Tag Archives: grief

What I want today . . .

Last year for my dad’s birthday, we bought tickets to a baseball game for the local boys of summer, Pensacola’s very own – Blue Wahoos. After a much enjoyed Whataburger and sweet tea (of course) lunch, we headed on down to the stadium – sunscreen in hand. It was my first Wahoos game at a stadium right on Pensacola Bay. As we were approaching our section, we noticed two ladies hop up from some seats and two gentlemen in what appeared to be our seats. After a recheck with the ushers, the ladies that had left and the gentlemen now seated were, in fact, in our seats. They apologized and moved one section over. All was great until the ladies (and at this point, I use that term loosely) came back. One of them announced (well, more like hollered), “You are in OUR seats.” I politely answered that in fact these were our seats. I tried to further explain, but was cut off by a woman with her face in mine yelling that she had paid good money for these seats. I stood up and showed her my tickets as the usher stepped in stopping my mother from bopping her in the head. The usher showed the two where their husbands were sitting and that they had sat in the wrong section in the first place. Strangely, no apologies were uttered.

Sadly, I get her frustration. She wanted to watch a baseball game on Sunday afternoon, and she was proud of her seats. I get it. Did I like being yelled at? Nope. But in the end, we all got what we came for that day.

Right now, I am feeling a giant passel of wants. Today, my son, my beloved red-headed boy, should be graduating from high school. But that isn’t going to happen, because he and three sweet other babes were killed when someone made a choice five years ago. I knew this day would come, and I am trying to hold it together with the best grace that I can muster.

Here is a current list of my wants –

I want to tell everyone that my son is attending Yale. (The university he vowed in 6^th grade he would attend.)
I want to be going crazy, cleaning and shopping and preparing, for a graduation party.
I want my eyes to stop hurting from the tears I have cried this week.
I want the pounding in my chest to stop hurting.
I want my thoughts to be clear, not insulating me from the pain that is going to come.
I want to remind a certain few that I am not apologizing for my emotions. There is and forever will be only one momma to Reed.
I want to hug my son today – not just see a gown on a chair where he should be.
Lastly and more importantly, I want to tell him just one more time how proud I am of him.

But just like those seats at the stadium, what we want and what we get are often two very different things. So in the last couple weeks, I have clung – tightly- to the One who has collected each tear of mine in His bottle. I asked Him to show me where He was in the midst of all of this. It seems every salinated drop has provided spiritual vision that has opened the eyes to my soul. In all honesty, my provisions have been great and had I blinked I might have missed:

The well wishing to another mom who is doing the crazy planning before I had a chance to feel sorry for myself.
The hugs from fellow moms of graduates who have sought me out when I needed them the most.
A mailbox flooded with invitations from Reed’s friends for their parties because those tender hearts want us to know we are loved.
The mom who held me when I sobbed on the front steps of the church on Sunday.
The friend almost a thousand miles away who has texted or called every day – just make sure that I am doing okay.
The friends who upon hearing my joke about taking up excessive drinking offered to do so with me – just so they could hear me laugh.
A midnight ice cream run with a friend because that can solve most of life’s problems.
The mom who gave me a pep talk in the Wal-mart parking lot telling me that each of the graduates who knew Reed well was going to change the world because his presence changed the world.
The friends that offered to sit with me at graduation to just to hold my hand and pass me Kleenex.
The church that called and asked for me to come and speak this weekend, numbing the empty void of no celebration, but more importantly, reminding me of what He has planned for my life and Reed’s story
An e-mail extraordinaire that gave me the strength to get out of bed today.
Continuing on in traditions – oh yeah – McDonald’s for breakfast on the last day of school. We have to go on – even when it hurts.
A cell phone battery almost dead before 8:00 am filled with texts of love.

Even though the items on my first list hurt with an ache that I didn’t know was humanly possible, I look at that second list and I can feel God’s touch. I hear His whisper of love and mercy. I know that He will be there with His bottle collecting my tears, wiping away each one. So that one day when I am reunited with Reed and I meet God in person, we are going to walk hand-in-hand to empty that bottle right on into the ocean.

