LENTEN REFLECTION: Losing Amra
By: Justin Mcroberts
Tags: Religion, Death, Romance, Lent, Christian Living

In 1995, the young woman I was dating died suddenly. Her name was Amra. She’d had a heart defect none of us was aware of (though apparently she was). As her co-workers told the story, she was talking with one of her tables (she was a waitress) and simply collapsed, mid-sentence. They’d thought shed passed out.

I remember Leah showing up at my parent’s house mid morning. She was supposed to be in Civics class.

Tears. Shaking.

“Is it true?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry.”

She turned and sat on the doorstep, facing the street that led back to campus. I got her a glass of water and sat next to her. I don’t remember either of us saying anything.

I listened to her breathing and it made me conscious of mine.

As a sophomore, Leah had been the only girl in the Young Life club I’d led with Amra. I still don’t know how she heard that her friend and Young Life leader had died the night before.

The night before…

I remember using my mom’s computer when the phone rang.

I don’t know how Peter knew to call me there.

He was the owner of the restaurant.

“Amra got sick. She just left in an ambulance.”

I remember driving in silence until my mother said

“You’re going too fast…”

“Mom, please. I don’t know what’s going on and need to find out.”

As if having any kind of knowledge might give me power over sickness and death and fear.

I remember pale light of the ICU hallway.

I remember feeling cold.

There’s nothing like the buzz and chaos of a hospital when you’re scared.

I remember I didn’t really pray, even though I wanted to.

I couldn’t find a world to start with.

Instead… silence

And tension

And hoping God felt what I was feeling.

Two of the wait staff from Amra’s restaurant were in the hall. Just beyond them, the door was open and I could see her shoulders and hair and the plastic tube holding her mouth open.

Eyes closed.

Arms at her sides.

Green sheet over her chest.

I remember the word “indiscriminate” moving to the front of my mind.

She was 25.

I don’t ever return to that image directly, but just about any memory of that time period and relationship eventually gives way to it,.. like credits to a film.

That’s never changed.

I wish it would.

My friend Dave drove me back that night.

I tried to talk about Amra’s love for cats.

Humor was always my safety net.

Dave just drove.

I listened to his breathing and it made me conscious of mine.

I don’t remember where i slept that night or much about the following few days and nights. The next thing I remember clearly is the gathering at my mother’s house after the funeral.

(I don’t remember the funeral.

I’ve always found that so strange.)

I remember there wasn’t an abundance of conversation.

I remember the sun was out and that most people spent their time in the back yard.

Which is where Dan found me.

Amra’s ex-boyfriend.

He told me that “in his own way,” he loved her, too.

He made a square in the air with his fingers while clarifying, “I’m not part of your little religious… thing…”

but he’d appreciated the memorial service, nonetheless.

He wanted to tell me theirs was a “More complex relationship”

and that he wouldn’t expect me to get it, again because of my “religious thing.”

He wanted me know they’d had sex

while she and I were dating.

He wanted to be sure i knew that.

I did.

Amra had told me.

We didn’t speak for a few days.

I was intimidated

confused

and scared.

Like i was that afternoon in my mom’s yard

after the funeral

where i just wanted to catch my breath

and feel a little bit less disoriented

so i could take come to grips with this being real.

So that i could remember her like she had been real.

What Dan wanted me to know,

was that she wasn’t all that good to me.

Maybe it made him feel a kind of power

over me in that moment

over that moment itself

maybe even a kind of power over death

I remember him touching my shoulder and saying “Anyway,..” before turning to leave.

I just stood where i was

and kept breathing.