By Angie Kleven

Early in the morning on November 28, 1998, two of my sisters were killed in a rollover car accident on Interstate 80, just outside of Rawlins, Wyoming. Jennie was just days away from turning 20, and Tammy was only 14. That morning is forever etched into my memory.

At the time, we were living in a small home in Topeka, Kansas. My seven-month-old twins were down for a nap. The breakfast dishes were washed and put away. My husband was at the law library preparing for his upcoming final exams. My two-year-old daughter and I had just sat down to update the twins’ baby books. It was such an ordinary moment—until the phone rang.

There are no words to capture how I felt as I answered and heard my parents tell me that Jennie and Tammy were gone. My heart stopped. My breath caught in my chest. Time stood still.

As soon as I called my husband, he abandoned his studies and came home. We sat quietly on the swings outside, watching the rest of the world go on, as if nothing had changed. But everything had changed. Just as we couldn’t hold back the hands of the clock, we couldn’t delay the inevitable journey—we had to travel to Utah for the funeral.

Friends stepped in with love and service to help us prepare. The long, heavy drive was lightened only by meeting up with another sister and her family in Colorado. Being physically together gave us strength when we had little of our own to offer.

The funeral was both heartbreaking and extraordinary. Hundreds of people came, traveling long distances to be there. It became a bittersweet reunion—filled with sorrow, yes, but also with deep connection, love, and grace. That love sustained us then, and still lives on in the memory of those sacred days.

I remember sitting in the chapel, looking at the two beautiful, flower-covered caskets before me. My heart broke as I realized I would never see my sweet sisters alive again. I had always believed in life after death. I had been taught that families are forever. But in that moment, those truths felt distant—like facts I could recite, but not yet feel.

Then the opening hymn began, and I tried to sing. The words moved through the sorrow and pierced my soul.

That’s when the Law of Polarity came to life for me.

The Law of Polarity teaches that everything has an opposite. Because there is a North Pole, there is a South Pole. Because there is light, there is darkness. Because there is good, there is bad. Because there is sorrow, there is joy. And because there is death, there is life.

Natural laws are unchanging. They are always true. And this one gave me something to hold on to when everything else was broken.

This law reminded me that even the deepest pain contains the seed of peace. That every seemingly impossible trial contains the possibility of joy. If we are willing to look for it.

Tears fell as I sang the words:
“Oh, sweet the joy this sentence gives: ‘I know that my Redeemer lives!’”
And in that moment, I did. I knew that because my sisters had died, they would also live again. That because the pain of separation was beyond what I could express, the joy of reunion would be beyond what I could imagine.

There are still days when I feel the ache of what could have been. But I try to shift my focus to what will be. I let my heart dwell in the promise, not just the loss.

The Law of Polarity has been a gift—a divine reminder that what feels like an ending is never the whole story. It has turned my grief into hope, and my sorrow into sacred anticipation.