it used to be just a day now it's the day you died alex
i woke up in the night the veil had parted for just a second a swirling crashing music heart racing warmth hope of heaven
november 19 the day to go sit there early before the sun is up
to collapse on the pavement i barely made it there and sob using all the kleenex your baby nephew pulled out of the box last night
wondering how he pulled out so many in 2 seconds
to take a deep breath and sob again
this november 19 is gray and cold the clouds so thick and heavy, the sky is hidden
it's different this time before i was numb and frozen with no tears now the tears fall
i would have stayed longer but the cold sidewalk stole the warmth from my body even though i wore four layers, including the gray flannel and gray coat that were yours
i gathered my pile of tissues and walked away away into the mist to continue another november 19
to go home home this house where you grew and flew where you visited first a little, then a lot always welcome wish you didn't have to leave us wish you could have figured it out
november 19 a day to listen to the beauty will rise album on repeat
and then to listen to anne wilson music, this time her local concert at the opera house
to the cemetery of course the walk to your grave was wet and the rainwater soaked through my shoes making my feet cold
the path strewn with leaves of all colors and sizes and pine needles both fresh green and old brown and pine cones
your stone had raindrops on it i liked how it looked the rain looked like tears
also at the stone was a cigarette box whose scent still lingered somehow in the air the person must have been here not long ago
november 19 confusing it will always seem like a sunday but somehow every sunday seems like the day you died in the early morning when i'm alone at the kitchen window even though it's been two years
At the end of September, I went to the Abbey of Gethsemane near Bardstown, KY with my coworkers. This staff retreat had been planned for months. We started with a quick devotional, and then split up with plans to meet for lunch.
Several of us headed toward the statues. This walk took us through the forest which included uneven ground, steep steps, and a wooden rope bridge. Every once in awhile there was another sign about the statues, reassuring me that I was on the right path. Even though I was following someone who knew the way, I still wondered if we were going in the right direction. There were small garden statuary (think gnomes, angels, and saints) along the way and I wondered is this really all there is to “the statues?” I hadn’t done any research, so I didn’t know what to expect.
The path led us outside the trees into a clearing where a stark white statue of a lady loomed large in contrast to her surroundings. Etched at her base was “Regina Gethsemani.” Her angles were harsh, the style seemed modern. Someone had draped a rosary on her praying hands. Beside her was a small sign that said, “pray pray pray. ” In front of her was a rock for sitting and the tree beside her featured a swing.
I kept walking. The path turned back into the trees and there was a dark life size stone statue of three people lying down, draped on each other. They appeared to be sleeping. As I was trying to figure out what it was, I looked to another statue nearby. Then it became clear. These were the disciples sleeping in the Garden of Gethsemane while Jesus prayed.
And when Jesus came to the place [called Gethsemane], he said to them, “Pray that you may not enter into temptation.” And he withdrew from them about a stone’s throw, and knelt down and prayed, saying, “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me. Nevertheless, not my will, but yours, be done.”
And there appeared to him an angel from heaven, strengthening him. And being in agony he prayed more earnestly; and his sweat became like great drops of blood falling down to the ground. And when he rose from prayer, he came to the disciples and found them sleeping for sorrow, and he said to them, “Why are you sleeping? Rise and pray that you may not enter into temptation.”Luke 22:40-46
After the walk in the forest, I went into the chapel a little early for the scheduled prayer. Long before the entrance to the building, there was a sign about being silent past a certain point. When I got inside, I grabbed one of the booklets, found a seat, and read the psalms.
A monk, dressed in a robe with rope belt around his waist, walked slowly to his seat; he was hunched over and with each step, his cane touched the stone floor loudly. His cane was the only noise that I heard in this stone sanctuary. Other monks came in much more quietly. The chairs for the outsiders and visitors like me were slowly filling too. As I waited, the silence grew and hugged me like a cold blanket.
The vigil was only 15 minutes long. These Trappist monks, who have dedicated their lives to prayer, work, and silence gathered in this stark sanctuary seven times daily, the earliest being 3:15 am. When the 15 minutes were up, they filed out in an orderly fashion, disappearing out the door where they had entered only minutes before, the thud of the elderly monk’s cane breaking the silence again. They were off to eat lunch, and so was I.
After our picnic, my coworkers headed toward their cars. I had opted not to carpool in case I wanted to stay at this retreat longer into the afternoon. I’m glad I drove alone because I wasn’t ready to leave. There was one more spot I wanted to go on this warm September day.
