The Life in Your Years

From the warmth of my bed, the faint sound of our phone ringing shattered the quietness of our home as Jared, Thomas, and I lay dormant. The answering machine started it's message, and I detected a muffled, indistinguishable voice broadcasting into our empty kitchen downstairs. Sluggishly my arm reached out towards my bedside table, fumbling to grasp my glasses so my dismal nearsightedness could be corrected. Leaning over my husband's curled up body, I viewed the digital red numbers of our clock. It was seven o'clock on Thursday, March 6, 2008.

On any other morning, an early morning phone call would have been cause for alarm. Instantly, my mind would have begun to project numerous possibilities of who was calling and what horrific message would be conveyed. But on this day, the day after we had received our long-awaited message from our social worker that Russell and Elliot were ready to travel to their new home, I reasoned that the call was more than likely a family member or friend returning our call to share in our joy. Casually I descended the stairs, flipped on the kitchen light, and played back the message. The voice on the other end was my mother-in-law's and she was crying. Desperately, I sought to decipher the enormity of what she was relating.

Matt. Accident. Head trauma. Air-lifted to Peoria. Deliberately I ascended the stairs to bear the heart-rending news to my husband, already fearing in my heart that his cousin, our cousin, would not survive this calamity. Within a few hours, Jared and I joined Matt's family, Uncle Andy, Aunt Sharon, Megan, and Clayton, as well as a host of Matt's friends to keep steadfast vigil by his side. The suffering and despondency weighed heavy as the elevator doors opened and we emerged to join this mournful community. And for days, time stood still. Finally, with the blessing of Uncle Andy and Aunt Sharon, to not delay our trip to Seoul, Jared and I said our good-byes to Matt on Saturday evening. In the late afternoon on Sunday, March 9, the phone rang again: Matt had departed this life.

In a beautiful demonstration of their love for their cousin, two of our "Colorado" cousin's endeavored to create a meaningful memoir of Matt's life for Uncle Andy and Aunt Sharon by collecting pictures, stories, and reminiscences from family and friends. As our family solemnly celebrated our first Christmas without Matt, Andy and Sharon graciously shared this book with us. The following is what Jared, the oldest Farmer cousin, related about his little cousin Matt.

“I thought he might be the kind of boy that really liked balls,” Dad said as Thomas opened the gift he had given him for his birthday. “I remember your cousin Matt always liked balls when he was that age.” Notice he didn’t say, “You always liked balls when you were that age.” Matt and I were very different boys from the beginning. The truth was I liked books, Legos, art, theatre, TV, movies – anything I could sit and do. Sports and I never really got along, and I tried many. Matt, however, was always a very active, very energetic, very athletic kid. I tried sports; Matt played sports.

The toys we chose also defined us a bit. I was really into Star Wars and Matt was really into Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I certainly liked the blasters and lightsabers, but I was just as likely to be found playing the role-playing game with dice, paper, and pen. But Matt, in true TMNT fashion, simply wanted to beat me up. Thankfully, I was the older, larger cousin. Also, thankfully, Aunt Sharon and Uncle Andy understood Matt’s personality and never scolded me when I had to pin Matt down to protect myself.

What comes to me from both of these remembrances is while I so often lived my life in my head, or on paper, Matt actually lived his life. He did what he thought to do, without timidity and without regret. And I think anyone who knew him, loved this about him. Wherever Matt was, he always seemed happy to be doing what he was doing. Even at an age when most kids cringe at the idea of family get-togethers, Matt always seemed sincerely happy to be there – without embarrassment at the older cousin, aunt, uncle, or grandparent.

In fact, I never got the slightest hint that he was ever unhappy to be where he was. He seemed to live the adage, “Wherever you are, be there.” It is for that ability I will always remember, respect, and love Matt. I have absolutely no doubt that when I next see Matt at our family get-together in the sky, he’ll look up from the game, smile and wave at me, sincerely happy to see me, and sincerely happy to be where he is.

There is a quote from Abraham Lincoln that I discovered awhile ago whose sentiment I treasure and which typifies Matt's full but all too brief life on this earth. "And in the end, it's not the years in your life that count," Lincoln said. "It's the life in your years." Live and love humbly and boldly my precious friends and family, free of anxiety and earthly cares, always remembering that our lives are but a vapor that appears for just a time and then vanishes away.

Matthew Andrew Tyrrell
April 17, 1985-March 9, 2008
May the Lord God remember you in His Kingdom always,
now and ever and unto the ages of ages. Amen.