The morning of Dalton’s funeral was upon us.  Like the previous three days before, and in the many days to follow, I woke up crying that Wednesday.  Troy was up already, so I laid in my bed and cried into my pillow softly.  Colton and Keely had been sleeping in our bedroom on a couch ever since the accident and I didn’t want to wake them up.  This was the day I was to bury my son.  That formidable feeling in my stomach reminded me of my loss.  How was I going to face this day?  I did everything I could to gather my thoughts for prayer and yet no complete sentences were formed in my head.  I found it difficult to even ask for strength.  Every motion I made that day felt foreign, like it wasn’t my own.  Yet there was a consciousness that I wasn’t alone.  A force much greater than myself was guiding me through the minutes and hours.  At the time I wouldn’t be able to rationalize what that power was or where its origin was from.  That is okay.  God understands our pain.  He is not the source of that pain, but seeks to comfort those who mourn.  The funeral was one of those experiences that God raised me up and carried me upon His back.

I recall the first time I used the term “both” kids.  For the last 13 1/2 years, I have come to say “the” kids (as in three).  I had asked Troy if both kids were ready to leave for the funeral.  The word made me sick.  All I had done was change my part of speech from an article to a conjunction and the substitution of words made me keenly aware of the vacancy I felt.  To this day, I find myself cringing when I say “both” kids.

The four of us rode to St. James Catholic Church  in silence.  What was there to discuss on the way to a funeral for your child and sibling?  We knew we would see family members we hadn’t seen in years.  We knew there was going to be a bus that would bring Dalton’s class from Wichita Collegiate to the service.  We assumed the service would have a high attendance.  Finally, we knew to be there early to have as much time with our boy as possible.  Our time to view his body was coming to an end.  Father had prepared us that we would have up until 9:50am to spend with him before the casket would close forever.  Those were the hardest moments in my memory.  I spent the final hour not wanting to leave his side.  The term “torturous” does nothing to describe that feeling. I took in every inch of his perfect body.  My fingers caressed his Lebron tennis shoes, thick calves,  and muscular thighs.  I traced over the bumpy skin on his forearms, creases of his knuckles, broad shoulders, and stubborn chin.  I lingered on his face for what seemed forever.  In the forefront of my mind was the realization that I wasn’t going to touch those lips and eyelashes and hair ever again.  I just wanted him to take a breath.  I wanted to see the rise and fall of his chest as though he were sleeping.  I begged him to open his eyes.  At 9:49am, Father Schemm came into the bridal room where we were gathered and told us lovingly that we needed to say goodbye.  The time had come.  Naturally, none of us were ready.  I once told Troy that if any of our children ever died before us, the priest would have to tuck me into that casket.  Now that was my reality.  I had two reasons that idea was impossible and their names were Colton and Keely.  Right before the casket closed, I took in a deep breath that extended into my soul.  It was an intense hurt that might remain indescribable for the rest of my life.  A part of me was remaining in that casket.  He was my flesh and blood.

Sadly, I don’t remember much of the funeral ceremony.  I know there were lots of people gathered, that the music was beautiful, and the family did a wonderful job doing the readings and presenting the gifts.  Our dear friend and pastor from Garden Plain, Father Sam, was a co-celebrant of the Mass.  During the homily, I watched Father Schemm deliver a hopeful and emotional message to all of us gathered to celebrate Dalton’s short life.  I thought how amazing and unpredictable the role of a catholic pastor truly was.  They get to baptize people, give them communion, offer reconciliation for the forgiveness of sins, unify them in holy marriage, and more.  Often that “more” is celebrating the culmination of the faithfully departed’s life.  I wouldn’t understand it at that point, but this was not the end for Dalton.  Like the Eucharist, my son was simply in for a change.  He was no longer going to be part of this physical world, but he was very much bound for the celestial sector.

The Interment took place at Elmwood Cemetery.  I have no idea if many people attended or not.  I wasn’t aware of much.  I know it was bitter cold and someone gave our family hand warmers.  Father Schemm gave the Rite of Committal, and just like that, we offered our farewell prayers that this child be laid to rest with the hope of rising again.  He was marked with the sign of faith as a baby and buried with the assumption that he will be welcomed into the church of heaven, a place that gets to see our merciful God face to face.  Holy water was sprinkled over DD’s casket, followed by a sudden gust of wind that shook the tent above our heads.  It was as if Dalton’s spirit showed the believers that it was departing.  All that would remain at the cemetery were the physical elements that were his body.  “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”  Many of us have heard those words spoken as the priest traces the sign of the cross on our foreheads during Ash Wednesday Mass.

For some reason, people like to tell people who have suffered a loss that their beloved is now an angel.  While that may be of comfort to many people, is doesn’t resonate with me.  On the other hand, I don’t take offense to it when people say it.  We all grieve differently and hold different perspectives on the afterlife.  It doesn’t make any of us more correct than the other.  As for me, I know I didn’t give birth to an angel by definition.  An angel doesn’t encompass a humanly body.  I do believe they (angels) can take on a human form if needed, but they remain disembodied.  I do not picture Dalton with wings.  I can’t see him “flying around in heaven.”  Nor do I think he is my guardian angel.  I gave birth to him on this present earth.  I held his body in my arms.  I nursed him, played with him, and taught him life lessons.  I raised him to be a follower of Christ.  It was the most important job I will have in my life, however long it lasts.

God didn’t take Dalton away from us.  He didn’t “need another angel.”  The devil is the source of all pain and suffering.  He alone is the deliverer of death.  God intended for us to live forever.  This wasn’t the original plan.  But the good news is that He is there to comfort us as we face tribulations in our lives.  As I understand it, none of us are getting out of here alive.  We all must face death eventually.  The human mortality rate is still at 100%.  Like many that have faced the loss of a child, I wasn’t prepared for this.  I hate every step of this journey.  I wish I wasn’t writing this blog.  I would rather NOT see people at the grocery store and hear them say how I have inspired their faith.  But, the fact is I didn’t get to choose.  This life chose me.  I received Dalton freely as a gift from God.  Reluctantly, last November, I had to give him back.  I may never understand why I have to endure this loss.  But, the one thing I know is that I will not let it define who I am.  I will not give the devil the satisfaction.