I was never a gifted speaker -- until loss forced my hand

From Saturday's Briefing:

Head for the Cure 5K on May 5 (photo from HFTC)

I am not a gifted public speaker. This is no secret.

In the final weeks of my husband's life, he was planning his memorial service with our pastor and chose verses, hymns, ministers and speakers. I was on his list, but Steve also knew that I would struggle to speak, so he asked that I write something and then find someone to read my words.

His mom, as always, came through. She delivered my memories to the hundreds of people who gathered to remember our Steve.

My career path shifted after his death. I continued to write and edit while working to become a classroom teacher. After I completed my coursework and certification, I couldn't wait to share my passion for reading, writing and civics with students.

Except I was slightly terrified of standing in front of so many people and talking.

Fifth-graders are a forgiving people. I taught 48 of them that first year, and they helped me to find my speaking voice. In time, I was able to make eye contact and speak in coherent sentences without my voice and hands shaking, without my cheeks flushing. I learned that acting goofy goes a long way toward overcoming fear.

Speaking in front of their gathered parents? That was a different story.

Over the past five years, though, I've become less awkward and more comfortable when speaking to crowds. My stomach no longer flip-flops when I'm handed a microphone.

In fact, recently I delivered a prayer before about 1,700 people at the North Texas Head for the Cure 5K, an annual event that raises money for brain cancer research. As I stood on the platform, waiting for my turn in the program, I marveled at the turns my life has taken.

I have supported Head for the Cure for eight years, eager to be part of a cause that finds a cure for the cancer that stole my husband and my children's father much too soon. Through the nonprofit, I have become friends with like-minded folks, people who have been directly or indirectly affected by brain cancer.

The team running in memory of Steve included people who knew and loved him and people Cooper, Katie and I have met since his death.

There's no way to know what our life would look like if Steve hadn't acquired a deadly tumor — or if a cure existed — and I know from experience that it's a dangerously depressing game to play.

I do know that our lives have been richly blessed in the years since — not because of his absence but in spite of it.

We've connected with other families who have experienced loss. We continue to find comfort and strength in our faith. We have learned to rely on the kindness of others and, in turn, to share that kindness as often as possible.

Adversity has grounded my children in ways that only experience can. They are empathetic, and they have perspective on life and death that no one wants but everyone truly needs.

These gifts that come from trials and loss aren't typically celebrated, especially in the middle of crises. I have friends fighting daunting diagnoses and hardships today. They need support, love and resources — not outsiders looking for silver linings on their behalf.

Yet when I pray for their health and circumstances, their caregivers and loved ones, I also pray for unexpected gifts — strengthened relationships, clearer understandings, fears overcome and skills refined.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.