Then I will stand before my Father with hands raised high – praising him for each and every sweet provision, including the chance to be Reed’s momma. After that, I am going to hug the mess out of my boy!

This song says it all . . .

The tale of two Reeds

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I wish I could locate my photos of the two Reeds together.

I received one of the sweetest text messages ever today, while still snuggled in my quilts and pjs. The message was simple:

May the 4^th be with you! Thinking of you and Reed today. Love you!

It was a simple acknowledgement of how fun this day was to our favorite little redhead, but more so, the remembrance that someone recognized we would miss him, just a little more today. Written in the text was a whole lot of love from a friend who always brings me joy.

Once up, I spent a little bit of time searching for the perfect Star Wars video on Youtube. I wanted one that would make my proclamation of love for my Jedi, who actually had the e-mail address jedione@????.??? once upon a time. Settling on the link below, I posted a quick tribute and was off to spend the rest of the morning with my family.

All was well, until I stepped outside in bare feet to deliver items to the recycling bin. Ouch! That is cold! (Later in the day, I actually noticed a few snowflakes mixed in with the drizzle that persisted throughout the day.) If ever a light saber would come in handy, today was it. Of course, it could have functioned as a blue therapy light as well. I might actually have to look into that. Additionally, I would want it to make the great sounds effects as well – which would doubly serve to lift my sad spirits.

After reading the thermometer (a not so balmy 38 F) by my kitchen window, I got the chuckles. You know those that I seem to have a proclivity for, the kind that bubble up from a deeply hidden well-spring that just erupt forth spewing uncontrollable laughter.

The source of my giggles was from a cold April day in Alabama many, many years ago. I was living with my grandparents during graduate school at Auburn University. My Papa (pronounced pawpaw) and I were going on one adventure of sorts. Upon stepping outside that day, we noticed our breath in the air, which was not typical in late April in Opelika. We (well okay I) went back in to get a warmer jacket. Papa Reed was dressed appropriately – because he was astute follower of the best weather forecaster around: The Farmer’s Almanac. Anyways, once I finally joined him, he dropped some good ol’ fashioned country knowledge on his young, but educated granddaughter. “Gal, it’s cold as a blue lizard out here.”

I still remember looking at him and bursting into laughter. If that saying didn’t describe the situation to a tee, I don’t know what one would. He relished my giggles and we continued on, him with a twinkle in his eye and me with a giggle at the ready.

Standing at the kitchen counter today, I could almost picture my two Reeds in heaven, each with those sparkling blue eyes.

One saying: “Momma, May the 4^th be with you!” and the other saying, “Yep, Gal, still cold as a blue lizard.”

Today, I am grateful that God gave me the opportunity to love both of them.

A promise I count on

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I have shared over the last few weeks that Easter is my most favorite holiday. What I haven’t divulged is how that sentiment has evolved over time. I have given glimpses into my childhood memories of little dresses with gloves and Southern-style Easter egg hunts as well as the memories made with my own children. But there is something so much more powerful about the day for my life now.

When I was little, most of my hours of play revolved around one storyline based upon my favorite book. That book was the Little Golden Book Classic titled “Little Mommy”. All these years later, I still have it – tattered and loved. Loved so much, I wore the front cover right off of it. (The book and its cover rest in a place of honor at my house.) I am sure it was one of those hot off the presses purchases my parents made back in 1971 for thirty-nine cents. They definitely got their money’s worth – kind of akin to the box being better than the present sometimes.

The best book ever!

My whole life there were only two things I desired to be: a mom and a teacher. All of my hours of play revolved around the day that I would someday get to be the real-life mommy. My mom confirmed that there was never a time that I wasn’t toting a baby doll around. In all my years of playing mommy, never once did I imagine that someday I would have to give back to God one with whom he had chosen to bless our family. It wasn’t a part of the storyline. The kids got sick, but they never died.

