Ubuntu, Amber

I heard of Amber’s death on December 20^th, 2013. Nothing will bring her back to those of us who loved her—especially words typed by my hands. However, words bring permanence to our stories. I want to offer my words to her story.

I’m in Denver today en route to Green Valley, Wyoming where tomorrow family and friends will gather together to speak words of tribute and grieve our great loss together.

My relationship began with Amber in August of 2009. I’d received several emails from her with subject line: IMMO Clark. (For those fortunate enough not to be acquainted with IMMO—it’s short for In the Matter of the Marriage)

I first saw her walking briskly down the hallway at the Denton County Family Courthouse. She was talking quietly and sternly with my lead attorney. She was wearing a grey suit and black stiletto heels with red lacquered soles. Her long blonde hair was pulled into a professional ponytail. She looked like a junior version of her new boss. It was surreal to hear her spout out details of my life having never met her in person. I remember thinking, “This little girl knows more about me than I do! Good grief, I could be her mother!” I interrupted their discussion to introduce myself.

She briefly acknowledged me with a polite smile and a cordial greeting. Without fanfare, she went right back into her conversation with my lead attorney. I’m not gonna lie. I was intimidated by this young lawyer whom I had internally referred to as a little girl.  The more I heard her talk, the more impressed I was with her mind and her abilities. I didn’t choose my attorney and her staff because I needed friends. I chose them because they were highly competent. Top of her Baylor Law School class, Amber was a shining new star in the firm. 

I was pleased she was assigned to my case.

I could have never imagined that she would become a treasured friend over the course of 4 years.

The divorce process is a little bit like a bad game of rigged strip poker with strangers. The longer you play, the less you’re wearing in a game where the other players remain fully clothed. I remember turning over my journals to them and wondered if there would be anyone who actually read them. I was hopeful it was just protocol without action—mostly for the discovery of my poor punctuation and bad poetry. Journaling was therapy for my eyes only, so I thought.

Amber, though, read every legible word from years of bound notebooks. For whatever reason, particularly through the juxtaposition of profanity and praises to The Most High, Amber told me she made two decisions:
 

1.     1.  Get Lori everything she legally could get me. (Those that know her well know that her language was FAR more colorful! I loved that about her. She taught me new ways to cuss.)

2.     2.  She decided that I was worthy of her trust. She, in her own way, allowed me to be her friend.

I couldn't begin to calculate how many hours of her life were poured into my case. I could look at the bills I received and those hours would be a fraction of what she truly invested. I was never a case to Amber. I was a person. My child was a real person that Amber knew well through pictures and stories and anecdotes. She loved us—a blessing I never expected or required.

The more I knew Amber, the more I loved her. The more honest and authentic she was with me about her own fears and concerns, the deeper my commitment to her became. We both struggled with being people pleasers. After reading of my struggle and years of recovery from bulimia, she shared with me her ongoing battle.

I was committed to her and loved her as well as I could. I tried my best to provide a safe place for her to be honest and flawed. She had seen me at my worst and she still  trusted me enough to glimpse her wounds and pain. I drove to Tulsa during her first treatment and spent as many hours as I was allowed that weekend. Beyond that, we met regularly for meals. We emailed and texted. I went many weekends to see her last year while she was at Project Bliss. I loved her with my time and my commitment to her best—just as she’d done for me.

Amber’s death is a tragedy. I cannot, even with the help of my wisest friend, wrap my head around why Amber isn’t alive. She lived with me and Annie Beth for a few weeks in October. I have never loved her more than when she was with us—difficult as it was to watch her slowly destroy what life her body had left in it.

I am just one person in the course of her 30 years on this earth. My love and my effort couldn’t save Amber. That stops me in my tracks. Every. Single. Time.

Amber,

My love for you will never end. You needed your life to matter. I am living proof that Amber Steiss Rechner’s work as a lawyer was exemplary. When I need to curse injustice, I will smile and thank you for my training in solid usage of the “F” word. When I need courage to stand up to people that seem impassable, I’ll thank you for showing me how to put on my game face and march right up to my virtual judge, jury, or opposing counsel. 

I know that you are whole now. I know that you are experiencing perfect love and that you finally understand why so many of us loved you so profoundly, imperfect as we all are.

I’m posting these pictures from your 29^th birthday a year ago. The window in the background speaks truth. I am who I am because of our relationship, Amber. I am a better woman for knowing you and for loving you. Thanks for letting me be a part of your inner world.

Ubuntu, ~lori

Post Script: After posting this hours ago, I'm thinking through my comment about my love and support not being enough.....Forgive me if that sounded self absorbed. My intent was not to be selfish. I have no illusions that any one person could take sole responsibility for helping another. I was among many that surrounded her with all we could offer. I am confounded by the reality that none of us that loved her could reach her. My only comfort is THE One that loved her perfectly from before conception saved her and she is like Him now.