So here we are.  1,825 days later.  I didn’t think I would survive the first night without him, much less 1,824 more.  Memories have become slightly clouded, his voice harder to remember.  How I hate that part.  On nights it gets the hardest to remember, I listen to videos of him over and over and over.  And over.  Enunciating each word with him and impersonating his facial expressions, it makes him feel like he’s still here.  But they always leave me aching to hear him say something new, something I haven’t heard before.  Anything to pretend he isn’t gone.

Knowing this five year anniversary was approaching, I have been reflecting for a couple weeks over what all I have experienced in that time.  Grieving someone close to you wrecks havoc on your entire being.  It has affected me physically, emotionally, socially and spiritually.  I had days where I wouldn’t eat at all and days I would eat it all.  There were mornings I woke up and felt like I had finally figured out how to live again, only later that night to die a hundred deaths in my closet begging God to bring him back.  I lost friends and gained better ones.  And I got to know Jesus on a whole new level.

It’s been five years and still the sound of an ambulance going by gives me a degree of PTSD. I’ll never forget following the one Dalton was in. There were people that took forever to pull over for whatever reason. I remember thinking time was of the essence and I knew my child needed to be at the hospital fast. There is not an EMS vehicle that goes by today that I don’t say a prayer to God to heal whoever is in there. And may God bless the people who do that work. I sometimes wonder how often they have a case like Dalton – a person who most likely isn’t going to be resuscitated without some sort of miracle. Yet they do it anyway knowing they would want a first responder to do the same thing for them if it were their son, daughter, mother, father, brother or sister in the back of that vehicle.

One of the other things these last five years have taught me was a deeper sense of empathy for the people around me. Those of us that have suffered immeasurable loses like we have don’t necessarily stand out in a crowd. We can, but we don’t always. We put on our “going out” faces and have mastered the art of looking normal. I remember the very first time I went to Dillons after Dalton died and I couldn’t believe everyone around me acted like the world hadn’t recently shifted on its axis. Apparently “My 13 year old son just died” wasn’t actually written on my forehead. I felt hurt. Unnoticed. It has made me today look at everyone I see through a different lens. An empathy lens. Empathy for the widow, the person who has lost their elderly parent, the mother who miscarried her child, the parents of a son or daughter who has taken their own life, the sibling who is growing up with only memories of their brother or sister, as well as the children lost in childbirth or shortly thereafter. They all hurt, they just don’t always show it. I used to be one of those people who was satisfied with small talk with strangers. Now, when I sense a heartache, I ask. I’ve talked to parents who have told me it was the first time they have said the name of their child aloud in months.

I can tell you that this cup of suffering has been arduous, but it wasn’t for nothing.  Everyone experiences a drink from this cup.  My taste came on that cold November afternoon.  And this is what I have discovered it basically comes down to:  you can let it change you for good or for the worst.  You can let it make you bitter or you can allow it to make you better.  Don’t get me wrong, I did my time wallowing in self-pity and anguish in the beginning  But I didn’t stay there.  Going down those rabbit holes of asking “why me” didn’t get me far.  They just lead to more questions and more non-answers.  Eventually the “why me’s” turned to “why not me’s?”

That took some time, believe me.  But until I started trusting God with my life, I was hopeless.  I had to come to terms that He was in control and not me.  That’s tough for a girl who uses a by-the-hour daily agenda.  Setting the schedule and planning the activities had always been what I did.  November 15, 2014 changed that.  That is the day that has set the course for every single second of my life since. With that being said, the last five years have simply come down to me learning to trust God with every part of my life.  That includes suffering.  I must trust God’s promises when He says He wishes to bless my post-Dalton life.  I believe it possible that the greatest gifts I will receive in my life will have also entailed the greatest suffering.

Months went by after Dalton passed before I began to understand that God wasn’t telling me everything was going to be fine (like how you and I might define “fine”) and that He was going to bring Dalton back to me.  Not quite.  But what He was trying to tell me what that He loved me and He would still be with me.  In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus gives us the Eight Beatitudes in the Sermon on the Mount and the second one reads “Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted.”  And since I believe everything written in the bible is true, I cling on to that promise. I believe God will comfort the faithful who mourn.  He is fully aware of how hard Dalton’s absence has been on me and wants me to be comforted, to be blessed.  Perhaps that blessing is here on earth, or possibly that blessing is in heaven.  Regardless Jesus proclaimed that day on the Mount that people such as mourners, the meek, those hungry for righteousness, the merciful, and peacemakers will be blessed because theirs is the kingdom of God.

As I learned to put my absolute complete trust in the Lord, I discovered my faith had to be founded on the character of God Himself.  It can feel a bit contradictory when I think about how God loves me but he also allows terrible things to happen to me.  As much as I want to ask God, “Why?” I will simply leave it in His quite capable hands and say, “Okay, Lord.  I don’t understand this and I don’t like it.”  But I really only have two choices – He is either God or He’s not.  I am either held in His Everlasting Arms or I deny Him.  I don’t see that there is any middle ground.  So I trust who He claims to be and accept this cup that has been handed to me. Because it doesn’t matter what’s in that cup anymore – be it pain, sorrow, suffering, grief, along with great joy and happiness as well – I am willing to take it because I trust Him.

A couple of days ago, Dawsyn and I lay in her bed snuggling. I mentioned that Dalton used to watch tv and lay on the couch exactly where her bed is located today.  She looked pretty confused and asked how that was possible.  I told her it was a long time ago.  That’s when her eyebrows furrowed, her eyes narrowed as if she was trying to process the thought as best as she could, and as she tilted her little head, she asked inquisitively, “Where was me, mommy?”  It shouldn’t necessarily have, but that innocent question got me thinking about so much. Like at what age will she put two and two together and figure out that if Dalton hadn’t died, she would never be here?  And how will she process that information once she is old enough to understand?

I suppose it all goes back to this idea of the cup of suffering and its counterpart, blessing.  We will have to teach her in a sensitive manner about how we never, ever wanted her brother to die.  But since we can’t change that, we had to place our trust in God and remember that He is still in control.  And because of our unwavering faith in Him, He has blessed us with her. Which leads me to this thought I have everytime my mind tries to wrap itself around it all.  I often fantasize about what it will be like when I get to look Jesus in the eye and let Him hold me on my first day in eternity.  Just recently, though, another idea keeps invading my post-earthly life thought process.  Imagine that day that Dawsyn goes to heaven and looks into the eyes of the brother that died so she could live.  I hope Jesus gives them plenty of alone time for that first meeting because I have a feeling they are going to need it.  I picture Dalton grinning, patting her and saying thank you to his sister for saving the lives of his family after he left.  And I can see Dawsyn (hopefully a Dawsyn that has lived a long, fulfilled life) standing there overcome with emotions as she thanks him for being the catalyst that allowed God to work her into our lives as a blessing for our family after that fateful November day in 2014.

Ugo Bassi, a Roman Catholic priest from the early 1800’s, once said, “Measure your life by loss and not by gain, not by the wine drunk, but by the wine poured forth.  For love’s strength standeth in love’s sacrifice, and he that suffereth most hath most to give.”  I love you, Dalton, and I miss you.  I’m 1,825 days closer to seeing you.