Shipwrecks

Almost 100 years separates me from the people who experienced the Babbs Switch tragedy, yet I feel a kinship to those who survived. I know of no ancestors involved, and I did not hear the story while growing up in Southwest Oklahoma. I did not learn of it until after my life's second period. But I know loss, trauma, and grief. I know shipwrecks. 

Shipwrecks may seem a poor analogy for a fire on the landlocked plains of the Southwest, but the word describes the aftermath rather than the event. Over 10 years ago, a user on Reddit by the name of /u/GSnow saw a post titled My friend just died. I don't know what to do, and we're all better for it. In a reply that elicits thanks even 11 years later, the user perfectly encapsulated what loss, grief, and trauma does to a person. It is an analogy that could be easily understood just as well in 1,000 years ago as it is now (save for the O'Hare and Starbucks references). It's something that I've read and re-read so often that I had a portion of it printed on glass for my office: 

There is more to the comment, and the full response is worth a read. It has resonated with me ever since losing my brother, niece, and nephew in 2019. It makes me wonder what comforted the survivors of Babbs Switch, the families of the lost. Did they all seek refuge in the church? Or were there some, like me, who had to process what happened and how it transformed them through secular analogy? Unless I come across the holy grail of Babbs Switch research, it's something I'll never know. But I'll always feel that kinship, and I'll never stop working to tell their story—despite the long lull between posts here. 

Below is the remainder of GSnow's post. What has comforted you after tragedy?

Alright, here goes. I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not. I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents.
I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.
As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.
Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.
Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too. If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.