DD,

You left us 427 days ago. Today was the 427^th day in a row I haven’t had to stress over being 5 minutes late to pick you up from a practice after you call me twice asking me if “I’m almost there.” Tonight will be the 427^th night I lay my head down to sleep knowing you are not tucked in the bed upstairs you shared with Colton. And, after 427 days, your absence isn’t felt any less than it did the first night we came home from the hospital.

What I miss the most about you is your ability to make people laugh. Though generally your humor bordered on various stages of inappropriateness, it never failed to entertain me. Ever since you were very little, you had a wit and charm about you that people found alluring. Of course there were times you used it to your advantage when it came to getting yourself out of trouble. But, more often than not, you used your humor to make people feel good. My favorite place to watch you smile was when you were hanging out with your teammates in the dugout of a baseball game. Your laugh could be heard from beyond the outfield fence as you joked with and encouraged the other boys. I wonder if they ever miss your laugh too.

What I wish I had said to you on the last day I saw you alive was I am proud of you. I always told you I loved you, but I didn’t say how proud I was of you often enough. I guess I assumed you knew. You, Colton, and Keely are my greatest accomplishments and I could not thank God enough for allowing me to be your mother. From your first steps to your home runs, my heart has overflowed with pride and love for you. There is nothing you ever could have done to make me love you any less.

What is hardest for me now is the wait. I know I will see you again, but the passing of time hurts to a depth that words can’t describe. I want to watch you pitch… now. I want to teach you how to drive a car… now. I want to help you pick out a suit for a formal dance… now. I want to wait for you to fall asleep and then lightly kiss your forehead… tonight. Waiting sucks. How long do I have to wait to hold you again? You might begin preparing yourself for that day because I can’t promise how long I’m going to squeeze you.

What I would like to ask you is to help guide your brother and sister in their earthly lives. Whether that means to intervene in situations yourself or to chat with their guardian angels, please watch over them and keep them safe. Colton is Colton. I have heard you say that a thousand of times. You know he doesn’t open up easily and getting him to talk about you is very, very tough. I can see in his eyes how much he misses you, yet he rarely says your name. Does he talk directly to you? And please help your sister. She has been affected in more ways than I thought possible. The struggle for her is more than day by day. Probably more like minute to minute. Please help guide her friends to be patient with her and her with them. You knew how to handle her the best. Who can forget the infamous snapchat from you… “Guess who’s sister is being bitchy?”

I’m keeping my memories of you alive by blogging and telling stories of you to people I meet. Fortunately, I have enough DD Palmer stories to keep blogging for a long time. You gave me a lot of material in 13 years. If I asked your classmates and teammates, my guess is they would say the same thing. I especially love hearing the girls talk about their favorite DD moments. Did you notice Bailey Pennycuff came to the candlelight service at compassionate friends in December? That beautiful girl misses you so much. I know how you felt about her.

Dad and I love you so much. Being your parents was the best honor in the world. We are blessed.

 

Mom

 

 

P.S. Colton hasn’t stopped smiling since the Broncos won.

Late one evening, about a week before Christmas, I was wrapping presents in my bedroom and realized I was out of paper. I tried to recall where I had put my leftover wrapping paper from the year before. Caught up in the spirit of the holidays, my demeanor was euphoric that night. I only had a couple presents left to wrap and then I would be done for the year. Leaving Troy to snuggle with our dogs in the bedroom, I went on a search that took me to the hallway drawers near the kitchen. The very first drawer I opened was full of birthday and Christmas wrapping paper. Bingo. I reached for the roll in the back and my fingers found something else. It was a brown paper bag with a case number written on the side. Damn it, the bag. I knew what was inside. Days after the accident, I had asked my sister and sister-n-law to hide it when the sheriff officers brought it to me because I was not stable enough to look at its contents. In an act of curiosity and self-torture, I decided open it. There they were. A single Adidas flip-flop, the orange gloves with the grass stuck to them, and the ski mask that had been obviously cut off of his head. I tenderly took the mask out and turned it over and inside out. Taking a deep breath in, I trace my fingers over the blood, hair and tissue of my son that still remained on the inside of that mask. I crouched down in that hallway and wept for some time, doing my best to ride out the tempestuous storm of grief that tried to devour me whole.

Several times over the past couple months, people who had never met Dalton have shared with me what a difference he has made in their lives. It intrigues me. How can that be? Do they realize he’s been gone for over a year now? As I sit here on my laptop at the site of the accident, I wonder what it is about him that is still having an effect on people 14 months after his death.

