It's a hell of a thing.

That's what my Uncle Doug always says when something unexplainably bad happens.

It's a hell of a thing.

He said that when his brother – my Dad – died, and he said it when his other brother – my Uncle Ray – died.

It's a hell of a thing.

I've always just thought it was one of his charming quirks. He wants to say something, but can't think of anything, so he just says that.

But for the past two-plus weeks, every since the bizarre plane crash in Oregon that took the lives of five people, I've found myself saying it a lot. Because really, it is a hell of a thing.

The plane hit one house. A house with one adult and five children inside. All the houses adjacent to this one were vacant, and this is the one the plane hit.

It's a hell of a thing.

Inside the house were two of the children from our neighborhood. Two children with whom my girls and I had gone camping only a year ago. Two children at whose house my son and I had eaten a fabulous dinner only a month and a half ago, laughing our asses off with their parents.

It's a hell of a thing.

Inside the plane was a passenger named Frank Toohey, who just so happens to be the uncle of my buddy Looney. Uncle Frank died in the crash.

It's a hell of a thing.

The nurse in the Flight for Life helicopter that flew one of my friends' children, their son Sam, out of the scene is the sister of a pal here in Denver.

It's a hell of a thing.

And the whole tragic crash happened on my and my wife's 5th anniversary.

It's a hell of a thing.

The memorial service was Wednesday. I'd spent most every spare waking moment going through thousands of photos to put together a video slide show of the kids and their incredibly full but horribly short lives. It was an honor, being entrusted with this task, and I did my damnest to give the family something that celebrates their children. Something that they will be able to watch time and time again, remembering and reliving their time together. I'm proud of that.

But I spent two weeks looking at thousands of photos of beautiful children who aren't around anymore. I cut the video to five tracks of music: Down to the River to Pray by Alison Krauss, Ordinary Miracle by Sarah McLachlan, Viva la Vida by Coldplay, Better Days by Goo Goo Dolls, and I Know You're Out There Somewhere by the Moody Blues. I can't get those songs out of my head, and whatever verse I hear, I see the corresponding pictures.

It's a hell of a thing.

I can't comprehend it. Can't explain it to myself, let al0ne my kids. Typically, when something bad happens, a parent can find some explanation for the children. But not with this one. It's awfully hard to sooth the fears of a 12-year-old girl who's petrified that, if it can happen to them, it can happen to us. Because, shit, she's right. Anything can happen. Anytime, anywhere. There are no guarantees.

Which is why there really is something to the idea of living like there's no tomorrow. Making friends. Loving those around you. Focusing on relationships. Savoring the time you get with your kids, or your folks, or your family, or your friends.

One thing was abundantly clear to me as I went through all the photos. At 12 and 7, Sam and Grace had led fuller lives than many adults I know. Their lives were full of love, family, friends and happiness. They taught me a profound lesson, those two beautiful kids.

It's a hell of a thing.