November 16, 2014. Troy and I woke up right about the same time. We had both been in this bizarre twilight sleep throughout the night. It wasn’t heavy enough to count as actual sleep, but sufficiently deep to know we were not conscious. Only hours had passed since we closed our eyes out of emotional and physical fatigue. Tormented. Lost. Empty. My thoughts were all over the place as I looked at my husband. I wanted him to make it better. He said nothing, magnifying everything. So there is was. The early morning routine had officially been born where I woke up crying slow, sad tears that nobody could fix.

Ashlie Jack came to visit me in those raw initial days. I want to say it was after Dalton’s funeral, but like so many of my memories from that period of time, it is too murky to remember. I had never met her before and yet there she was in my living room for the first time. Ashlie had lost her only child, a daughter, 6 or 7 years prior. I’m sure she spoke wise, comforting words as only a person who has lost a child can speak to a newly bereaved mother. Ashlie, forgive me for not remembering what they were. Nonetheless, it will never be what she said that made the biggest impression on me.

It was her demeanor. The common denominator between the two of us was that we both had lost children. Where we differed was where we were in that walk. I was defeated. Despondent. I saw nothing other than the here and now. My world was dark. I looked at her and I saw empathy, but I didn’t see any of that. Her eyes didn’t look dead. In fact they were almost irritatingly bright. And that damn smile. It was big enough for both of us.

In the coming weeks, Ashlie would mentor me through the gloomiest days of my life. We talked of Bayleigh and Dalton and wondered if they had met in heaven. I wanted an acceleration through the pain pill and she would tenderly remind they didn’t exist. She taught me patience and grace by personifying those attributes. I would push her and ask her how she knew Bayleigh was in heaven. With that big Ashlie Jack smile, she would say, “You know, I just know.”

November 1, 2023. Keely texts me that Conner’s older brother has passed away. Of course I have 20 questions, but she can’t talk because she’s on the phone with Conner. When she finally is able to visit about it, the details emerge, and all I can think about are the Frankamps. Those first moments. That shock. The denial. Their horror.

I started asking friends to pray for this family who’s world was crumbling. I hadn’t known Kevin all that well. In spite of that, my heart broke first for Conner receiving the news so far away. Next my thoughts turned towards their parents and I felt my own scab being ripped off the wound I thought was mostly healed.

Over the next few days, I felt the physical pain that accompanies grief. And this was SECOND HAND grief. I mean, is that even a thing? My stomach ached and my head would not stop pounding. Even that weird heartburn sensation came back for a short period. With every new wave of discomfort, I thought about what the Frankamps were experiencing. Most specifically, I thought of Conner and Kevin’s mother, Karen.

Kevin’s funeral came and I went to support Keely and the family. My mind rewound to two months prior and worshipping with Kevin at a First Wednesday service and how Keely said he had tears coming out of his eyes. That beautiful thought flooded my mind as I pulled into the parking lot of Chapel Hill. I walked over to where Keely was parked, and we walked in together. Planning on going straight to my seat, I have to admit I panicked a second when Keely said she wanted me to go with her to see the family. Flashbacks of those final seconds before we closed Dalton’s casket came flooding back. That fog. I couldn’t see through the hovering fog that day. Nothing was right about it.

Understanding the intimacy of the moment, I wanted to slink inconspicuously into a corner where the family had gathered in the basement of the church. If heartbroken were a noun, it was that room. Keely found Conner and I did a quick survey for Karen. Locating her was easy because she was already on her way towards me. We held one another. All I could think about while holding her was to say nothing and be there. There’s nothing she needed to hear from me. People say dumb things when trying to comfort a hurting person. Her son was gone and all was wrong.

Nine years ago, I didn’t know how I would survive the loss of my son. My view of the world was behind the blurry lens of my tears. I couldn’t even pray without it culminating in despair. Joy felt so far away.

This is the part where the writer says, “Then God entered the picture.” Only that would be incorrect. To suggest He entered the picture only after my tragedy unfolded would be inaccurate and foolish. He knew I needed the support of believers and He delivered. My family. Ashlie. Traci. Cheryl and Lori. My precious small group. Taryn. I would need 10 more paragraphs to describe how Taryn has impacted my life, but something tells me she already knows. All of these people were put into my life for a purpose and they were the hands and feet of God when I needed them the most. I pray I can be one of those people to others who are hurting.

I just realized how long winded this blog post is and how it needs a good wrapping up.

Here it is.

Jesus.

He gave me what I needed, when I needed it. There were days when He was silent. Those always felt the loudest to me. Some days He felt so close, it was as though I could reach out and touch His finger in our own rendition of a Michelangelo painting. They were my favorite. But most days fell somewhere in the middle. Immersed in that middle were the people that ministered to me, cherry-picked by a God that loved me enough to put them there.

What a gift.