I looked past the parking lot, past the road to the cross on the hill. It seemed so far away. The path seemed steep. Could I walk there or would it be too difficult? Someone who had been there himself told me it’s actually not that far.
at the foot of the cross
It’s a lyric to a song. At the time, I couldn’t remember what song or any of the other words, but this phrase had been running through my head for weeks. It was accompanied by a line from another song: Jesus will meet you there. I had changed one word and said “Jesus will meet me there.”
September had been hard. Really hard. I wanted to go sit at the foot of the cross to pray.
I started walking toward that cross. As the ground started to incline, my breathing quickened slightly, but the way was not as steep as it had looked from across the road. Before I knew it, I had reached the foot of the cross. I thought it was distant, but it turned out the cross was closer than that it had appeared.
As I sat, “Jesus will meet me there” ran through my thoughts again.
I stayed in this spot for a couple hours. The sky was the most gorgeous blue with fluffy clouds. I was particularly enchanted by the yellow and golden butterflies chasing each other nearby.
Here I sat at the foot of the cross where grace and suffering meet. (I looked up the song, and that’s the full line.) I came to this place to sit in silence. To sit in nature. To ask the questions that don’t have answers. To pray. To meet Jesus.
The definition of Gethsemane is a place of great mental or spiritual suffering. I had been experiencing my own Gethsemane, and today I found myself at a literal Abbey of Gethsemane. The things that made September hard were–
suicide awareness month and everyday seeing another article about preventing suicide
wondering if I could have somehow prevented Alex’s death
Charlie Kirk’s murder
Voddie Baucham dying too
my son being unreachable and all the unknowns about him
a third hospitalization for my dad this year
another family member’s hospitalization after a car accident that miraculously didn’t take her life
the anniversary of my mom’s death
the upcoming pregnancy loss awareness month that was hitting me extra hard this year
November and Thanksgiving on the horizon and therefore, the 2nd anniversary of Alex’s death
the progression of my husband’s cancer
In the midst of grief and heartache, I’ve been choosing joy this year. I brought with me a rock with the word “joy” painted on it and I decided to leave it at the cross. The backside of the cross was filled with trinkets and flowers that others had left there.
September was a lot for me to carry. I’ve been praying more and reading several devotionals–some that I chose for myself and others were given to me by friends. One of the books I’m reading is Your Soul To Keep, a prayer book for praising God as you pray for your adult kids, by Kristy Dusenbery. I love the introductory section–it just confirms everything I was already experiencing through prayer.
The habit of prayer has become important because it connects us intimately with the God of the universe and we find peace in his presence every time. Prayer invites the Holy Spirit to unleash perspective; perspective that reminds us that we can survive whatever life throws at us.
Perspective. Taking one day at a time. Somehow surviving September. I know I didn’t need to come to a special place to pray, but it was nice to be able to do so. And my takeaway for the day is the cross is closer than it appears.
I was tired and crawled into bed. The light was still on and my eyes stopped short on my ring finger. The diamond was gone. And not just the diamond, but the whole top was missing, prongs and all.
I had been wearing this thing for over 33 years, gotten the prongs rebuilt a few times and even had the whole head replaced less than 2 years ago. The jeweler had told me it wouldn’t be as strong as the original ring. But 2 years? I had gotten it inspected since then. How does the whole top of a ring just fall off?
I went to the living room and told my husband and 19 year old son not to vacuum or take out the trash because the diamond was missing off my ring.
The 19 year old said, “Mom, do we ever vacuum?”
Seriously, though, I thought, what was the last thing I did? I opened up the dishwasher because I had just filled it. I could see a plastic baby spoon on the bottom of the dishwasher. I thoughtlessly reached for it and burnt my middle finger on the heating element. Thankfully, I keep a small aloe plant by the sink for such a time as this.
The next day, one of my coworkers said, “I hope you find it, not just because of the cost, but because it’s sentimental and irreplaceable.”
I started to cry. I had already been thinking that this was just another loss. Just another thing that doesn’t even really matter in the grand scheme of life. Temporal and earthly. My ring is not a person, it’s not eternal. It doesn’t even matter.
I was upset about losing the diamond, but thought “Whatever. What next?”
I had been retracing my steps in my mind and decided I really needed to go through the kitchen garbage because cleaning the dishes was the very last thing I had done before going to bed. You know how the sink drain catches all the food and you bang it on the side of the trash to empty it? I thought maybe that vigorous motion could have caused the top of my ring to go flying.
