The Last Seven Seconds: What My Stepdaughter’s Death Taught Me About Grace

Some stories stay locked inside us for a long time—because they’re heavy, because they hurt, or because we’re not sure how to tell them. This is one of those stories. Two days ago, we marked the anniversary of Lauren’s passing—my stepdaughter, our Lolly-Polly, gone far too soon. Her dad and I aren’t together anymore, but this story still burns inside me. Not just because of the loss, but because of what God revealed to me through it. If you’re holding on for someone you love, if you’re praying through heartbreak, or wondering if grace could possibly reach far enough—this is for you.

When We First Met

I met Lauren when she was twelve. Some mutual friends were trying to set her dad and me up on a blind date—but what they failed to mention was that I’d also be babysitting. I didn’t know what I was signing up for, and honestly, I was irritated. Babysitting wasn’t in the plan. But then I saw her dad—and my first thought was basically badda-bing, I’ll babysit your kid every weekend if that’s what it takes.

Lauren was sweet from the start. We spent the day sitting by the river, talking, laughing, watching the paddlers go by. She was waiting to catch a glimpse of her dad—heroically bringing up the rear of the Dusi Canoe Marathon, making sure no one was left behind. That was how it all began.

Trying to Hold it Together

To cut a long story short, her dad and I were married eight months later—but not without some painful truths coming to light first.

Lauren’s life hadn’t been easy. Her parents had divorced before she was even two, and her mom had moved to Port Elizabeth—far from her dad in Durban. The distance made visits rare, and the environment she was raised in wasn’t stable. Boundaries were loose, supervision was inconsistent, and Lauren ended up exposed to things no little girl should be.

I remember one of our early dates—a few days after our meeting at the Dusi—he pulled me aside to talk where she couldn’t hear. He’d found cigarettes in her bag. She was barely twelve. He was shaken—not just by what he’d found, but by the lie she told when he confronted her. This was probably their first real conflict. Up until then, they had a close, affectionate bond, even though they only saw each other once or twice a year. But now, that trust was fractured. I could see how much it hurt him—like something precious was slipping through his fingers.

Still, eight months later, she stood beside her dad at our wedding. No best man—just his beautiful daughter. She’d come up for the ceremony, and as far as he could tell, she wasn’t smoking anymore.
But I knew she’d just gotten better at hiding it.

The Breaking Point

After the wedding, her dad and I were offered a career opportunity abroad. We took it, packed up our lives, and left—returning 18 months later. Just days after we got back, the call came.

It was Lauren’s mom. Lauren had just turned 14—and had been arrested for marijuana possession.

Her mom didn’t sugarcoat it. She told my husband, “You need to take her. I’ve lost control.”

He was crushed. First cigarettes, now weed. It felt like every time he looked away, something in Lauren’s world slipped further out of reach. But there was no hesitation. We made arrangements and drove the long, winding roads through the Eastern Cape to go get her.

I was terrified. I had just suffered a miscarriage, and now I was about to bring a troubled teenager into my home—a teenager I barely knew. Everything in me felt unsteady.

When we reached Lauren, it was clear she didn’t want to come. She was leaving behind her friends, her history, her chaos—everything she knew—for a father she barely saw and a stepmother who was basically a stranger. She cried for 17 straight hours on the drive back.

And honestly, so did I. Just not out loud.

A House on Fire

The next 11 months with Lauren were some of the most turbulent we’d ever lived through.

We enrolled her in a new school, hoping for a fresh start. But she quickly found the wrong crowd—like it was magnetic. It didn’t take long before the clashes with her dad started. He was trying to introduce structure, lay down rules, enforce consequences. But for Lauren, boundaries were foreign. Accountability wasn’t something she’d ever been held to.

Their relationship, already fragile, turned into a battleground. He was desperate to guide her. She pushed back harder every time. I was caught in the middle—watching them crash into each other over and over again.

There were some sweet moments, brief and tender, but mostly it felt like we were constantly putting out fires—at school, with her friends, and inside our own home. It was relentless.

The Final Straw

One constant in our lives was church. My husband and I went faithfully, and amazingly, Lauren never pushed back on coming with us. I never saw her engage much—no signs that she was listening or opening up—but she came. And in those days, that was enough.

During her stay with us, I fell pregnant. When her baby sister was born, it felt like a turning point. A fresh start. A reason for hope. For a moment, it seemed like the chaos might finally take a back seat.

But it didn’t last.

Lauren and her dad were soon at each other’s throats again. The smallest “no” from him would trigger tantrums and shouting matches. Then came the night she lied—said she was staying at school for the weekend (she was at a weekly boarding school), but instead, she and a friend snuck off and spent the weekend in an apartment with two unknown men and in all likelihood, more weed was involved.

Her father went ballistic. She was grounded—seriously grounded.

That’s when her mom started interfering. She called my husband and accused him of being a bad father. Told him he was too strict. Said he should let Lauren go out, go to parties, loosen up. She told him that Lauren had said she was so unhappy she was threatening to take her life.

We knew it was a manipulation tactic—another weapon in the ongoing tug-of-war—but the damage was done. I could see what it was doing to him. He looked broken.

Meanwhile, I was beyond exhausted. I had a baby who wouldn’t sleep, a household full of tension, and a teenager who brought drama with every step. That’s when I snapped.

The Final Straw

I couldn’t take it anymore.

I picked up the phone and called Lauren’s mom. I told her plainly: she needed to support us if we were going to have any hope of helping Lauren. She needed to back our rules, not undermine them.

She refused. She said my husband was just as bad a father as his own father had been to him. I was stunned. I tried to defend him, to explain how hard he was trying with a daughter already spinning out, but the more I said, the more aggressive she became—especially toward him.