In early December, a gentleman in his early 40’s asked to stop by our house to visit with Troy and I. He was raised in Augusta and we had many mutual friends. We had no idea what the visit was going to be about. Brian looked a bit nervous when we first sat down to talk, but he settled in after a few minutes. His purpose for stopping by was to share with us how he felt a spiritual bond with Dalton. Struggling to explain it in words, Brian said he had this overwhelming feeling like he knew Dalton. Through knowing our son in a spiritual sense, he felt his faith growing and he was coming to peace with many aspects of his life. How does one explain that?

On Christmas Eve, a freshman at Trinity Academy in Wichita, wrote this on Dalton’s last Instagram post: “Dalton, your physical death was just the beginning. The work that you are doing in the hearts and minds of those you loved has gone far beyond anything any human can fathom of doing alive. I stand as a living example. I have never met you, but today, I am sure I know you. I know your story, and I know how God has worked through you. You have impacted far more lives than you ever dreamed of while you were here.” That was only one part of the young man’s comment.

Another inexplicable difference Dalton has made in someone’s life was recently when the mother of one of his good friend’s called me to say she had been given the opportunity to study in an exotic location as part of working towards a dream occupation. How it came to be was a beautiful story of many difference pieces of a puzzle coming together to fit just right. For whatever reason, Bethany called me as soon as she got the news. Through hurried speech, I was able to make out most of it. Something told her that Dalton played a part in this new adventure she was about to undertake and she couldn’t hold back the urge to share the news. She wasn’t sure why she had the feeling, it was just there. While I listened on the phone, I couldn’t help but wonder if it were possible that Dalton was able to aid people on earth to receive blessings such as Bethany’s? I didn’t understand how that would be feasible, yet I wasn’t ready to rule anything out.

Let’s make it clear that my Dalton was a far cry from being a saint in his 13 years. He could be selfish, prideful, and spoiled at times. Those are pretty normal attributes of a teenager I suppose. On the flip side, he was loyal, loving, and very bright. Again, those adjectives could describe many kids. So if you combine those six elements of Dalton you might deduct that he was pretty ordinary. Here is what I have discovered: God loves the ordinary. Like a potter molding his clay, God takes the ordinary and has a tendency to turn them into the extraordinary. After all, weren’t the apostles pretty ordinary guys? How about the more prominent figures of the Old Testament? Born to an undistinguished family, Gideon was used by God to defeat the Midianites after years of oppression with only 300 men. Raised in a farming community as a shepherd boy, David ascended to the position of King of Israel. Although I understand these men were chosen by God to witness to the faith in their flesh, why can’t He continue to minister to His people through the departed? I believe angels do that type of work all the time, but why not the souls of the faithfully departed as well? Who is to say they can’t intervene to a certain degree?

If it were Dalton’s close friends who believed they were experiencing an intimate spiritual connection with him since his passing, then that would make sense. Instead, three people who have had limited contact with him during his earthly life all believe that something wonderful is in store for them through his intercession. I wonder if anyone else has ever felt this way after losing a loved one? As Dalton’s mom, I feel him near me all the time. I talk and cry to him often. I rarely hear his voice speak back, but when I do it has a hint of mild irritation as though to say, “Mom, I said I’m fine.” It comforts me, allowing me to see him differently in my mind today. Most of the time I am able to replace the broken body with the thin white sheet pulled up to the chin with the strong, goofy, always smiling vision of my boy. I see less flash-backs, and more flash-forwards. While the sting of Dalton’s death remains, the promise I have been given to reunite with his resurrected body gives me the strength to endure the present pain and cling to the hope of holding him once again.

Every day is not peaches and cream.  I wish I could say they were, but that would be a lie.  I can say those day are fewer and farther in between.  I have asked myself if I think that has to do with the amount of time that has passed since the accident.  While I suppose that is partially possible, I don’t quite buy into it.  Instead, I credit the good days with obtaining a new level of spiritual maturity.  In the last year, I have decided to submit to the work of the Holy Spirit and allow the fruit of the Spirit to grow within me.  Part of that means I have learned to trust in a plan other than my own.  Don’t get me wrong.  The first thing I intend to ask God in Heaven is why it was Dalton’s time to die.  Until that is revealed to me, I vow to put my faith in God’s plan.  But I don’t have to like it.

