During the spring of 2020, canceled events gave me time to reconnect with contacts from years of craft shows and vendor events. As I worked through the names, the events themselves brought back memories.

In November 2015, I met a beautiful, smiling 13-year-old Aranza. She greeted me like we’d known each other always. She laughed with me and enjoyed my sense of humor. We joked and shared sarcasm and puns. She trained me in doing shows, and at 13, she amazed me. I think I watched her more than I did anything that day. At 13 years old, her mama could trust her to run a booth—from greeting customers, to demonstrating, to counting correct change! From that day on, when she saw me, she asked about my business—not in a casual way, but in the way someone asks when they know what it takes and they really want to know how you’re doing.

In February of 2017, I did a big show with Aranza and her mother, who had become one of my closest friends. By this time, I viewed Aranza as something like a niece. We continued our banter and enjoyed each other’s company during this event. I again watched as she amazed the customers, even making an impression on a young girl, probably about nine, who said, “I want to do this!” I made some great contacts through this event.

As I entered my contacts from 2017 into my customer service manager, I noticed something that stopped me.

Aranza’s handwriting.

The unexpected wave crushed me. A life lived to the fullest, just shy of 17 years, cut short by the actions of another. A life that touched so many others—she made waves instead of ripples.

In that moment, my grief was less about what happened, more about missing her presence, but most about Homesickness.

Since August 8, I’ve said Aranza’s fingerprints are in the way I run my business. Here, I could actually see the mark she left behind.

Grief has a way of appearing in places we don’t expect—in an old contact list, familiar handwriting, or a memory tucked into an ordinary task.

As a Believer, I have a confident expectation of being reunited with my loved ones.

In the meantime, fingerprints are everywhere.

A few days later, “making ripples” would become more than an illustration.

On August 7, we started school and began a new routine. My video that night, entitled “Eat the Frog,” was about doing things you don’t want to do. While recording, I missed a call from my best friend. Usually, we message each other or text, so I initially thought that she called unintentionally.

Until she left a voicemail.

As I listened to her short message, I knew it would never leave me, and that I would never forget the sound of her voice.

“The girls have been in an accident!”

I don’t know how I stayed standing. I don’t know how I found the ability to stay calm enough to return her call. What I know is that moment and the hours that followed changed our lives.

I began praying as soon as I played the voicemail. I kept vigil through the night, unable to sleep, waiting for news. In three hours, my friend lost two of her three daughters.

I dreaded telling my children the next morning. My son had spent part of that day at the youth rally with them. My daughter adored them. I loved them, and could only love them more if they were my own.

In the following days, I witnessed an outpouring of love for my friend and her family from all corners of the earth. Ella and Aranza touched many lives in their daily activities. They never met a stranger. They befriended the friendless, listened to the lonely, and included the outcast. No one had to sit alone at the lunch table if Ella or Aranza was present.

As I shared information, I remembered my conversation with my son about ripples. At that moment, I said:

“These girls didn’t make ripples. They made waves.”

Thousands of lives were touched because of these young ladies.

Everything we know can change in an instant. We don’t always realize the impact we have on other people. Ella and Aranza showed how seemingly small acts of love and kindness can reach farther than we could ever know.

Making waves doesn’t always begin with something big. Sometimes, it begins by making sure no one sits alone.