N-E-V-E-R! That doesn’t happen in the pages of childhood storybooks and certainly not in the sweet imaginations of little girls dreaming of motherhood.

So what does any of this have to do with Easter? Easter once was a beloved time of year for the emergence of spring and, of course, all things pastel. Oh, I recognized the significance of the remembrance, acknowledging how much Jesus had given up for me and for my eternal future. Yet, I never really embraced the full reality of that gift. Following the death of my child, that changed. Easter became the promise I would believe in – literally. Very little made sense, but I knew that without Jesus’ sacrifice, the one thing I hold so dear – seeing Reed again – would never happen.

Now each Easter I sit in the pew, and I cry. I weep because unlike my unprepared heart, God knew what was ultimately going to happen with his Son. I cry tears of sadness for His loss, because now I understand what it is like to lose a son and mark anniversaries. I cry bigger tears of joy for the promise He and His Son gave to me.

The promise that one day – just like I practiced all those years ago – I will cradle my sweet boy in my arms again.

An eggcellent tradition

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A few years back our honorary son and his girlfriend called us up asking if we had plans for one of the days of Easter break. They were free from college courses and wanted to come over and love on “their” younger siblings. For us the definition of family is those who we choose to love. I think Jesus would be okay with that definition. Josh had been a part of our kid’s lives since they were teeny, and after Reed’s death and later Andy’s death, he had assumed the role of oldest brother in this family. It was something for which we are forever grateful.

That call led to an epiphany moment, “Would you want to dye eggs with the kids?”. Always up for an adventure, Josh and Nicole both happily agreed. Egg-dyeing is one of those traditions that was hard to go back to after losing a child. So began the new tradition. Since that first year, we have had many memories as we embraced all of Josh’s extended family into the tradition. We have had stuff stuck in trees (long story), splatter painted sheets with leftover egg dye, and gotten downright funky in our egg-dyeing techniques.

This year was no exception. While we missed two members of our merry band, the rest of us – nine total – gathered around a table first for dinner, and then for the annual egg-dyeing eggstravaganza! When we broke bread (yes- the homemade kind), we read from a devotional that shared about Good Friday. It was divinely appointed that all of our birds (white pigeons which resemble doves) flew out of the cote exactly at the moment we read, “It is finished.” John 19:30 (NIV)

The thought of those sweet words being a Victory shout brought tears to the eyes of a few of us at the table. Never had I thought of those final words as victorious. It was a humbling moment for my heart.

After supper we were up to our elbows in eggs – eight dozen to be exact. We did try old favorites of using those hole protector stickers to create designs on the eggs. Who knew we had so many white crayons? We upped the ante by using electrical tape for some pretty bold geometric shapes and designs. Erin even pulled off a methodical and tedious checkerboard pattern using that same tape on one egg.

Once the last egg was dyed, the laughter and creativity lived on. Since our yard still had quite a bit of snow cover and I did not want Easter egg colored dogs, the sheet idea was O-U-T! (Sometimes a momma just has to put her foot down.) I remembered that we had some small blank canvases in the basement art stash. The wheels began to turn.

Out came the stickers and one canvas! Next came the paintbrushes . . . followed by a big dose of creativity. Everyone painted a small area, and in the end it was a beautiful group art piece.

What was even more beautiful was the creation of our hearts. Even though all present miss Reed, we have been able to go beyond the societal definition, and rise from the ashes of tragedy to create a masterpiece of enormous proportions – a family.

The link to our devotion:

http://odb.org/2013/03/29/shout-of-triumph/

Surgery No. 7

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Middle of the night,

Sleep wouldn’t come.

I looked for you there, snuggled in my bed, calling out Your name.

I lay there waiting for Your peace, hoping Your loving hands would wrap around me with the message,

“Daughter, I am here. Your boy will be just fine. He, too, is in my hands.”

I rested knowing that I know You heard my pleas.

Routine as normal – dogs, breakfast, school.

