The article that follows was originally written as college entrance essay for Stanford University, where she is now a sophomore majoring in communications. We were deeply moved to learn of this young woman's enduring faith in the face of family tragedies. And we've asked Sarah to add a few lines to her essay for Journal readers, to explain some of the healing ideas that helped her trust in God's love for her and for her family during the ordeals she speaks of here.
With five kids, all kinds of pets, and many friends, our tramp has been through it all.
My feet still don't touch the ground when I dangle my legs off the side of my trampoline's familiar metal bar, and according to biology, they never will. But I don't mind, because they never have. Even though my trampoline has weathered and aged, it's still a source of security to me in a world where everything else has changed. Once a tight black platform with silver springs, royal blue mats and glistening metal bars, it's now a gray rag held up by several rusty springs.
I'm not sure exactly what year my mother bought our trampoline, but I know it was there when my sister Susanna was born in '79, and it was outside when I was born in June of '81, and, according to my brother Brent, who is 21, it has been there his whole life too. With five kids, all kinds of pets, and many friends, our tramp has been through it all.
When I was three years old and the pads still sheltered gleaming springs, I would whine when my oldest sister, Staar, and my older brother, Brookes, would jump up on the massive platform with ease. Finally they would reach down, grab me by the arm and haul me up, and we would all jump, laugh and talk. I was barely able to crawl one arm's length without being bounced up in the air, landing on my back giggling. I would watch my brother's bare, bronzed feet and my sister's bulging, workout socks and Reeboks sink into a black hole then lift off again in temporary flight.
When I was five years old I was able to get up on the giant black tramp by myself. I spent every waking minute on the hot spandex during the summer of '86, for this was the summer when my father taught me how to do a flip. On my first attempt at this magical 360, I landed right on my back, not even making a half turn. Support gleaming in my father's brown eyes, and my determination to follow his experienced instructions—bounce high, throw your head into your stomach, curl your legs, swing your arms, point your toes, three more tries, you can do it—we were both able to stand the June heat until I accomplished the goal.
Later that same year my father was hospitalized with lung cancer. As he struggled in the hospital for several months. I continually performed trampoline tricks and flip shows dedicated to his health. I lost all hesitation and became so familiar with my father's trademark flip that I added a little twist and a kick at the end. I then taught myself other tricks—a knee flip, a seat-drop, a split in the air, a stomach flop, and even a back flip. I kept working and working until I could master every new flip, but I could never seem to learn enough tricks. After several months, my father passed away.
When I was seven years old my brother Brookes invented a very dangerous game in which I unfortunately participated. He and Brent would stand on either side of the rectangular platform, and I would bounce in the middle of them, counting. On three, with my heart pounding and our adrenaline rushing, I would do a knee drop and they would bounce simultaneously, sending me six feet in the air with little control, never sure whether I would land on the spandex, the metal bars, or the muddy ground. While I survived this game intact, Staar, who was the final victim in this high-flying act, was not so fortunate. Staar went higher than I had seen anyone go before. Her skinny legs kicked as she struggled to stay in landing position, but she lost control and landed with a big "thump" on the sticky, muddy ground. Brookes' sympathetic face leaned over her as Brent called our mother. Staar recovered her senses and in a burst of tears, she ran inside.
As Brookes traveled home for Christmas the following year, he was in a car accident. He lay in a coma for several days, and he died two days after Christmas. His death inspired me to work harder in everything I was doing. For the next several years the tramp was my sometime desk, it was my sometime bed, it was my comfort. Working on my old friend provided the peace I needed. There was no telephone ringing and no people interrupting, just the sweet buzz of the cicadas and an occasional rustle in the bushes. Eventually, I was at the top of my class, focused on my studies and on my extracurriculars. I had to relinquish rest or play on the beloved trampoline. Squash, lacrosse, and scuba diving took up most of my free time.
Once again, however, I would persevere through another family tragedy. Last year Staar died in a car accident in Mexico. She had graduated from Amherst and from Washington University School of Law, was practicing law, and had just accepted a position with a Fifth Avenue law firm in New York City. I knew I could not allow the loss of my remarkable sister, my mentor, to be an excuse to give up. I decided instead to use Staar's experiences, accomplishments, and shining personality as my motivation. Once again, my tramp became my place to reflect on goals, accomplishments, and failures—the place I went to watch the stars or feel the gentle rain fall.
A friend asked recently, "Having experienced all these losses, don't you feel that in a way everything you are doing is worthless?" I tried to explain the abundance of life and energy that I feel every day, the knowledge that I am becoming the best person I can be and experiencing as much in my life as possible. Tragedy can either debilitate or strengthen. After all the loss in my life, I guess I could have given up on living. Instead, I repeatedly choose a greater commitment to living, learning, and loving.
When I arrived home from Paris this summer, I went out to my trampoline. As I sat in the peace of my backyard, I thought about everything I had experienced, and I remembered another question I had been asked. The other student must have thought my answer quite peculiar when she asked me my favorite spot in the world.