When I got home, I lifted the trash bag out of the garbage can and placed it onto the kitchen counter and carefully took out each thing.
When I got down to the bottom where the potato peels were and the little bits of food gunk that had been caught in the drain while washing dishes, I saw it.
There it was mixed in with last night’s dinner scraps.
I couldn’t even believe it. What are the chances that this tiny diamond could be found in the bottom of the trash?
I instantly felt loved and cared for by God. It almost felt like I lost my ring just so God could show Himself in the details.
How much was this going to cost to fix? Property taxes are due in a couple weeks and we’re saving everything to go toward that hefty bill. I decided to wait to get a couple estimates.
But then that friend from work who told me she really hopes I find the dismond, told me her son-in-law who is a master “bench’ jeweler offered to fix it for free. What?!?!
Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?
Matthew 6:26
Again, I’m feeling loved and cared for by God and grateful that I don’t need to write off my diamond as just another loss.
I’m hanging in there. I’m grieving my oldest two sons. Both are unreachable. One is unreachable because he died. The other is unreachable because his mental state is cloudy and dark, and he’s out of touch with reality. He’s also unreachable currently because literally I can’t call or write him or visit him. But I know that he is sheltered, relatively safe, being fed. He is not well, but his physical needs are being tended to, even if his mental and spiritual needs are not being met.
This year I’m choosing joy. It’s an effort. Grieving the loss of a loved one is hard and long. Experts in grief say the second year is harder than the first and that’s where I find myself.
But even in the midst of great sorrow, I am purposely choosing things and doing things that make me smile. I spent the Spring on my hands and knees (thanks to a thick knee pad) digging in the dirt, planning and planting flowers that would attract butterflies. I spent the summer pulling weeds. So many weeds. Maybe next year there won’t be as many, Haha. The flowers were beautiful and I saw caterpillars, bees, moths, and butterflies.
This garden has brought me great joy. I’m creating joy. Choosing joy. Planting joy. Just because I’m discovering joy in some of the little moments doesn’t mean there isn’t a great heaviness and sadness in my heart over my oldest two sons.
How are you?
This question came at a time when I had absolutely no idea where my son was. Prior to this point, I always knew where he was, but these days were different. Essentially, I considered him missing and it was very difficult for me. He wasn’t in hospital, jail, or a group home.
The truth was– I was horrible, my insides were freaking out, my body was tense, my stomach felt nauseous. I would rather be in bed, but I had somehow gotten up and made it to church. I wasn’t great or even really ok, so I replied,
I’m hanging in there.
When I answered, this person backed up and said, “Woah, don’t unload on me!”
Here I was at church. Isn’t this the place where I’m supposed to be able to be honest and real and find compassion and support? Most likely, this person was being sarcastic, but man, did it sting. I’m thankful I have people in my life who get it, who will listen when I need to talk, who are encouraging to me, who don’t back away.
Since that day at church, I was able to findmy son, and then a few weeks later, I knew he was locked up again. But he’s unreachable.
i can't call him. he can't call me. he can't receive messages. he can't receive mail. he's unreachable.
i'm praying for a miracle. praying for the light to swallow the darkness praying for his mind to clear. praying for clarity of thought. praying that he knows he is so loved by me by God.
“I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”
~Jesus (John 8:12)
praying he'll be reachable again praying his spiritual needs will be met praying that his mental needs will be met praying I can reach him praying he will reach out to me healed in the meantime, I'm hanging in there and I'm choosing joy
not all heartbreak comes from death not all loss is etched in stone not all dreams are buried in a cemetery
i'm a mother of five two in heaven two alive and thriving one alive but greatly burdened
that man on the street corner muttering and shouting pacing back and forth talking in rhymes swearing crazy not a stranger, he's my son six years like this
some have said to me "at least you have..." STOP IT stop saying that! do i forget this one who's still alive? this second of five this one
didn't the shepherd leave the 99 to find the one he rescued the one my man child is that one lost lamb please lord jesus rescue your lamb, my lamb i'm begging, pleading
this one who i carried birthed nursed protected nurtured schooled just like the other four loved
still love, will always love no matter what he's my son an image bearer of the creator god just like you who dare to say to me "at least"
this loss it's real these shattered dreams everything i thought he'd be no specifics just sanity, just normal
for six years mind overtaken by illness triggered by trauma extended by weed made better with medication worse again by bad choices
in and out of psychosis stable at times but only for a little while sometimes progressing, but always another setback nightmares and voices never silent in his head mind in turmoil so much distortion of reality delusions six long years
i used to think he's taking a detour in life but the detour keeps getting longer further away from normal
he used to call me several times a week just to check in i've always known where he was good or bad, I knew because he called
but this year his calls became fewer yet i still knew where he was locked up refusing medication on a watch and i knew where he was mostly safe 3 meals a day sheltered and clothed safe
but july 31 he walked out physically free but mentally in shackles this release was unexpected to me there was no plan for 6 years, there's always been a plan a new place for him to go but july 31 he walked out no phone, no money, no contacts, nothing
i prayed do i run to find him? i prayed for wisdom i prayed for my next step i prayed for him i prayed for his safety i prayed for others' safety
this wasn't an adult stable and employed earning and managing money living a productive life deciding to cut off his parents estranged
no this is a man suffering severe mental illness unable to care for himself unable to approach someone and say can i borrow your phone?
