Yesterday, April 16, 2026, was 16 years since Matthew died. Or maybe it was April 15th. Time erases things. Maybe that’s best, memory loss about the details surrounding a loss. But I haven’t forgotten everything.
Each April, I know the day is coming when the azaleas start to bloom. Before that day in 2010, I don’t think I paid much attention to azaleas, probably didn’t know their name. Now I can usually spot an azalea even when it’s dormant in the cold of winter. I have a few bushes in my yard, a white one in the front that’s finally in bloom, two redish-pink ones on the side with many buds that are still thinking about opening up and a pink one ablaze in the back. When I got the phone call about Matthew, all the azaleas outside my office window were in showing off, a redish pink or are they a pinkish red? I don’t have that corner office anymore with the large windows; that’s two jobs ago now.
Sixteen years. This grief is an entire teenager.
Matthew would have been 37, I think. Based on his plans, he’d be a thriving dentist. I’m sure of the thriving part because his presence calmed a space, brought laughter and clarity. I imagine him with clients of all ages who’ve never wished to miss an appointment and a front desk staff that can keep the day moving smoothly. I don’t remember him struggling to be timely but the time he invested in people may have required his staff to ring a bell at the half-way mark of an appointment as a reminder that there are many more people for him to love that day.
I knew I’d be okay for as long as he was my assistant chaplain. And then I wasn’t. Just like that, I was not okay.
Matthew’s death was the first I’d experienced that required me to take time off. But I didn’t. I didn’t know how to do that. I barely knew how to do my job, one I’d occupied for only 8 months. I didn’t know how to let my students love me and I certainly didn’t know how to love them. Any success in that department was grace, God’s goodness on full display. If students had issues with me, it was comforting to know that they didn’t have issues with Matthew, that if they did have issues, they were the problem not him. “How are you?” he’d ask, and pause for your reply. “How can I help?” he’d offer and he wouldn’t set up one table and walk away, he’d set them all up and make sure they were all put away later, gather a few others to assist and make the process quicker and, more importantly, fun. I think he could be corny which was often the sort of fun we needed eliciting groans and eye rolls, the fun that helped us laugh at ourselves and release a bit of the control around what we could not change. Matthew got up early at least once a week to pray with a small group of guys. He made sure I left work, didn’t stay around until 11pm. He’d take care of anything left to take care of.
Why do I always remember this particular death? Perhaps because I’ve kept on writing about it, because it’s in a chapter of a book I’ll someday complete and every time I work on the book, I at least pass by that chapter and…remember…again. And perhaps because I’ve forever connected Matthew to azaleas.
I imagine a moment where I point to the bush and ask Matthew what it’s called. I imagine him with his left hand on his hip and his right hand cupping his chin as he pretends to remember the name and then makes something up, something that sounds scientific, the Latin name of course. I imagine myself snickering the entire time because I know he doesn’t know the name. I imagine him bent at the waist as he laughs at his attempt then pretend to be serious again.
I imagine myself at 97 with dementia, pointing to a blooming azalea and saying, “Matthew,” while a family member beside me wonders what in the world I’m talking about, correcting me as if I’m wrong, pitying me for not knowing. “Read the book,” I retort, “It’s Matthew.” They think I’m referring to the Bible. “Forget it,” I say, and ask to be wheeled outside to sit beside the lush Pink Macrantha azalea and be okay.
