A friend of mine was killed on Sunday.

She was struck by lightning.

I hurt.

I’m not immune to the human condition: birth, life, happiness, sadness, pain, joy, death. As an adult I’ve experienced all but the last and even then I’ve been witness to it. Every time I experience pain I grow; everytime I’m hurt I learn. But it still hurts, and this one in particular.

Amy Wenger was, simply, a wonderful person. Everyone says that about people who die that were close to them, so I don’t want to sound clicheish. But it is the best way to express it. She was a great person.

I met Amy while a new student at Luther. Having made friends with a girl, I followed her to “clowning”, a meeting of their Christian clown troupe. While I was only there on an observation mode, I got to meet Amy. After I had been pursuaded to become a clown, I got to know her that much better.

She was one of those bubbly characters, the kind that seem like a bottle of soda pop, calm but waiting to burst all over the room if given the chance. She was prone to giggles, wide grins, and twinkling eyes of deep, dark brown. Her pitch-black hair would bob around her head, giving her face this perpetual motion. She was cuddly and warm, the kind of steady teddy bear that everyone wanted to be near. Life excited her; the simple things really gave her a lot of joy, and she learned to appreciate them — they were her solace in her difficult studies.

Amy had just finished college, finally earning her Masters of Science in Nursing, specializing in pediatric oncology — for those of the non-medical field, that’s caring for children with cancer. And what a better person to do it! Amy had a heart overflowing with caring, love, and generosity. She was always one to sense when something was wrong in your life and offer a smile or a nod or a soft inquiry. Or a hug — one you could melt into.

I last saw Amy at a friend’s wedding. She was there and sang a solo for the ceremony. Once at the dance, we started dancing and pretty much danced the entire night together. I danced awhile with my (then) girlfriend (now wife), the bride, and other friends, but Amy and I had a night of dancing around us for some reason or another. She was full of energy that night and I was more than willing to whisk her around, giggling sometimes as we screwed up a dance move or fudged a step, but having lots of fun. I can still see her twinkling eyes and big smile on her face as we enjoyed the event.

I don’t know why Amy chose to dance with me that night; we hadn’t spoken or seen each other hardly at all since she left college (she was a couple of years ahead of me) and rarely talked on email. But for some reason I got to have a lot of fun with her that night and I’ll always be grateful for that. It will make the upcoming funeral that much harder.

I don’t know why she’s gone; I don’t blame God. I don’t believe things happen because of one reason or another. However, if they do — if things are meant to be, then there’s a reason. My wife suggests that maybe because of her warm caring and love for children and their medical problems that she has been chosen to help those children dying from cancer or other horrible diseases to make the transistion to the afterlife and to help them not to be scared. I don’t know. I like to think she’s happy and giggling.

Amy died while she was volunteering at a camp for mentally disabled persons in Wisconsin, doing what she always did — giving of herself for the benefit of others, just because she cared so much. I would hope that she is, was, and will be for a long time an inspiration to many, many people.

I’ll miss you, girl. I already do.

Rest in peace and love. — Nathan