Today began pleasant and ended rather turbulent.  Earlier in the day, I had picked out cute new holiday decorations to replace the fall ones at the cemetery.  In the store, everything was jolly and bright.  Women crowded the aisles of Hobby Lobby searching for the perfect ornaments to trim their trees and wreaths to adorn their front doors with.  Heck, I was caught up in the hustle and bustle of it all myself and selected two large sparkly red bows to embellish my front doors.  I navigated my way to the aisle where the cheerful metal signs are that you stake into the ground.  I watched ladies sift through the selections of snowmen, gingerbread men, and nutcrackers searching for their favorites.  I wondered where they were going to put them.  Maybe by their mailboxes?  The front porch?  Or perhaps in the landscaping somewhere?  “Excuse me while I look for mine,” the voice in my head said.  “I have to find the right one to put where my dead son is buried.”  My friend, Cheryl, suggested the nutcracker guy.  I chose a snowman instead, deciding Dalton would most likely think the nutcracker was freaky looking.

My intentions of switching out the decorations at the cemetery were pretty straight-forward.  Drive out there.  Gather up the glittery leaves and pumpkins, the scarecrow on a stick, and toss them into the back of my car.  Then drive the stakes of the new holiday trinkets into the ground, say a quick prayer, and head back home.  Only it didn’t exactly go according to my plan.  I got out of my car and noticed that recent moisture in the area had invited new sprouts of grass to shoot up all over the top of DD’s grave.  Wonderful.  Now it didn’t look so fresh anymore.  My son’s grave has begun to look like all the other ones out there.  Like it has been there awhile.  How can that be?  He was just here.  I can still hear his raspy voice and feel his hair under my hands as I rub his head.  How in the hell is he under all that dirt and grass?  Much like one of Dalton’s pitches, the anger came in hard and fast.  Soon enough, I had every fall decoration plucked out of the ground… and thrown in a million different directions.  The poor scarecrow was hurled the farthest probably.  I believe some dirt and grass may have gone along with him.  I didn’t care if anyone was watching.  If they were, it was in their best interest to keep their distance too.

I prayed for God to drop me a baseball bat from Heaven.  Obviously, He didn’t.  But that didn’t stop me from wishing for one.  I was really angry.  Angry enough to envision smashing everything in front of me.  I dropped down to my knees in the soft dirt and the anger faded into tears.  That is when the baseball bat memory hit me.  It was the spring of 2012.  I had just bought Dalton a new baseball bat.  He was practicing swinging it in the kitchen.  Not a casual, slow-motion type swing.  I’m talking a full blown Mike Moustakas power stroke.  I told him to go outside to practice swinging because he was going to break something in the house.  He did it again.  In a raised voice, I warned him again not to swing his new bat in the house.  He had already been trying my patience that day with a whole list of other annoyances.  Right then he made sure he caught my full attention before he took one last air-splitting swing, about 3x as hard and fast as the previous ones.  I stopped everything I was doing and took off after him.  I still remember the clanking sound of his bat skimming across my tile floors as though he had just hit a line drive and was taking off to first base.  He was laughing and running at the same time.  I chased him through the dining room, living room, hallway, and across the pool room to my bathroom.  He must have known I was about to catch him because he slammed the sliding glass door to my bathroom in my face.  I could see him high-tailing it past my shower and into my closet.  I threw open the sliding glass door, fuming, and barefoot I rushed in behind him.  Only I didn’t realize my bathroom floor was still soaking wet from when I had given the dogs their baths earlier.  My feet came up right underneath me and I went crashing onto my side and smashed my body up against the vanity.  I was screaming and swearing.  Above my cursing, I could hear the sound of Dalton’s uncontrollable laughter coming from my closet.  I slowly got up and hobbled into where he was.  He was doubled over under my shoe rack laughing harder than I had ever seen him.  Tears were already falling down his cheeks and he was clutching his stomach.  All I could think was, “How do I spank that?”

So I picked myself up off the ground at the cemetery today.  I brushed the loose dirt off my sweatpants and I pushed the stake of the silly little snowman into the new grass. Then I looked up towards Heaven with gratitude and thanked God for another priceless memory.

“Sharing tales of those we’ve lost is how we keep from really losing them.”

~ Mitch Albom, For One More Day

 

Five days before the accident, I sent Dalton four nagging text messages in a row about cleaning the loft and not taking food upstairs. He replied with a single word, “ok.” Around twenty-four hours after his reply I would send him nearly identical messages. Except that Tuesday instead of answering my texts, he would walk past me in the kitchen while holding his gaze steady on my eyes, carrying two armfuls of food and drink trash. Never looking away, he grabbed ahold of the handle to the pull out trash cabinet with his pinky finger and dumped the garbage in there with a thud. In his quintessential matter-of-fact tone, he said three words before turning around to walk out of the kitchen. “Calm down, Jenny.”