Our other routine – surgery prep came next.

Pack, prepare, read, re-read, do anything however small to take your mind off what comes next.

The clock ticks slowly, but it now says it is time to go.

My momma heart aches. I know this is going to hurt.

If he’s afraid, he doesn’t show it. Once again, he is comforting me.

Thank you, God, that this time . . . this time the surgery is on our home turf.

We aren’t splintered as a family.

Again, I wanted to feel your peace.

After necessary paperwork to the surgical suite we go.

I found You there.

as our pastor was praying with someone else.

A gentle reminder that we are not the only ones that hurt.

Off we go to his room.

I have to smile because maybe it should have our name on it because it is the room I had in the fall.

Stevens Family Surgical Suite

By now, our new family tradition is trips to hospitals with March being our “celebration” month.

Three of the seven surgeries took place in March.

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A joyful noise . . . the last Reed’s Run

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I will sing to the LORD, for he has been good to me. Psalm 13:6 (NIV)

About this time last year, the first graders at Lakeview were learning to sing the National Anthem. I don’t recall, but it might have had to do with curriculum on President’s Day. One day, Clo came home and told us she could sing it. All of us big people were more than skeptical. Yet we entertained the possibility and listened. She could do it. Some of the words were wrong, but the tune was spot on.

As the months and weeks moved along in the countdown to the final run, we started to check off the preparations completed. One box left open was the singing of the National Anthem for the opening ceremonies. As we were preparing for the first team meeting, that conversation came up. In the past, we have had friends including one of Reed’s best friends sing our country’s song. We were considering asking a former classmate who has stayed in contact with our family. When somewhat like the mouse that roared, our little Clo chimed in. “I thought I was going to sing the National Anthem!”

You could have heard a pin drop. Our thoughts: there would likely be a large crowd. Would nerves get the best of her? That is a hard song to sing. Would she be able to do it well? What about her hearing impairment? What if she isn’t hearing well again in September? But quickly, we all realized that the hang-ups were ours, not hers, and since the run is about her big brother, it would probably be a forgiving audience.

For those that don’t know the background story, our littlest girl was born deaf. She went an entire year of life before she heard a sound. Thankfully, she has mechanical deafness caused by Eustachian tube defect. She started having surgeries at the age of one to restore/correct her hearing loss. To be able to sing is one thing. To have excellent pitch is entirely another.

To ensure success, we enlisted the help of our neighbor (who Clo adores AND who happens to be a vocal music teacher). From there, we just let her sing and sing and sing. My ears will never get tired of it, because I remember the days of walking into her room in the morning. She sat in her crib and didn’t have any idea I was there. I remember the days of holding her and having her little hand on my throat because she somehow realized that there was a connection to my mouth moving and the vibrations she felt. I remember her not making sounds; so if she wanted to sing, we were going to let her.

She practiced. She sang, and she sang some more. Finally, came the big day! If she was nervous, she never let it show. With a microphone held steady by me, she belted out the National Anthem as if her voice was strengthened by choirs of angels. She nailed it. It was so moving that many had tears in their eyes as a little 7-year-old girl sang to honor her country at an event to remember her biggest brother.

When she sang, it was more than a joyful noise . . . it was a healing balm to my soul.

Note: Unfortunately, her performance was not recorded in its entirety at Reed’s Run. We do have her performance from Our Journey of Hope night (the annual remembrance of the anniversary) at our school.

A cross-country love . . . the last Reed’s Run

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I will be the first to admit that social networking has its pitfalls. I will stipulate that Facebook, Pinterest, and Twitter can be huge time drainers. However, with eyes open wide to the pitfalls (of which I am prone) I also believe that my life has been enriched by the somewhat instantaneous connections with friends and family flung far and wide. I love relationships and that feeling of connection. I know it isn’t face to face conversation, and I agree cyber hugs pale in comparison to real embraces. Yet, I love that in the past few years I have reconnected with family and friends that I haven’t seen in person in many, many years.

