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Joshua Tree

My family loved taking trips to Joshua Tree, a sweet small town in the high desert of the Mojave, about two and a half hours east of Los Angeles. It’s right next to the spectacular Joshua Tree National Park, with hundreds of miles of hiking trails and endless opportunities for scrambling up its beautiful rock formations. We went out there once or twice every year. In June of 2019 we decided on a whim to make the bold decision to purchase a small vacation home there. We fell in love with a rustic cottage nestled up close to the park with incredible views of the valley below and the rocks above. My seventeen-year-old daughter Ruby couldn’t wait to paint those iconic vistas and my fourteen year old son Hart thrilled at the idea of inviting friends out for desert adventures. We made an offer on the house and it was accepted.

A week later we were driving back out to Joshua Tree because I had lined up meetings with contractors to see about building a pool and an extension on the house so that Ruby and Hart could have their own kids’ bungalow. It was going to be the vacation home of our dreams. But then, only twenty-five minutes from our new home, our car was hit by a drunk and high driver going forty miles above the freeway speed limit. We were t-boned at ninety miles an hour. My wife Gail and I sustained relatively minor injuries, but our two beautiful children, Ruby and Hart, were both killed.

The morning after the crash, I called the real estate agent and canceled the sale. Obviously. We assumed that we would never go back there again. How could we? It would be too painful. And yet buying that house was one of the last things we did as a family. Joshua Tree held countless wonderful memories for us. How could we turn our backs on it now, when we needed those sweet memories more than ever? Three days later, I called the agent back up and told him we wanted the house after all. We realized our vacation home could now become a grief retreat for us, another place where we could feel especially connected to Ruby and Hart.

The problem was, to get to the house, we had to drive right past the crash site. There was no other way to get there. We would have to brave all the terrible traumatic memories of that night if we hoped to get to our desert sanctuary. It felt like the perfect metaphor for the grieving process: if we want to access all the sweet memories and feelings we shared with our loved one, we have to face the full pain of our loss.

As we moved through the first months of early grief, Gail and I were continually confronted by the pain of everything we had lost. Everywhere we looked, we were reminded of Ruby and Hart’s agonizing absence. Every morning there was no one to greet and make breakfast for; every evening there was no one to kiss goodnight. Every spot in our house held their memories. So did every corner in the neighborhood. All our favorite restaurants and parks and beaches were suddenly hard to visit. Even our friends and family reminded us of our kids. Everywhere we turned, we were struck by the pain of our loss. A part of us wanted to retreat to our bed and shut the whole world out. A part of us wanted to die, rather than face the agony of our grief.

Our instincts tell us to run from pain. But what if, in the case of grief, our instincts are wrong? After all, the reason it hurts so badly is because we love them so much. The pain is from love. If we look at it that way, the pain can be understood not as a bad thing, but as a beautiful tribute. The love and the pain are now forever entwined. We can’t have one without the other. If we run from the pain, we’ll also be running from the love we shared. And what if, instead of simply enduring the pain of our loss, we actually seek it out? What if we lean into the pain, in order to bring ourselves closer to our loved ones?

The first time going back to Joshua Tree was terrifying. It took us two months to build up the courage. I had to ask my brother-in-law to drive. I was shaking, my whole body clenched, as he drove us. Gail warned us that at any moment she might need us to turn around and go back home. We drove in terrible silence. As we approached the site of the crash and prepared to pull to the side of the road, a large truck ahead of us suddenly hit its brakes and swerved to the right, almost cutting us off. John had to veer into the next lane just as traffic was whizzing past. His knuckles were white as he clenched the steering wheel. His arms were sore for days afterward.

There was a small shrine by the side of the road, put up by a local teenager. It was a wooden cross painted light blue that said “Beautiful Angels 06-12-19.” We got out and stared at it. It was beautiful and awful. A gesture of love on the side of a hot, grimy highway, traffic racing past in the blaring desert sun. Is this really where our kids died?

Once we finally made it to the house, we weren’t exactly relieved. It was hard standing where, only a few months earlier, we had stood with Ruby and Hart, full of so much hope for the future. But then we went for a hike in the rocks above our property and we felt the kid’s presence. It was almost as if we could see them up ahead, scrambling over the boulders. They had never had the chance to climb these specific rocks, and yet it felt to me as though all four of us had been there before. Climbing over those rocks allowed us to connect with Ruby and Hart, if only for a few moments.

That first visit to the Joshua Tree house was hard. But we knew we had to get through that first time to slowly acclimate to the pain. Gail and I have since been back to the house in the desert many times. It did, indeed, become a sanctuary. It is a sacred place to us, where we feel extra connected to the kids. And every time we go, we drive past the crash site. I blow them kisses, and I ache for them, and sometimes I cry. But I am grateful that we were able to incorporate both the house and the site of the crash into the fabric of our lives. I am glad we ignored the impulse to never go back there again.

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Comments (1)

  • What a beautiful story. I am so very sorry for the loss of your children Ruby & Hart.

    My son’s name is Joshua. He was killed by a drunk driver as well. While sitting at a red light he and another boy were killed. Two big SUV’s were racing down the city streets at 100 miles per hour. The two boys were literally run over.

    Your story really resonated with me. A very preventable crime.

    Thank you so much.

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