Every so often, you experience something so inexplicably extraordinary, you simply have to try and attach some appropriate words to document it.
Here is my attempt to do so:
Last week, life just sucker punched my husband-to-be and a whole mess of people who absolutely adored a man named David Oliphant. He was their friend, cycling teammate, husband, son, uncle and mentor; someone that people just seemed to gravitate toward thanks to his massively huge smile and, it seems, the genuinity to back it.
David was a 47-year-old competitive cyclist. Probably among the fittest 47 year olds you'd encounter.
David had cardiac arrest as he finished a road race last week. He did not recover.
A group of his cycling teammates, relatives and friends gathered last night to say goodbye in a way they knew would best honor David: a memorial lap around the track at which they last saw their comrade alive.
It was a rainy, cold evening. Bad by even the Pacific Northwest's standards. I felt nearly mad that God would dare give David's family even more yuck as I watched them...huddled together with umbrellas, shivering and crying as they watched this event unfold.
Then, the most amazing thing happened.
In near Hollywood style, the sky cleared. Just flat-out cleared, in like five minutes. Maybe less.
And there it was, a double rainbow.
Even more awesome (and I do mean "awesome" in its most literal sense)? It arched, end-to-end, directly over the finish line. In full color, just as the pack of about 300 riders silently pedaled across.
This astounding act of nature completely transformed the entire event. Still a horrifically somber gathering, that rainbow demonstrated (at least to me) that even in the saddest, most unfair, what-on-earth-were-you-thinking-god? moments?
Life still has its double rainbows.