Several of those relationships have evolved over the years to being some of my sweetest friendships. One of those sweet blessings is the deep friendship and adoration with our cousins in Washington. Long distance, we cheer each other on through all of life’s ups and downs. Our relationship has gotten so close that we have even started our own language, recently coining the term “Pray-paring” in relation to how we should get ready for anything life.

When we first announced registration for Reed’s Run 2012, these same cousins became the first to register, albeit with a twist. They were going to run the race remotely. We were open to the idea, and we happily mailed them their t-shirts. One of our cousins was so proud of her t-shirt; she immediately wore it to school the next day. (Again thankful for Facebook because that is where I saw the evidence.) They inspired a few more cousins and friends to do the same. Their willingness to participate (in whatever fashion) made our hearts soar.

The night of the run, my sweet Amy, penned us the following letter to tell of how they had spent the day and how the remote run went. She included all the pictures here.

Kandy

It is with joy that I write to you to share about our Reed’s Run here in Washington.

It was like waiting for Christmas morning. The countdown began & quickly, day by day, it got closer. The questions began. “Where should we run?” “When should we leave?” “What do we wear?” Then the preparation began. We got our light sabers first. (We had to have them to bring the boy in Reed, the playfulness into our home.) We got Gatorade ~ like it would somehow fuel our feet. I think it was then that I realized I had “pray-pared” a lot more than I had prepared. My heart was ready – the love overflowing – the joy and excitement contagious, but preparing physically – not so much. Kayla hurt a tendon earlier in the week at drill practice & Sam came down with strep. We wanted to do it as a group so we walked most of it & I was glad we did.

I woke up Saturday morning to a grey sky & wet pavement. Evidence of rain. We have not had rain in about 2 months which, in Washington, is unheard of. That is when I knew it was going to be a great day. Courtney (Sam’s girlfriend) came early with donuts. You need carbs to run you know. J I asked the children to help me with our “numbers”. Because we weren’t in Minnesota, we decided to use the names of Reed, Emilee, Hunter, Jesse, and our flag as our race numbers.

We drove to Ruston Way. A beautiful and most important flat road next to Puget Sound. J It was 67 F and sunny. We prayed by Kelly’s truck as a group and started on our way. I was surprised by the number of people who stopped & asked us what we were walking for. (So I thank you with all my heart for the shirts). It was an honor to share about Reed’s Run with them & everyone was touched by Reed’s life & his story. We finished with tired feet but joy filled hearts. What a gift it is do something nice for someone else.

Kelly & I took a few pictures & are sending them to you and your family. We want you to have an idea where we were. We wanted to bring a part of us to you.

I know that this is the last Reed’s Run, but I hope that you realize because you allowed us to be a part of this – we are forever changed. We will now look for simple ways to bring God into others’ lives by showing others His love. And every time we pick up our light sabers we will remember Reed.

Memories are beautiful part of God’s love & we have a beautiful memory of our special Reed’s Run day.

Love,

Kelly, Amy, Sam, Courtney & Kayla

Those that know me know I was a puddle of tears after reading this letter. I still choke up reading it. Of the multitude of reasons is the fact that our cousins love us and Reed enough to want to be a part (even their own special way) of our day. But more so, they were an embodiment that Reed’s story (which is ultimately God’s story) has a far and reaching effect. From what seems so senseless this side of heaven, God is using in ways that we can only imagine.

This time He used our cousins to help us see His bigger picture.

Note – the emphasized words in Amy’s letter are mine. However, I truly believe that is the heart of healing. Realizing that God has a purpose for us and often that purpose is to serve others may just be the secret to healing broken hearts.

When we first envisioned doing something to fund the Reed Stevens Memorial Scholarship, we never saw an event as big as what Reed’s Run became. The four runs produced many different results: some expected and others pleasant surprises. The obvious by-products were a successful fundraising venture and a community event enjoyed by many. Among the unexpected were the blossoming of friendships and the renewal of friendships from long ago.

