Dearest Helen,
As I write these words I'm thinking about the first time we met, at a life group here in Whittier. You talked about your passion for rock climbing and argued vehemently with another girl about the importance of not simply waiting on the Lord our whole lives, but taking action when He calls us.
Passionate, charming, intelligent, stubborn--these were my initial impressions of you. Your down-home expressions like "tickled pink" reminded me of the only other person I ever knew who said them--my mother!
As the years went by we didn't see much of each other, only in passing. We started communicating regularly after you were diagnosed. I felt compelled to pray for you immediately each time I received an email update--I was always deeply affected by your unwavering faith and humor in the face of what must have been unbearable pain, fear, and uncertainty. I remember driving like a madman through the streets of Pasadena to visit you while you were staying with the elderly woman (I've forgotten her name) and staying up with Wendy and Ron singing songs and wanting so badly to cheer you up, if only for a little while. You were so tiny and frail, and breathing was an ordeal for you, yet you were the strongest person I've ever known, unshakeable in your faith, refusing to feel sorry for yourself, and tackling life with an optimism and a joy few of us ever know. And most of all I remember
kissing you on the cheek before I left and telling you we were all praying for you, and feeling your soft kiss on my own cheek. "I know", you said. "I know."
That was the last time I saw you. I'm sorry I never got the chance to know you better or spend more time with you, Helen. But I'm so thankful that at least I had the chance to tell you what you meant to me. I'd love to live just one day with your enthusiasm, your fearlessness, your courage. You're gone from us now, but you left behind the footprints of a life that humbles us all. And in death your spirit touches the hearts and minds of all of us who were lucky enough to have known you.
In love and gratitude,
Marcus Gerakos
As I write these words I'm thinking about the first time we met, at a life group here in Whittier. You talked about your passion for rock climbing and argued vehemently with another girl about the importance of not simply waiting on the Lord our whole lives, but taking action when He calls us.
Passionate, charming, intelligent, stubborn--these were my initial impressions of you. Your down-home expressions like "tickled pink" reminded me of the only other person I ever knew who said them--my mother!
As the years went by we didn't see much of each other, only in passing. We started communicating regularly after you were diagnosed. I felt compelled to pray for you immediately each time I received an email update--I was always deeply affected by your unwavering faith and humor in the face of what must have been unbearable pain, fear, and uncertainty. I remember driving like a madman through the streets of Pasadena to visit you while you were staying with the elderly woman (I've forgotten her name) and staying up with Wendy and Ron singing songs and wanting so badly to cheer you up, if only for a little while. You were so tiny and frail, and breathing was an ordeal for you, yet you were the strongest person I've ever known, unshakeable in your faith, refusing to feel sorry for yourself, and tackling life with an optimism and a joy few of us ever know. And most of all I remember
kissing you on the cheek before I left and telling you we were all praying for you, and feeling your soft kiss on my own cheek. "I know", you said. "I know."
That was the last time I saw you. I'm sorry I never got the chance to know you better or spend more time with you, Helen. But I'm so thankful that at least I had the chance to tell you what you meant to me. I'd love to live just one day with your enthusiasm, your fearlessness, your courage. You're gone from us now, but you left behind the footprints of a life that humbles us all. And in death your spirit touches the hearts and minds of all of us who were lucky enough to have known you.
In love and gratitude,
Marcus Gerakos
posted by Wendy Lou at 10:36 AM
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