Goodbye, Samantha

Samantha waltzed into my class two years ago wide-eyed, enthusiastic, and prepared. "I heard you were hard," she said, "but I can do this."  As the quarter passed, she demonstrated devotion to performing well, and while she may not have been the best writer, she gave herself over to the tasks the course demanded. She was like that in all of her classes. She was organized, on top of assignments, and eager to "get it right."

When Samantha first started classes, her father dropped her off and then picked her up in the evening. She spent the time outside of class in the library or in the lobby studying or reading. She and I had great talks about books and reading habits.  Once, I caught her with a seedy romance. She just smiled and said, "It's just for fun." As her time at the college progressed, we talked more, and she told me about a daughter she had lost in a custody battle. She didn't tell me why, and I respectfully didn't ask, but I sensed a deep wound regarding her child. She aimed to regain custody one day.

When the weather was warm, Samantha rode her bike to class. In the summer, she arrived spent, sweaty from our Alabama humidity and heat, but always on time. She would go to the bathroom first, bathe herself with wet towels and the soap provided, and emerge ready to "learn something." Her kindness to classmates stood out, too. She was the type of student who could always be counted on to share notes, or to form an impromptu cram session to help someone who had gotten off work an hour before class started.

One day last summer, Samantha showed up for class in inappropriate attire, which shocked me because she had never done it before.  Her instructor, bound by college rules, sent her to student services to see if they had something she could wear that would allow her to sit in class. I saw her outside and asked her what happened. She confided that she had forgotten her two good pairs of pants at a relative's, who had refused to bring them to her. She didn't have a car, and it was too far for a walk or bike ride.

Samantha seemed at her happiest during the months before and after her wedding. Her new fella, the father of two children Samantha adored, followed her to college. Our talks shifted to classes he was taking, most especially English, a huge struggle for him. When she introduced him to me, I saw all the signposts of young love between the two. "We are so blessed to have found each other," she said. They slowly raised the money for a small ceremony and then set up house. Just a few months ago, she shared her wedding pictures with me and some fellow students and talked about how faith was "seeing them through."  Two students, two children, and one minimum-wage income made for hard living.

 I noticed the dark circles under Samantha's eyes a few weeks ago, and I asked if she had been  feeling okay. She told me she had recovered from a bad flu and that she just felt  tired. With no money for a private doctor, and the clinic always too busy, she would have to devote an entire day to see a doctor. We chatted about the upcoming graduation in January, and I left her there with her books and dreams. Her last words to me were "God hasn't failed me yet!"

Only 26 years old, Samantha suffered a fatal heart attack in her sleep this past weekend.  I couldn't attend her visitation, and tomorrow, during her funeral, I will be in class teaching composition. I am deeply saddened, yet I am also impressed by the faith Samantha  latched onto so firmly until the end of her life. What a courageous spirit.

Faith is being sure.

When sorrow cradles your doctrine,

When grief-shrouded standards fail

to bear your weight,

When life-long beliefs seem transparently

insufficient,

and you look for God anyway,

and find hope everywhere.