One of those friendships was rekindled in those early days in the hospital when Sawyer was still in the Intensive Care. It was something akin to the proverbial blessings that those who have walked through tragedy really have eyes and hearts open enough to see. The connection was with one of Sawyer’s godmothers.

As the days drew closer to the final run, we realized that we were going to have a house filled with loved ones as well as a few hotel rooms with other loved ones. For those travelling from far away, we decided to send out an agenda of what we would be offering in the way of entertainment. After working set-up all day Friday, a break would take place to cheer on Sawyer and the Lakers with a September/October birthday party at the fire pit in Reed’s garden afterwards.

To be honest, we didn’t think many would take us up on the offer for the football game. To our surprise, there were 15 people that comprised the cheering section for number 74. One among our group was Sawyer’s little god-brother, S, proudly clad in Laker blue and waving homemade flags emblazoned with Sawyer’s name and school “mascot”. S cheered on the team, and more than once he wondered aloud why the team or coaches weren’t listening to his flag as the score did not reflect his impassioned cheering. Sadly, Sawyer didn’t play for three fourths of the game, and for a while I felt like we had asked these loved ones from Georgia, California, western North Dakota, and Florida to come for nothing. Then in the final few minutes, Sawyer and the other Junior Varsity guys went in.

All of a sudden an amazing tackle happens, and over the loudspeaker we hear, “Tackle made by Sawyer Stevens.” (This, of course, reads better if you do the loudspeaker echoing voice out loud.) The Sawyer Stevens entourage cheered exuberantly, but none compared to little S. He jumped up and down, declaring for all who would listen, “Sawyer listened to my flag. I knew it would work!” I don’t really care what others would call the play of that game. For one sophomore player, that was definitely it.

For the trip to the birthday bash, Sawyer rode with his god-family the 30 miles back to Marshall. Even though I wasn’t there, the story told by his godmother about the trip home was priceless. Huddled together in the back of the car with their heads touching were two brothers (one in high school and one in elementary) deep in conversation and game playing.

For the one who misses his big brother every day, it was a model example of brotherly love and what used to be. For the rest of us, it was a reminder that even though the circumstances aren’t what we had planned, God’s vision of family is BIGGER than we could ever imagine.

Just the other night at the hometown football game . . . the last Reed’s Run

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The Garth Brooks song, “Unanswered Prayers” has always been a perennial favorite of mine. It didn’t hit me until the night before the last Reed’s Run that I was living out a line of the song at a Lakeview football game. Different from the lyrics, it wasn’t a long-lost love with whom I reconnected that evening. I am sure if anyone paid attention to what happened on the sidelines, there would have been rumors flying in the small towns that night.

It really all unfolded much earlier. About two years ago, I found my high school best friend on the internet. We connected very briefly through an email and later on Facebook. Then one day, I started noticing all the posts of remembrance. I knew my friend Matt had only one son (and several stepchildren). I literally shook as my hands did a quick Google search. When my husband found me crumpled on the floor sobbing a little while later, he knew something was terribly wrong. My worst fears regarding those messages were confirmed when I found the obituary of one sweet, Big A.

I cried. I felt crushed in spirit. “Oh, dear Lord, NO!” I cried out over and over. How could this be? Why was this cup not passed from not only my son, but my friend’s son as well? I just didn’t understand.

I wanted our bond to be shared memories of the past – the glory years so to say – but not THIS! Not a shared bond of grief and loss and of despair and heartbreak.

I did the only thing I could. I reached out electronically and shared about Reed. In the end, I told of Reed’s Run and asked if we could remember Alex at our final run. I was expecting an affirmative response because I know that lingering fear (of no one remembering their child) all grieving parents share. What I didn’t expect was the news that my high school best buddy and his wife were going to come and run the last run.

Back to that football game. When I received the text message that they had arrived, I bolted out of my seat to greet them. I ran and literally jumped into Matthew’s arms. What I haven’t shared previously is we hadn’t seen each other in twenty-three years. It was a wonderful (and long over-due) embrace.

