I read the words in a text on my phone and shook my head. I just saw her on Wednesday. I emailed with her on Thursday. She was on stage leading worship on Sunday. She has to be ok.
I have lost loved ones to death but only in circumstances of sickness and old age. This was the first critical message I had ever received that involved someone so young and someone I had just spoken to for the first time. Someone I had placed in a compartment of my heart labeled, “get to know her as soon as possible.”
Tragedy doesn’t ask for permission. That is why it’s tragic. It embodies dread. It is the opposite of hope.
Keli Rutledge woke up on a Friday, got into her car to begin her day, and was struck in a head on collision, placing her in a coma and she eventually passed hours later.
Keli had just sung at our church in a way I have never heard music sung. She led the popular “Oceans” by Hillsongs and I was incredibly aware of the presence of Jesus when she opened her mouth. Something was happening when she sang. And I know this even more fully now.
Jesus sang to His people through this woman. Goosebumps aren’t even close to the words to describe when the hosts of heaven join with a song of the Savior. I know now what it feels like to have Jesus sing to me when He is about to do something new.
Oceans was her final worship song led corporately and here are the words exchanged between she and Her Father.
My soul will rest in Your embrace
I am Yours and You are mine
Jesus calls His own to their eternal home. And we grieve, but Keli rejoices. We don’t think of Jesus doing something new and expect this as an experience of pain. But death brings life and this is experienced in Scripture and experienced by us. We love the word new when it’s shiny and expected. We shudder when the word new provides a counterintuitive sense of loss; a reminder of sin and death.
But as followers of Jesus we are reminded that something new can mean both death and life. We can echo the truth that to be absent in the body is to be present with the Lord (2 Corinthians 5).
When I got to the hospital that Friday, I expected to see a few family members and maybe a few friends. I walked through the double doors and I didn’t have to look for the hospital chapel, I could hear it.
I peered in and there were over 50 young adults crowded in the chapel singing worship songs with a guitar. Shoved in corners and on the floor, they sat together and held one another as they prayed for their beloved friend. I soon discovered that Keli had two churches represented in that room, two churches that loved her, knew her and celebrated her gift of song.
And in this moment, all I could think of was how close to heaven I felt. Suddenly we weren’t the churches with separate bumper stickers on our cars declaring our loyalty to four walls. We were the Church, the Body, the Family of God, sisters and brothers crying and laughing, reminiscing together in just moments.
A worshipper was lying in a bed fighting for life while worshippers that loved her and her Jesus gathered to support and care for their friend, sister, daughter. We were united. We were ONE body of Christ, His Beloved, together, having Him and Keli in common.
These are the moments we are tempted to ask God how He can claim to be good when she is only 18, we have only just scratched the surface of discovering her vocal talent, and we are so excited to know her and her story. But sitting in a chapel and seeing the unity her life has created, it felt hard to argue with the obvious goodness of God. The sting of death is lost in the victory of unity and hope.
I love how religious political correctness goes out the window when death is rearing its head and mortality reminds us of its sure appointment. We worshipped in the hospital so loud that the second floor above us could hear and people walking the floors for a hospital tour asked, “um…does this happen every Friday at this hospital?”
When we are faced with death, we are faced with the question of hope. We are being asked, is there more? Is this life enough for you?
18 is too young. 18 is terribly tragic when we live our lives thinking this earthly path will satisfy our flesh desire for eternal life. It isn’t enough. It is the breeding ground of fear, worry, anger and sorrow.
18 is full. 18 is beautifully woven when Jesus calls His daughter Home and His people are reminded of faith, hope, and a song. It satisfies our spiritual desire for eternal life. It is the place of promise and a longing for Whom we were created.
One of the songs that we sang in the chapel struck me most:
And I may be weak, but Your Spirit is strong in me
My flesh may fail, but my God, You never will
The driver of the car that hit Keli fights for his life today in the hospital. He is 26 and they think he may have been under the influence. I can’t stop thinking of how these words will need to be sung over him if he lives. Keli herself would want him to know the goodness and grace of Jesus because she was forgiven much. She walked in light. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was asking Jesus if she personally could write a song to this man. A song of forgiveness.
Keli’s intro on Facebook said this: “worshipper, musician, daughter”
That is exactly who she was. She was wholly devoted to her Father and offering her life with her gift. She was a faithful servant. And she is Home, crowned by the King Himself.
I will never hear Oceans the same, and I certainly don’t want to. It won’t make me sad to hear it. It will pump life and depth and spirit, longing and joy into my heart until I, too, go to be with Jesus and Keli someday.
Death wakes us up. Death reminds us to live. Death reminds us to unite.