On the morning of Thursday, November 13, as Dalton was eating his pop tart for breakfast, I would text him at 6:36am to tell him I wasn’t feeling well and that his dad was going to take him to school. I regret that decision to stay in bed because it would have gained me about 23 more minutes of spending time with my son. What I would give to spend 23 minutes alone with him today. Ironically, though, my decision to let Troy take DD to school that day allowed for them to spend their last car ride together as father and son. Troy can’t recall specifically what they talked about, but he remembers how it felt. Dalton rubbed Troy’s neck while he drove (a task Troy has manipulating all of us into doing for years) and then he traced the veins on his dad’s right arm while he read him inappropriate jokes off of his phone.

I text Dalton on the morning of the accident, “If you bring food upstairs again, you won’t have a guest over for 2 months.” We both knew it wasn’t true. Like the ones before, it went ignored. Kind of like the one I sent at 1:39pm on Saturday, November 15^th when I wrote in capital letters, “SLOW DOWN” after seeing him whiz by me on a ranger.

I catch myself time to time reflecting on the horrible details of that day. Most of the time I can replace a negative image with a positive one. But sometimes I can’t. The one that haunts me the most is seeing Dalton for the first time in the hospital laying in that bed. Or was it a table? How could someone so full of life suddenly be eradicated of all that makes him a living, breathing being in a matter of minutes? We had JUST talked. I had JUST seen him. And then as rapidly as the eye blinks or a hummingbird’s wing flutters, my son was gone. I couldn’t beg him back. I couldn’t pray him back.

In the days following the funeral, I yearned for my own death. Like the shepherd in the Parable of the Lost Sheep, I only wanted to find my lost child. Colton and Keely were safe and at home, but Dalton could not be found. I was unable to imagine in my mind where he was or what he was doing. The physical toll that our separation had on me only increased by the day. Eating was never much more than a passing thought. Why should I be able to eat when my son couldn’t? Laughing was inconceivable. How could I show joy when DD wasn’t here to be part of it? I recall asking my sister in law, Leah, for ideas of medicines I could try to treat heartburn because I actually attributed the burning feeling in my chest to that condition. I wouldn’t know until later that what I was experiencing was my heart breaking. Around 3-4 times a day, I would freeze up and wonder if I were having mini heart-attacks. They would turn out to be panic attacks.

In these early days, I would put off getting our mail until it was dark out. Our mailbox is right off a busy highway and I didn’t want to be seen by people during the daylight hours. One night after I had grabbed our mail out of our mailbox, I stood on the shoulder and watched mesmerized the flow of cars whipping by me in the darkness. Before my mind was even aware of what my body was doing, I had taken about 4 or 5 steps into the first lane of traffic. I took a few shallow breaths and steadily took a couple more. I started visualizing how easy it would be. The sky was so dark and I was wearing dark clothing. In a matter of seconds, I could remain standing right where I was and be smashed into 100 broken pieces by the unsuspecting driver on his way home to dinner with his family. Figuring I would probably get clipped by a car who sees me at the last moment, leaving me alive but in a vegetable-like state, I walked back up to my driveway clutching my mail. That would be the first of several times I would plot a myriad of ways to end my life.

One of the most difficult realities I faced on the day of the accident was that I personally had no control over what was happening. I assumed my child was in pain (and like most parents) I wanted to take that pain away. Beginning about two months after the accident, I inadvertently found a way in which I could manage the pain. It wasn’t Dalton’s pain; it was my own. But I could make it start or stop at my command. It began with his signature and a simple cross on my left wrist. Buzz… the needle of the tattoo gun hummed loudly as my skin felt like it was being burnt by a razor sharp cat claw. The second the artist was done and had bandaged my wrist, I was sorry it was over. The pain had been so welcomed. Never before had I received physical discomfort with more willingness. And so it began. 30+ hours of controlled pain on my back later, I had quite the art piece. Keely would give me unapproving looks after I would return from the tattoo parlor and Troy would just sort of shake his head. But everyone knew to let me be. I embraced every puncture of my skin because it made me feel back in control of something. Now I can say I proudly adorn some of the most exquisite art I have ever seen done by a talented and professional artist I respect. Between my shoulder blades I have a white dove symbolizing the Holy Spirit set in stained glass of red, yellow and orange. Jesus as the Good Shepherd in stained glass of blues and greens rests on my left shoulder. On my right shoulder I have the Virgin Mary cradling the infant Jesus with more stained glass background of blues and greens. Below the Holy Spirit tattoo I have a purple cross. To finish off the piece, I chose olive branches to frame the cross on each side to denote peace. My friends like to say they feel like they are sitting in church when they look at me from behind. Overall, it was a satisfying conclusion to my art, but a testimony of how far I’d come since my darkest days.