i made calls lots of calls looking for him checked rosters online always praying i was at peace with staying home and waiting
days turned into a week then one week turned into three and still no word from him or about him
where was he? dead or alive? sane or insane? was he ok, but choosing not to call? unlikely really unlikely
did he stay close to where he flew free? or was he walking hundreds of miles to his childhood home? was he safe on someone's couch and being fed?
then i drove to where he had walked free six hours i drove i rolled into a town where i had never been before i implored the lord, please i want an answer this weekend i need an answer i prayed for my own safety
guided by the holy spirit i saw him saturday and talked with him his answers were evasive i gave him food and clothes after only a few minutes he said he wasn't having the conversation and walked away
his shoes had holes his sweatshirt grimy hood over his head and covering his eyes so much thinner than before i had found him unwashed i was thankful, so thankful finding him was a huge answer to prayer
i went back on sunday he asked for food and i gave him some he turned around and walked away walked away from love and help and nurture refused my hug
and so i began my long drive home alone but not alone because father god was with me had not forgotten me holy spirit had clearly guided my steps so that i could see my son thank you!
i was relieved his condition did not surprise me frankly, he looked how i expected unkept
his life isn't over yet i will always have hope until he's dead there's still time for redemption repentance restoration wholeness normal
but for now i wait so much waiting already everyone says they don't know how i do it doesn't scripture say peace that passes understanding?? that's what i have in god peace that i don't understand either
i should be having a mental breakdown but instead i'm able to rest in him don't get me wrong i am anxious at times overwhelmed but i couldn't do this without scripture and prayer and feeling god's love and presence
i'm continuing to pray for a miracle a complete healing in jesus name, my son can be healed he can reach down and grab him out of this pit heal his mind this amazing mercy that my son can not run from
i firmly believe that god can deliver my son from this mental anguish and my son can run to jesus out of darkness resisting the things that trigger illness
for now, his mind is loud voices always no silence no relief no joy no light always darkness
praying for light and joy and peace for him come home to us be a part of our family we love you so much we miss you so much we want you back
Response to this post has been so encouraging to me. You can read them here.
Monday morning, I heard about the tragic death of a young lady. I was immediately shattered and reeling for this family.
And so another mother grieves.
I drove to her house and hugged her and held her tight for a minute and cried.
She said “The Lexington Cemetery? You’ve found comfort there?”
I said, “Yes!”
I asked her if she wanted to see some recent photos from there and she did, so I showed her these Spring photos at the cemetery. And then I showed her the statue above of the angel weeping.
Loss. She knows I know. And that’s why I went to give her a hug.
This knowing I’m talking about-the mental sorrow that causes physical pain, the overwhelming feeling of despair, the tears, the fatigue and physical weakness, the nausea that won’t go away, the shaking.
This knowing. It’s the waking every morning and having to relive the news of death, the realization that she’s gone, of doing this over and over until it finally sinks in. It’s the waking up several times throughout the night too, of not being able to sleep.
This knowing. It’s the absence of someone who shouldn’t be gone. Losing a child messes with order. Old people die. Young people just aren’t supposed to die.
This knowing. It’s looking around your house and seeing her everywhere, except she’s nowhere to be found… ever again…
…Until heaven.
Now a couple days later…Tonight, their church family gathered for a time of lament for the family, and I attended. These people wanted and needed to be together–this death of a daughter affects them all.
