BY MOLLY MATTOCKS

Our simple home is nestled back in the woods alongside a sparkling creek. Being out in those woods was my daughter’s favorite thing. Izzy had the ability to engage with nature in a sacred way. She held burial services for butterflies and had a ‘thinking tree’ where she would go to talk to God. From picking dandelions and catching lightning bugs, to building forts from fallen limbs, she loved all of it.

Early on in life, cancer taught Izzy the reality of her favorite things. She was deeply aware that they were privileged. They were precious. And they were never promised. There were years when Izzy’s body was strong enough for the great outdoors and years it simply wasn’t. Years the walls of the hospital felt like our saving grace and years they felt like a prison to a sacred spirit like Izzy.

On the corner of our property there lies a Buckeye Tree, whose limbs twist and turn creating the most beautiful canopy. Each Fall her twisting limbs let go of the life she’s spent the whole year growing. Her ‘fruit’ falls to the earth in the spiny, little shells where it has grown. When ready, the shells can easily be peeled away revealing to its finder a smooth, shiny nut called a buckeye.

Collecting buckeyes was a fall tradition that Izzy cherished. She would collect a handful, then take them to the side and peel apart the shell in wonder. Somehow, each one she opened was always more beautiful than the last. Week after week she would collect her treasures in a bucket, waiting for the very last one to fall.

One fall day we came home from the hospital after getting platelets and blood. She felt so good that as soon as I put the car in Park, she swung open the door and raced to Buckeye tree. When I got to her, I found she was throwing rocks into the tree, for the buckeyes weren’t quite ready to fall. I laughed at her and told her to be patient. Told her they would probably be ready the next week.

For all of my life, I will never forget her response. I will never forget her candor, nor her wisdom as the truth in her eyes met the truth in my own. “But my legs don’t hurt today, and they might hurt next week,” she said. I stood frozen, in awe of her ability to navigate the very unfair cards she was dealt. Then, with silent tears streaming down my face, I approached the Buckeye tree and told her I would help.

Izzy died the following Spring. In our simple home, nestled back in the woods alongside a sparkling creek. I still see her out there. Exploring the woods and collecting treasures like fallen buckeyes. And I hear her wisdom, beckoning me to stay aware. Of what is privileged, what is precious and what can never be promised.

Molly is a Writer, Speaker, and End of Life and Grief Coach in the Indianapolis area. She spent a decade in Pastoral Care before spending the next decade caring for her daughter throughout her cancer journey. She has combined both experiences to help others navigate unimaginable journeys. You can find her writings and teachings on IG at: the.grief.writer, or online at: mollymattockscoaching.com.