Gabby Tate
16 months, 3 weeks, 3 days after the accident
Tonight was my youth group’s outdoor praise and worship night. It’s fall, which is usually my favorite weather as far as temperature goes, but as the lead guitarist began to strum and sing on stage, the sky grew dark, and in less than a minute, it started to rain.
My friends started shrieking and laughing and pulling their sweatshirt hoods up over their heads, but none of them left to find shelter. They all just kept singing and clapping as the rain soaked them through. But I couldn’t stay.
I didn’t know Tyler followed me to the big oak tree at the far end of the church property, but when I turned around, he was there. He asked me if I was okay, and all I could do was run into his arms.
I think it must have been the mix of music and rain that brought the memory of my parents back to me so strongly. It poured the night before the accident. It wasn’t like any kind of rain I’d ever seen—more like an upended river pouring out of the sky.
We’d been gathered together under a shelter with open walls and a metal roof, sharing about the day’s events the same way we’d done all week. I’d spent most of my time playing games with the little children while Mom served their mothers and Dad framed the buildings that would soon become educational centers. We’d been told June was the start of India’s monsoon season, but we’d yet to see it in action for ourselves. As soon as it started, Pastor Bedi tried to dismiss our team back to our sleeping quarters, but none of us were ready to leave.
One of the guys picked up his guitar, and even though we couldn’t hear a single chord he played, we lifted our voices above the sound of the storm and sang with our whole hearts. At one point, my chest felt overfilled, like a balloon ready to pop. The sensation was so crazy that I stopped singing to look around and see if anybody else felt it. But instead, I saw my parents. Even though the rain had blown through the open walls and soaked their clothes all the way through, their arms were stretched to the heavens and they looked ... well, they looked joyful.
That’s how I remember them. Not the perfect beach day pictures that were shown in a slideshow at their funerals, with Mom’s hair all pretty and Dad in a shirt that wasn’t stained or ripped from work. But like this. Like two people who didn’t let a storm keep them from worshiping God.