They read and sang and prayed together. Although an outsider, I didn’t feel like an outsider. It was not impromptu; everything was planned in advance.
I especially appreciated the prayer that stated the family’s grief wouldn’t be over in a few months, that they were starting a life long journey and needed to learn how to support the family through it.
At this point, I thought, oh my God. yes! I couldn’t hold back the tears. I am thankful this family will be supported well, even if the church is going in blind. They admitted as much and some of the readings chosen were from those who had lost a child or children.
The pastor ended by encouraging the people to get together. To not mourn alone. I love this about this community. I grabbed the hand beside me and squeezed. We were not weeping alone. I had gone to her house the night before because I didn’t want to be alone. And I joined in with the church tonight because I didn’t want to be alone.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this upcoming holy week being 21 Easters or 20 years without Abby. Here I jump back and forth from 2005 and 2025. The feeling of loss is fresh again because of Alex dying just a short 18 months ago. With that said, joy and sorrow co-exist!
2005–it’s Palm Sunday and Abby, my 2 year old sings “holy holy holy.”
She keeps singing “holy” while everyone else moves through the rest of the Sanctus. “Blessed is he who comes in the names of the Lord.”
Abby has a palm branch and waves it. She takes the palm branch home with her and stands at the coffee table singing holy. It was very sweet.
Palm Sunday 2025. About a month ago, I asked to have the flowers in memory of Abby. Twenty years seemed so big, so huge, a milestone. I wanted to remember that last Palm Sunday where she was alive and singing. When asked if I wanted the bulletin to say Abby or Abigail, I hesitated. It was Alex’s birthday too, so I said in memory of Alex and Abby Van Campen.
The flowers were fabulous and beautiful and exactly what I wanted. I took them home and enjoyed them until Friday when I took them to the cemetery.
Tuesday 2005
it’s Tuesday, the day when heaven beckoned, angels all around me. butterflies abound. earthly life suspended. eternity begun.
Wednesday and Thursday 2005. Planning a funeral for my baby girl. I don’t wish that on anyone! Trying to comfort a 4 and 6 year old who shouldn’t have to face this kind of death so young. I still remember coming into the house and Alex asking me if Abby was all better. Yes, she was all better, just not what we had hoped for! Caleb later said she went out to play and went to heaven. Out of the mouth of a 4 year old!
2006–March 22nd rolled around, the first anniversary of her death. It was hard, really hard. It didn’t occur to me that first anniversary of her death I’d have to grieve all over again a month later even harder when Easter arrived.
Fast forward 20 years. Wednesday 2025. It was my turn to read the devotional at work. I turned the page and it was called, “A Mother’s Love.” I looked up from the book, and said I have not pre-read this so I have no idea what’s coming and how it will affect me.
(Haha. Little did I know…)
When I said that, I thought it might be sappy or sentimental or sweet about mothering little ones or about empty nest or sacrifice. It was actually about a son dying. I could not get through the whole thing!
I am so thankful for my coworkers. So understanding and compassionate! Someone brought me a sparkling water and a pretty glass to put it in and invited me to her office. Others joined. Later, someone else bought me lunch. I’m so thankful to be in a such a supportive environment on a daily basis.
Good Friday 2005. Three days had gone by since my daughter died. That was hard. A little casket. A visitation. A million people in a room filled with flowers.
Good Friday 2025. An early morning. A treat from my favorite bakery. Dropping flowers at the cemetery and then taking more photos of crosses, angels, and stained glass. Did you see the photos I took last week? These newer ones aren’t published yet. Then I met my youngest son at the park to get one last photo for his senior slideshow. Then it was off to the library for editing the photos where my daughter and baby joined me. So much cuteness and joy!
Good Friday Service. No matter how many years pass, it’s always under the surface what I was doing on this day in 2005.
Saturday 2005. A funeral, a graveside service, and one of those obligatory post-funeral lunches.
Saturday 2025. Pancakes. Taking it easy. Writing. Enjoying a visit from my daughter’s family. Giving kisses to my grandson and making him smile.
Easter Sunday 2005. Attending church and hearing that the tomb was empty. Oh, my tomb was very full that year. Oh, death where is your sting? It stung so much that year.
Buried a day, I was numb.
Buried a year, I was sobbing.
That third Easter, the second year, things were easier. My first Easter without her, the day after I buried her, I sat in church and I was stiff and numb and cold and wrecked. That day, the tomb was not empty. My grave was full, very full. Where was my empty tomb? Where was my miracle?