It is unfeasible to think I can fully sum up how much life has changed in this last year. There have been physical transformations along with emotional ones. Unlike before the accident, I have resolved to accept and embrace myself for who I am. Maybe it is because of all of the tears I’ve shed or maybe it’s because of my age, but I can see a year of stress and grief taking its toll on my body. The wrinkles are more pronounced in my face and the shadowing of dark circles under my eyes are a telltale sign of suffering. Not only am I not offended by them, I no longer wear much make up to conceal them. I am a grieving parent. Furthermore, I have packed on a few extra pounds during the process as well. Judge me if you will, but if I want that double-layered chocolate cake dessert after dinner, I’m eating it. Then keep an eye on yours because I might reach for it too. As for my mental state, I look forward to the days of not having to call in refills to treat depression, anxiety and sleeplessness. But it is not that time yet. For now I will allow modern medicine to do its thing.

I want to express my gratitude to those who have walked alongside me in this first-year journey. To all of Dalton’s teachers and friend’s parents who have sent us cards and letters, I greatly appreciate them. I have read them all and cried. Knowing how much you care warms my heart. To my “rock girlfriends” (Shannon, Missy, Lori and Cheryl) I couldn’t have come this far without you four. However, some newer friendships have blossomed around less predictable corners along the way. First, I have to thank my friend Ashlie for the gift of courage. Ashlie gave me hope when I had none. She also taught me that I owed no explanation to anyone if I wanted to wear sweatpants every single day. Ashlie serves as a template for me how to handle a tragedy with grace.

I would also like to credit my friend and hairdresser, Shawn, for building me up over and over. I have walked into the Sami Halaseh Salon several times in the past year about 3 days overdue for a shower and looking like I just rolled out of bed (which is very possible). With those twinkling brown eyes of hers, Shawn would smile and hug me tight. A good hairdresser is more like a life coach in some ways.

I credit my sanity to my friend Traci who text me every single day and asked me, “How was your day today?” I owe her more than I can repay. One of the most desirable traits a friend can have is the ability to be a good listener. Traci has never once tried to fix anything. She simply gives me an outlet for my feelings. I tell her when I’ve had an awesome day, but feel guilty for having fun without DD. She reminds me of all the ways Dalton lived joyously and how he would want that same thing for me. In those fresh months after the accident, I would tell Traci that I didn’t think I could function again as a mother without touching the face of my youngest child and looking into his eyes. It was in those times that Traci would encourage me by forcing me to hold onto the precious 13 years I did get to spend with DD.

Lastly, I want to thank my friend Erica. Erica is authenticity with no inhibition. Brazen and quick-witted, there is nothing pretentious about her. I can tell her anything and know she is going to give me pragmatic advice. She offers me the freedom to be myself and asks nothing in return. For holding my hand through that first long tattoo session and for always ordering my food for me because I’m late, I love you Erica. And before I take my last breath on earth, I will lead you to faith in Christ.

Dalton entered eternal life on a Saturday. Ironically, in some sense, every day is like Saturday to me now. Think about it. Jesus was crucified on a Friday. The tomb was covered with a heavy rock after He was laid to rest. Imagine the agony His followers felt as they waited all day Saturday for the messiah to return. There is little doubt that they grieved the loss of their friend and leader. We talk so much about Friday when Christ was crucified, as well as Sunday when He rose. But little is said about what happened in-between. Saturday was a day of waiting for something great to happen. That is how I wake up every day. Each day I remind myself of the promise Jesus made to you and I. He says He will return and offer eternal life to us all should we accept it. And Jesus always keeps His promises.

DD, momma loves you.

The day I packed up Dalton’s clothes to store in the basement was hard.  When I stowed away his bathroom and school supplies, it was even more arduous.  Yesterday, as I was about to box up his childhood books, I discovered the process was the most grueling of the three tasks.  I have been trying to decide why.

From a very early age, I read to Dalton a lot.  Part of it was the teacher in me I suppose.  The other part stems from the inner nerd in me.  In middle school, I memorized Edgar Allen Poe. My freshman history teacher once told me, “Wow you really are a geek,” when he saw my copy of Rush Limbaugh’s The Way Things Ought to Be on my desk.  By my sophomore year in high school, I had read all of Shakespeare’s plays for fun.  You get the idea.

