MANDY FLYNN: Some hearts are built that way

I was the first one awake that Thursday morning and without even looking at my phone to see what time it was I could tell it was very early. No light was trickling in through the shutters, meaning it was still dark outside. My eyes were wide open. My mind wouldn’t let me sleep anymore. My brain, I guess, is just built that way.

The headline looking back at me from my laptop a few minutes later echoed at least three times before I managed to read any further. Four UGA Students Killed In Overnight Crash. Seven words immediately striking indescribable fear. They blurred as my mind raced to remember the last time I had spoken to our son. A UGA student. Four UGA Students Killed In Overnight Crash. The words burned through me. Oh, God. Why couldn’t I remember when I’d talked to him?

The wreck was around 9 p.m., it said. I talked to him about 9:30 last night. Nine-thirty. Overwhelming relief rushed through my body. But only for a second before fear came again. This time tinged with the guilt of feeling relief in the midst of so much horror and pain. The victims were all female, I read. All friends.

The sick feeling returned. Indescribable. How many young girls do I know who are right now at the University of Georgia? A dozen? At least that many. Their names and faces ran through my mind, thoughts of their parents and how they must be feeling. Relieved. Scared. Speechless. Hurting. Did we know them? My prayers led me to pray we didn’t. And whether we did or not, there were still four girls who would not see the light of this day.

My heart was heavy, like a knot of lead sitting in my chest. Somewhere, there were parents mourning the loss of their daughters. Sudden and unpredictable. A nightmare of such tremendous proportion no one could ever know the pain, not even if you’ve had something similar happen. Because each one is different. Each mourning is filled with its own, unique memories.

It was 5 a.m. and I mourned with them.

When there is tragedy and a child hurts, a child dies — any child, no matter how old or how young — I believe in some way we all grieve. In many ways, I believe we’re all mothers, for all things, at all times.

When I was young, long before I had children of my own, I met a small child who lived with her aunt because her mother was in prison. She wanted nothing more than to show her mother that she knew how to read.

I sat in the middle of the sidewalk with her while she read aloud to me a small book about animals. Then she asked me if I thought her mama would be proud, and I told her yes, that I knew she would even though I didn’t. I really didn’t know. But I was. I was proud of her.

And later I cried, and I remember wondering why I would cry for a child I hardly knew.

Because we’re all mothers, my teacher told me. Some hearts are built that way, she said. We love and care for our own family and friends, and when we feel like there couldn’t possibly be more, we feel pain and joy for people we barely, or don’t even, know.

Later that Thursday, I would learn that I didn’t know those young, precious girls at all. My heart was relieved, I’m not ashamed to admit. But it ached horribly just the same. For their friends. For their families. For their mothers.

And I pray, in some way, they can feel there are mothers everywhere they will never know who are holding them close. Because when any child, anywhere, suffers we feel in some small way like they are our own.

Some hearts, I guess, are just built that way.

Visit Mandy Flynn’s webpage, www.mandyflynn.com.