My heart leapt with joy at finally being in arms reach of him, and my heart soared to finally meet his beautiful bride. We watched the game and cheered on one number 74. Since 74’s fan section was huge, we had three cars in convoy on the way home. I rode with Matt & Kimberly, and we shared the stories of our boys.

Sadly, neither of us ever had the opportunity to meet the other’s child. Back at home, we sat in the rental car, talked and cried, and cried and talked. With each story they told of one amazing young man, I began to feel like I was being handed the equivalent of a newborn baby swaddled in love and care of sweet memories.

In high school our heartstrings were tied as two kids who loved to laugh and who loved a good adventure, especially in historic Pensacola. But now on a crisp Minnesota fall night, we were inexplicably bound by the loss that no parents should ever have to feel.

However it wasn’t unanswered prayers like that old song, it was the unshakeable faith of two dear friends that our children’s deaths were not in vain. It was the prayers that we prayed during their lives that sustained us in their deaths. It was the same faith that compels both families to give back in the way that would be most honoring to each boy.

But the biggest bond each family shared was the sustaining power of prayer, amazing love, and extravagant grace that over the years and across the miles both of us were held right in the palm of God’s hand. It is the confidence of knowing that neither family said good-bye, because someday I am going to get to meet that sweet boy and Matthew’s going to meet mine.

How can it be five years? A letter to Reed

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To my sweet boy –

Reed, I woke up yesterday strangled by my emotions. Before I even lifted my head, I could feel that old familiar ache. My heart literally hurt. I longed to just hear your voice, to experience your laughter, to see the world through your beautiful blue eyes. All the things I get to do with Sawyer, Erin, and Clo and I love each shared memory. Yet, I feel like the whole world can see the hole in my heart whenever I wish I had those moments with you.

Then come other times, when I really am truly happy. I almost surprise myself, because it’s at those times I feel guilty because I wonder if I am ever supposed to be happy again. Conflicting emotions that don’t mix with what I know to be true. You would never want us to be forever sad this side of heaven, but more importantly neither would God. Simply, He would want to remind us that this is not our forever home. It is a lesson that we couldn’t forget if we wanted to, simply because even though we can’t deliver mail there we know your permanent address.

Five years ago, I never thought I would be sitting where I am now. I want to be getting ready for your second prom, planning your graduation party and trip, and buying all the great things that you would need for college. It just wasn’t meant to be a part of your story.

Just as grief is now a part of mine. Heart crushing, sneak up on you when you least expect it, grief. A pain so deep you never knew your heart had so many crevices and could hurt so badly.

But when things get so painful, I remember a sweet, red-headed boy whose whole life was defined by hope. Not just a temporary hope. Oh no! A hope rooted in a love greater than any love that I have ever given. Inspirational was a boy who believed that love was greater than hate. A boy who believed that turning the other cheek wasn’t just a saying. A boy who believed that those who hurt others were hurting themselves taught me a lot in just twelve short years. A deep faith, overflowing with love defined your life.

Sometimes, I think that you knew you were only going to be here for a brief stay. You did nothing half-way. You didn’t just read books, you devoured them. You didn’t just learn something, you consumed it. And, you didn’t just love, you loved with abandon.

It is that hope, love, and faith that has helped us to remember, to cope (and sometimes heal), and to keep alive your legacy. So that someday, we will all get to meet the ones whose lives your brief life touched. Standing in the glorious, shining light of heaven, I can only imagine then that it will all make sense.

Waiting to hug you and hold you again, but always carrying you in my heart – Momma

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Tag Archives: grief

What I want today . . .

The tale of two Reeds

A promise I count on

An eggcellent tradition

Surgery No. 7

A joyful noise . . . the last Reed’s Run

A cross-country love . . . the last Reed’s Run

Just the other night at the hometown football game . . . the last Reed’s Run

How can it be five years? A letter to Reed