Dalton rarely stayed still once he started crawling.  Getting him to stay seated on my lap for an entire book was a real chore.  That didn’t stop me.  I would crawl on the ground beside him and attempt to get his attention long enough to read him another page of Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown.  By the time he was about three, there was one book he loved the most.  Over and over he wanted me to read him No, David! by David Shannon.  Except he changed the title to No, DD!  There was the page “DD, raise your hand!” as the little boy blurted out an answer in school.  Another page depicted the boy playing baseball in the living room as it read, “Not in the house, DD!”  I was convinced both of these scenes would be premonitions of what life with Dalton was going to be like.  And I was right.

When Dalton was scared to go to pre-school like a big boy, I read him The Kissing Hand by Audrey Penn.  Just like the little raccoon’s mother did in the story, I placed a kiss on the inside of Dalton’s palm and folded his fingertips in to hold it in place.  He smiled as I told him all he had to do was press his hand to his cheek if he gets sad and to remember that I loved him.  I will have to ask Mrs. Mercer if that worked.

Continuing to sift through Dalton’s childhood books yesterday, I came across the pre-teen book Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark by Alvin Schwartz.  I found myself smiling through tears as I conjured up an image of my step-dad Richard with Colton, Keely, DD and all the neighborhood kids piled into his van on many dark weekend nights (yes I know how creepy that sounds).  Rich would use a flashlight and read them scary stories from the book as they laughed and screamed.  Every time he would start to read “The Toe,” DD would bolt out of the van and come and find me.  He wasn’t having that.

One of the last books Dalton ever read was The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas and Auguste Maquet.  The novel must have intrigued him because he couldn’t stop giving me a play by play of each chapter in the car after school.  He made me unbelievably proud to listen to his twelve year old interpretation of a story full of hope, righteousness, retaliation, grace, and forgiveness.  I couldn’t wait till he entered high school so we could discuss classics like Animal Farm and The Odyssey.  I’m sure he wasn’t quite as enthusiastic as I was.

I placed each book into a Rubbermaid tub and was about to organize it alongside DD’s other possessions in the basement.  Then I stopped.  One by one, I took the books out of the container and organized them back on the shelves.  I arranged the picture books, the “easy-reader” books, and the chapter books all together in perfect order.  It was not their time to go.  Flipping through them doesn’t make me languish anymore.  Instead, they make me feel grateful. The books are yet another example of a life well lived.  Looking at them represents my boy at all ages.  The memories are resting on those shelves waiting on me to open them up when I need them.

The stars on high are shining bright —

Sweet dreams, my darling, sleep well…

Good night!

“Time for Bed” by Mem Fox (read ineffectively to my son many, many nights)

Last February I traveled to California with my daughter and my friends Lori, Cheryl, Shannon and Missy.  The opportunity to get away for a few days sounded too good to turn down.  And who turns down a trip to Beverly Hills?  The first night was surreal.  We had dinner at Lisa Vanderpump’s upscale Italian restaurant called Pump.  It was the perfect venue for my friend Cheryl because she is a major Lisa stalker.  As luck would have it, Cheryl’s dream would come true and she got to meet Lisa, along with her husband, Ken, and little dog, Giggy.  The whole thing was entertaining to say the least.

The next day we decided to shop down on Rodeo Drive.  Missy made sure she outlined the attire for the day.  Apparently my sweats and Shannon’s tennis shoes were not “Rodeo Drive approved” in Missy’s handbook.  Once we all met the criteria for our shopping outfits, we headed out.  Needless to say, we did considerably more “looking” than “shopping” that day.  If any of you have ever been on Rodeo Drive, you know what I mean.

Needing some afternoon caffeine, we walked into a cute little coffeehouse/bakery just off the strip.  Standing in line to order my coffee, I noticed an older gentleman sitting by himself.  After paying for my coffee, I glanced back over at the man and saw him smiling at me.  He was somewhere between my dad’s and grandpa’s age if I were guessing.  I remember him looking slightly foreign (perhaps Italian).  As I smiled back, there was something about him I liked.  He had warm eyes and large hands.  Around his neck hung a modest gold chain and crucifix.  You certainly don’t have to be a Catholic to wear a crucifix, but somehow I knew he was.  I told him his crucifix was beautiful and he responded by pulling a chair out beside him, motioning for me to sit down.  Without a moment’s hesitation, I took a seat across from him.  I can only imagine what my friends were thinking at this point.

I had a necklace on that day of my own.  It had a picture of Dalton.  As I sat down, I saw the stranger look at it.  We started with small talk.  He was a Catholic (duh).  His parish was only blocks away from the coffeehouse and he said he had just finished packaging food there for the hungry.  We visited about his involvement at his church quite awhile (something he was obviously very proud of).  Every now and then he would look at my necklace with Dalton on it.  We were briefly interrupted when his phone rang.  He looked down at it and said it was his pastor.  I remember how his eyes twinkled while he spoke.  I only looked away briefly to see my friends give me a motion like they were going to leave us alone for awhile.  I guessed they assumed he wasn’t going to kidnap me or anything crazy.

