The Worst Thing That Can Happen
April 24th, 2022, 5:30am the phone rings. My wife and I assume it’s a prank call or wrong number and hang up. It rings again. We pick it up and hear those words like some sort of horror movie: Your daughter has been in a serious car accident. Packing up from our Hilton Head weekend away, we begin to rush home but within ten minutes, we received the next call: she did not make it.
I try to drive the car, but my hands and arms are shaking so badly I do not know if I can continue driving. I feel I must get to the hospital, but why? She is gone. Why are we rushing? It is over just like that. 24 years of work, love, fun, tears, hopes for the future, gone. Within seconds, I realize the entire structure of my world and the universe is different. Things look similar, but it is as though I just walked through a doorway to an alternate planet, and I can’t return to the previous one. I’m now stuck in this parallel world.
All superstition ceases. All thoughts of “luck” vanish. All prayers of “thank you Lord for the safety of my children” drip away like a melting ice cream cone. I just drive on the highway looking out of the car window at this new world where my heart is so crushed, so torn, that nothing connects. This is before the tears, this is the shock, the utter horror of the single worst thing that can happen on this planet.
The last time we saw this beautiful, silly, wonderful, artsy, creative miracle was two days earlier as we both kissed her forehead, told her we loved her and wished her a good weekend. Now we are pulling up to the hospital where our beautiful daughter is lying in some room no longer breathing. We meet with the team which handles these things and I convulse with tears. They invite us to view Annie’s body, but we both decline as we realize we’ll never be able to unsee that picture of our lifeless daughter. We want to remember her full of life instead. We asked out of random curiosity how many parents declined to see their child’s body; we were the first who had ever opted out.
We walked out of the hospital with her jewelry in a bag; it should be on her body, not in my hand. How do we call our younger daughter, Claire, with news like this? How do we alert family members? How can my mouth even form those words of loss and pain? We meet our younger daughter, who is now an only child, halfway between Brunswick and Athens, GA. One of her college roommates drove her to our meeting place. On the way back home, one of Annie’s friends calls, looking to see her at the hospital. We must deliver the news to her that Annie did not make it and listen to the sobbing shock and horror in her tears and heart. Meanwhile, Claire sits in the back seat silently, God only knows what is going through her mind. She lost her only sister, who she loved so deeply. They never fought and adored each other. Her other half is gone.
We finally arrive home, assuming we will find an empty house, but instead are greeted by 50 friends who fill our home showing their love for us with various acts of service, hugs and tears. One neighbor is literally cutting our grass as he does not know what else to say or do. Food is already there like the National Guard was called. We walk around the house hugging and crying and carrying on, and I feel like I’ve lost major body parts but am still somehow standing upright.
More people arrived, maybe 100, who knows? Our small house is packed with food, drinks, hundreds of flowers with more arriving each minute. We are trying to process this, or anything. Our back porch door handle stopped working, and I plan on going to the Ace Hardware store to buy a new one, like I am still living in the old universe. But within minutes, a builder friend arrives like from a time machine and replaces the handle and just looks at me with tears. His gift was his time, his tears, and the door handle. People just want to help.
Family arrives; we sit in the back yard around the fire pit, drink beer, eat lots of food and tell stories about Annie. I suddenly realize people just keep arriving in what seem like shifts to serve. I later find out that is exactly what happened. All these people and plans are taking place as we just sit in the center of this tornado, laughing and crying with memories, and trying to contemplate a life without our precious daughter.
Later that week, after making what seems impossible plans for her memorial service, we wonder if it’d be OK not to wear dark clothes or formal funeral attire to her service. We thought bright colors like Annie would love would be nice. Upon arriving at our church for the service, we see nothing but bright colors. And the flowers! So many beautiful colorful flowers! How do those messages get broadcast? I wonder about those things in times like this. Was there an email, text message, how does everyone know to be here?
Annie Olsen Udell
800 friends and family showed up and I lost about 10 pounds through tears and hugs. The church was full, beyond any thought of what might occur. Her friends gave testimonies about how sweet she was, helpful to them in times of their need, talking about her faith and love of the Lord with them. Her heart was so tender and true and could not tolerate inauthenticity on any level. So, two hours go by, hearing stories, crying and just in a state of shock, I guess. I move around, but not sure how, like a dream, I sort of float through this event.
The most important speech given was by my wife of 32 years. As she stood in front of 800 friends and family, she insisted that we are not mad at God for taking Annie. We have not, nor will we go down the “Why us” road. That is a dead-end that leads to despair and undercuts our faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. Did we wish for another outcome? You bet. Do we still wake up some days, now 18-months later, happy to just stand? Yes. How did she do that? How strong is my wife!
However, our faith through this process has deepened and widened to levels I was not sure really existed prior. I realized after such a time, there is nothing but faith. The other stuff – the safety, security – was an illusion, which gets ripped off like a day-old band aid. What remains is the desire to help others out of their pain. We now know that grief is grief, pain is pain. If it’s a broken marriage, or loss of a grandparent, parent, sibling, pet, it doesn’t really matter. All grief and pain distort our manufactured world and reorient it into God’s vision of who we really are and always have been.
As I continue reading the words of Jesus, I wonder if I am reading the same text as before the accident. It seems like I was missing His point. He pretty much only hung around those who were down and out and avoided those in power who had no eye toward the suffering of those around them. I don’t think Jesus really cares how much we have; just how much we give. The best way for me to feel better now is to help those in pain. I think the Lord opens that door a bit wider when tragedy inflicts us and overwhelms our ability to make it alone. Also please love those in your life while you have them. Let them know you love them each day.
Kevin & Ashley Udell
ABOUT KEVIN UDELL
Kevin Udell has been married to Ashley Udell for over 32 years and has Claire, 21 and Annie who would have been, 25, as their two precious daughters. Kevin has worked on Jekyll Island heading up sales since 2006. Ashley works at Prime South Bank in Brunswick, GA. Claire, is a senior at Univ. of GA, Go Dawgs!
Kevin is currently Board Chair of the local Boys & Girls Club and is very passionate in helping kids in his community. He and friends also started www.100menwhogive.com to help those in need in Glynn County, GA. Currently at 180 members and growing and was able to donate over $50K for their first year.
They never saw this event happening in their life, but our Lord Jesus has opened doors of comfort and peace for them that they did not know existed until this tragedy.