The Silence After the Scholarships

I attended a high school senior awards program recently.

The principal opened the evening with a simple reminder. Time passes quickly. His own son was graduating, so the message was personal for him. He encouraged students and parents alike to never pass up an opportunity to give someone a hug or tell them you love them.

The evening moved along as expected. Scholarships were awarded. Accomplishments were celebrated. Proud families applauded.

But as the program continued, I noticed something.

A surprising number of the scholarships were memorial scholarships. More than I remember from previous years. One after another, stories were told of community volunteers, educators, parents, and former students whose lives had ended far sooner than anyone expected.

As a board member of a local nonprofit, I was there to present three memorial scholarships, including one established in Kris' memory.

My place in the program was near the end, and our memorial scholarships were the last to be awarded. Before announcing the recipients, I paused and pointed out to the audience how many memorial scholarships were given away that night.

I then said something along the lines of, "At the risk of sounding morbid, I'd like to echo what the principal said earlier. Don't pass up an opportunity to give someone a good hug or tell them you love them. You never know when that might be your last chance."

I wasn't trying to be dramatic. It simply felt like the right thing to say after spending an evening hearing the stories attached to many of the awards.

What happened next surprised me. Nothing. Crickets!

No halfhearted chuckles after I mentioned “sounding morbid.” No smattering of applause after I finished.

Just silence.

For a moment, it threw me off. I wondered whether I had misread the room or failed to communicate what I was trying to say.

Now that I’ve had time to process it, however, the more I wonder if the silence WAS the response.

In hindsight, there wasn't anything to laugh at. There wasn't anything to applaud. Maybe everyone was thinking about someone.

A parent. A spouse. A grandparent. A friend. Someone they wish they could hug one more time.

We spend much of our lives assuming we'll get another chance. Another visit. Another phone call. Another conversation. Sometimes we do. Sometimes we don't.

The memorial scholarships that evening weren't really about death. They were about lives that mattered enough to be remembered. They were reminders that what lasts isn't what we own or even what we accomplish. It's the impact we have on other people.

And perhaps that's why the room got quiet.

Some truths don't need applause. They just need to be heard.

Best regards,

Corey