Easter 2025. Our church has such beautiful music. Oh, death where is your sting? Well, it still stings. A LOT. Alex’s death is still so new 18 months out. Still seems so senseless and pointless and another unanswered prayer. I take a handkerchief with me to church. I wring it in my hands. There’s usually (not always) at least one song where there’s a phrase or two that makes the tears fall.
Lives again our glorious King, Alleluia! Where, O death, is now thy sting? Alleluia! Once he died, our souls to save. Alleluia! Made like Him, like Him we rise Alleluia! Where, the victory, oh grave? Alleulia!
Today, someone told me that she remembers Abby's funeral. She remembers it was the Saturday before Easter, and it had been the first time she had ever experienced grief and loss during Holy Week. She said it was what the disciples must have felt on Saturday after Jesus died on Friday.
...but Sunday was coming.
But the angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified. 6 He is not here, for he has risen, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. (Matthew 28:5-6)
I’ll end this with a video of my favorite Easter song. Coincidence or not, the title is “Easter Song.” I chose this live version from 1982 even though it’s not as fancy as the newer lyric versions. (Skip forward to 1 minute, 45 seconds if you want to skip the introduction and just get right to the singing.)
“Joy to the World, He is risen, Hallelujah! He’s risen!”
my loss is like the ocean overwhelming vast. deep. wide. mother of 5 only 3 are living my mom's in heaven too.
my grief is like the ocean overwhelming so many losses. not all deaths crashing waves of grief knock me down and I get back up
my grief is like the water changing clear. calm. gentle. muddy. salty. rough. cool. warm. cold. soothing. stinging. healing.
my grief is like the tide predictable birthdays. anniversaries. beloved things. little blond girls. bearded men in plaid. gentle. ebbing. flowing. i know what's in the depths.
my grief is like the waves tumultuous the things I can't plan for triggers that produce tears lizards. egyptians. mighty men. take my breath away
i'm at the ocean resting anchored in the sand. warm waves splash over me repeatedly. reassuringly. i'm grounded.
i'm in the ocean floating one moment at a time carried by the waves softly. gently. i'm comforted.
It’s the second birthday without you. Last year, I was mad and fuming and desperate to have you back, angry that you were gone. Angry that you left us so abruptly. I had been making apple pie for this day for a lot of years, and I was determined to never make it again. (As an aside, I did eventually make apple pie for my family because they wanted it and homemade apple pie is pretty damn good!)
All the things you loved, all the things we did together, I avoided. I still haven’t watched the tv shows West Wing or House. Because of you. Because we watched it together. Because you loved them as much as me.
I haven’t made pot roast with carrots and potatoes because of you. No more ginger beer kept in the pantry just so we’d always have it in case you came over and wanted one by itself or mixed with vodka and lime. I haven’t drank (or is it drunk?) a moscow mule since you’ve been gone. Just wouldn’t be the same without you.
For awhile this year, I was avoiding everything that was you. In the first months after you died, I always wore something that reminded me of you–either a gecko I had purchased or one of your plaid shirts. I felt naked without them. With them, I felt protected. Somehow, a sparkly rhinestone gecko brooch was a talisman to the pain. The little gecko earrings that looked like stained glass were a pathway to joy. And then I stopped. Wearing those things no longer helped. They hurt. A lot.
But today I tied one of your plaid shirts on top of a black dress over leggings and pinned that brooch on. I even stuck your coat in the car in case I got cold. Happy birthday Alex in heaven. I wanted to have you around me.
This year your birthday falls in the middle of a hard season. Twenty years without your sister. Five years of crazy. I woke up and I went to Facebook memories. I smiled and smiled as I scrolled through 20+ years of birthdays for you, my firstborn. There was no 25 and there is no 26. I laughed at #16 when Mary and Jackson had created a little driver’s license for you. Ah, such is the happiness of ordinary life with children. I thought of your friend Caleb. I wondered if he realized it was your birthday today. I thought if you were still here, you guys would probably be celebrating together, something that included bourbon and cigars.
I didn’t have to wonder long if Caleb knew what day it was. I got a text from his wife Corey. They were thinking and praying for me. My heart instantly hurt for them missing you.
We all miss you, babe. Wish you were here. We had Chinese for dinner. Not Wong Wongs, someplace new that Randall recommends and where Mary says has the best eggrolls. You would have liked it.
grieving with guinever 