“Ok, Father.  I’ll see you in the morning,” the man said before hanging up his phone.  He apologized for the interruption and cupped both of my hands in his.  Instead of creeping me out, I sat transfixed in the moment and didn’t resist.  I had told him my name by this point.  I could feel his hands trembling as a person’s might who has Parkinson’s Disease.  I hadn’t noticed that before.  A smile of love and confidence crept on his face and he just stared at me for a couple long seconds.  “Jenny, you need to know that your son is okay.”

Since Dalton’s accident, many people have given me condolences saying that DD is in heaven and that he is happy.  That seems to be a typical reassuring thing to say when someone is grieving the loss of a loved one.  What set this stranger’s words apart from others was that the topic of my son’s death had never been mentioned while we were sitting there visiting in that coffeehouse.  With his eyes closed, the man proceeded to tell me of various apparitions he believes he has seen of the Virgin Mother over the years.  If he was making them up, he was an excellent storyteller.  HIs descriptions left no detail unspoken.  He told of the detail down to the embroidery on Mary’s gown and veil and how the sweet smell of roses seemed to be encompassing her with each vision.  I listened like a student hungry for knowledge, unable to get enough.

Very, very slowly the man opened his eyes.  I’m sure my mouth was hanging open in awe.  Composing myself, I asked him a question.  “How do you know he is okay?”  The smile returned to his face.  “Because I see him.  He is smiling, ” he replied.  I buried my face in my hands and cried in the middle of this coffeehouse in Beverly Hills, California.  I never asked where he saw him and with whom.  I didn’t need to.  All that mattered was that some divine intervention felt like it had occurred in order to reassure me of my son’s salvation.  Who wouldn’t be smiling if they were in the presence of God?

A couple weeks after my trip to California, an ex-student from St. Thomas Aquinas sent me a message through facebook and she told me of this song called “It Is Well.”  I googled it and found a version sung by Bethel Music.  I played it over and over and over some more.  Each time I listened to the lyrics, I felt the Holy Spirit entering into my soul.  Beginning with that “chance encounter” in Beverly Hills, my healing started to take place thanks to the comfort that can only be provided by the Holy Spirit.  I can’t bring Dalton back, but I can trust in a Lord who promises to heal the broken-hearted.

Far be it from me to not believe

Even when my eyes can’t see.

And this mountain that’s in front of me

Will be thrown into the midst of the sea.

Through it all, through it all

My eyes are on You

Through it all, through it all

It is well.

(Verse 2 and chorus of It Is Well by Bethel Music)

So what does this mean to me?  It means that even though I never, ever wanted to be in this position, I will take comfort from a God who gives it freely and abundantly.  All I have to do is accept it.  My faith in Him is strong and I truly believe He has everything handled.  He will weave this tragedy into something great, something I never expected. Knowing I must keep the faith in an all-good, all sovereign God, it is well with my soul.

At 9:11 tonight I walked outside to take in the beginning of the total eclipse.  I stood there marveling at the beauty of it.  Immediately I wondered if the saints in heaven could see it.  I didn’t dwell on it long because I quickly thought how trivial a super moon on planet earth would be compared to being in the constant presence of God.  After all, it only took God a single day to create the sun, moon and stars.  Small potatoes for Him.

As I ponder the creation of the world, some important ideas hit me.  The first is that I was loved enough by the Creator to be thought into existence.  I wasn’t an accident.  Like all of you, I was created for a purpose.  Dalton was created for a purpose.  Jesus exists for a purpose.  That is what brings me to the second point.  I want to tell you why Jesus matters.

The way I see it, you have two options.  You can believe this world is all an accident and “poof” the seven billion billion billion atoms it took to create the first human being was all by chance.  Also with that theory, you must buy into the idea that the earth, space, time, atmosphere, and all the animals arrived here accidentally.  Your entire existence is coincidence.  When you die, everything fades to black and you return to the nothingness of which you first began.  Perhaps you are “reincarnated” or you reach nirvana.  Either way, you are absent from God.