That was it. I’d had enough.

I told her, “If you’re not prepared to support us, we’ll have no choice but to send Lauren back to you—since you clearly know what’s best for her.”

And then I said the thing that sealed it:
“I’m sending her back to you, because I would never be able to live with myself if something happened to her on my watch.”

So that’s what we did.

At the end of her Grade 9 year, we put Lauren on a plane—back to her beloved friends, her old life, her mother. We sent her back because we didn’t know what else to do.

Seven Seconds

Exactly six months later, we got the call.

It was Lauren’s mother. Lauren had died in the early hours of that Sunday morning.

There are no words to describe what it was like to watch my husband receive that news—that his Lolly-Polly was gone. I’ve never seen pain like that. Nothing prepares you for it. It was more horrific than I could ever put into words.

The story we were told is that Lauren had been at a party. At some point, she took a scooter and gave a friend a lift home. On her way back, she ran into another friend on a scooter. He dared her to race him—back to the party.

They took off.

Further down the road, that friend looked into his rearview mirror and saw her scooter flipping, cartwheeling down the street.

Lauren had slid across the road and hit her head on a telephone pole.

The friend raced back, took off her helmet, and checked for a pulse.

He felt one—for seven seconds.
Then she was gone.

Grief Vs Guilt

Watching my husband walk through the grief of losing Lauren was excruciating. It wasn’t just sorrow—it was guilt, too. And I felt it right alongside him.

I kept hearing my own voice—“I’m sending her back to you, because I would never be able to live with myself if something happened to her on my watch.”
Something had happened. And even though we couldn’t have known, couldn’t have predicted, the weight of that last sentence clung to me.

Lauren’s mother sent us the coroner’s report. Her blood alcohol level was off the charts. We’re not sure if they tested for drugs—but truthfully, I think her father didn’t even want to know. Some doors are just too painful to open.

But the hardest thing I ever heard him say came one night, quietly, brokenly:

“I don’t know if I’ll see her again.”

He meant in eternity. In heaven.

When Lauren lived with us, we were regular churchgoers, and most weekends she was at home with us. Even when things were tense between her and her dad, she never pushed back about coming to church. She never made excuses or begged to stay home. So every Sunday we were in church, she was there too. For Lauren, it was likely the first time she had ever stepped into a church—especially one like ours, which was spirit-filled and alive with worship. She might not have shown it outwardly, but she was in the room. She was in His presence. Week after week, seed after seed.

But…we had never seen Lauren publicly surrender her life to Jesus. And given the choices she made, the lifestyle she fell into, it was hard—painfully hard—to reconcile her with the faith we held so tightly to. I didn’t know how to answer him. I didn’t know what to say.

My heart broke for him. And for Lauren. And for the unknowable questions left hanging in the space between love and loss.

The Vision

That question burned in me for days. “I don’t know if I’ll see her again.”

I had no answer. I was broken too.

But then, on the morning of her funeral, I had what I can only describe as a vision.

In the vision, I was standing on a road. Across from me was a telephone pole—the telephone pole. A streetlight on it cast a soft glow over the scene below.

There, lying casually with her head propped up against the base of the pole, was Lauren. And sitting next to her, cross-legged on the ground, was a man. He had shoulder-length dark hair and wore loose cream-colored clothes—a shirt and pants. He was holding her hand, gently playing with her fingers like someone completely in love. There was no urgency, no fear—just an intimate, tender calm.

Then, he looked up and saw me.

He motioned for me to come closer.

I walked behind him, looking down at Lauren. She didn’t see me—but I saw her face. Her eyes were locked on his with absolute adoration. Like she was seeing everything she had ever longed for, all in one face.

Then I heard him speak.

“OK, Lols,” he said gently, “I need to go now. But you have a choice. You can come with me, or you can stay here. It’s up to you.”

But he didn’t even finish the sentence before she answered.

“I want to come with you!” she said, her face lighting up like someone who’d just won the lottery. She was excited—overflowing with joy.

And then I woke up.

Hope Ignited

I lay there in bed, completely overwhelmed—trying to make sense of what I had just seen. And then, in that quiet space, I heard the Holy Spirit whisper to me.

“My darling girl, I was with Lauren in those seven seconds.
There is no time with Me. I created the entire universe in seven days—but one day is like a thousand to Me.

When I sat with Lauren, she recognized Me.
Because I was with her all along.

All those Sundays she sat next to you in church—I was there.
All those prayers you whispered on her behalf—I heard them.
And in those quiet, confused, lonely moments you never saw, she spoke to Me.

She knew Me when I came for her.

And yes—she will see her dad again.

Because that’s what grace looks like.

Just like the thief on the cross who used his last breath to believe—every one of My children gets that chance. And Lauren said yes.”

I sat up immediately. The weight of what I’d just heard, what I’d been given—it cracked something open in me. I woke my husband and told him everything. The vision. The words. The choice. The grace.

It meant the world to him. It gave him the strength to face what came next—her memorial, the grief, the empty space where Lauren used to be.

It didn’t take away the pain. But it gave the pain meaning.

And it gave us hope.

Forever In Our Hearts

Acts 16:31 says, “Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved—you and your household.” I believe that promise deeply. Yes, each person must ultimately make their own decision to follow Jesus—but our faith, our prayers, our lives can open the door for those moments we never get to see. Moments like the one Lauren had. So if you’re praying for someone you love—someone who seems far, or lost, or closed off—don’t stop. Your prayers matter. Your love matters. And so does the way you live. Get as close to Jesus as you can. Let His presence shine through you. Because when the moment comes—whether it’s in a church pew or the final seconds of a life—may they recognize Him… because they’ve seen Him in you.