Your second choice is to put your faith in what you can’t see with your eyes, but can feel with your heart.  You know it’s there.  Put your faith in Jesus and what He accomplished on the cross.  Think about it.  Everything comes down to the resurrection.  If Jesus was just a man and wasn’t resurrected, then this is all a fraud.  And if this “Jesus thing” is all a fraud, the Bible is nothing more than a good Hollywood blockbuster and many, many men and women died proclaiming the words of an imposter.  Does that sound as unlikely to you as it does me?  Would we be willing to die for Christ today like the ones did who walked with him, talked with him, and watched him perform miracles?  The apostle Peter suffered a horrible death.  However, he didn’t even feel worthy of dying in the same fashion as Jesus.  He asked to be crucified upside-down.  After encountering the resurrected Jesus on the road to Damascus, Paul (then Saul) was converted and became one of most influential Christian leaders we have ever known.  He would eventually be beheaded.  Shortly after turning Jesus over to the Sanhedrin for thirty pieces of silver, Judas Iscariot hung himself out of anguish and shame.  Would they, as well as many other martyr’s, have done this for a fake?

Jesus is the reason you can see that grandfather again that thought you could do no wrong.  Jesus is the reason you can walk and talk again one day with that brother that died too soon.  Jesus is the reason you can hold that baby girl again who never took her first breath.  Jesus is the reason you can look again into the eyes of your mother who lost her battle to cancer.  Jesus is the reason you can have a second chance with that baby you aborted when you thought you had no other choice.  Jesus is the reason you can ask forgiveness from the young man whose life you selfishly took.  Jesus is the reason that once again you can crawl back up into the lap of the dad whose smile you can see every time you close your eyes.  Jesus is the reason you will laugh again with that high school friend who died in a car wreck your junior year.  Jesus is the reason I can put my arms around Dalton again one day and kiss his head.  It is because Jesus matters.  But you must make a choice.

If there ever was a time to commit yourself to Jesus, the time is now.  Turn on the news.  Look at what the radicals are doing to Christians.  They hate us.  They want us dead.  Your tomorrow is not promised.  Get right with God now.  I once heard Rick Warren say that if you took a ruler and measured the distance between the U.S. and China, our life on this earth would be like one little millimeter dash.  Our life in eternity is all that other distance.  What does that tell you?  I know what it tells me.  I was made for a purpose.  I am called to be a disciple of Christ.  If God wants me to share the gospel and He and I both know how flawed I am, He can call you too.  Knowing nothing about this person called Christ, Peter and Andrew ditched their fishing nets and decided to become fishers of men.  Why?  Did Jesus see them as being superior to other fishermen?  Of course not. He simply told them to come follow him.  Out of pure faith, Peter and Andrew made the choice to follow Jesus that day and they would go on to be the first of the twelve apostles.

Last weekend my best friend’s daughter, Caydie Beth, went public with her faith at New Spring in Wichita.  I didn’t get to see it live, but I saw the video of the baptism.  Caydie said that Dalton’s accident had a profound effect on her since she had been very close with him since they were young.  She knew Dalton had been baptized long before his accident, but the reality of never knowing how much time is promised to you on this earth, weighed on Caydie.  She was ready to get on the right side of her salvation.  It was emotional, but beautiful.  I couldn’t help but think that DD was watching in some way.

On Monday evenings at St. James Catholic School in Augusta, we meet as small groups, have a wonderful meal, sing songs of praise, listen to short video and then answer some follow up questions such as about Jesus and why he needs to matter to you.  The name of the program is called Discovering Christ.  Anyone is welcome – not just Catholics.  Bring anyone.  It is from 6:00-8:30pm.

In his book, The Purpose Driven Life, author Rick Warren says, “Everyone wants to be remembered when they’re gone.Ultimately, what matters most will not be what others say about your life but what God says about you,  How will you answer God when he asks, “What did you do with my Son, Jesus Christ? and “What did you do with what I gave you?”

Dear Dalton,

It has been 10 months now and yet it feels like you left us yesterday.  Every memory I have of you alive that day is etched in my mind with these little time stamps.  At 10:25am I text you and said “If you bring food upstairs again, you won’t have a guest over for 2 months.”  We both knew that was a lie.  At 11:47am I told you to stop shooting Tyler with a BB gun because I could hear the sound of the shots, Tyler running, and you laughing.  I reminded you about baseball practice the coming Tuesday from 6-8pm in Darren’s barn at 12:18pm.  I passed you on the ranger at 2:27pm and noticed you didn’t have your seatbelt on and that is when I called you to tell you to buckle up.  At 3pm you whizzed by me to say you just came inside to get a pair of gloves for Tyler.  I have replayed that scene thousands of times in my head in the last 10 months.  You looked cold and your hair was a mess as usual.  You still had on the same clothes that you wore the day before.  Everything about that Saturday was so ordinary.  Finally all consciousness of time fades away from 3:30pm on.

Grandma Peg called me yesterday to ask me if I had thought anymore on a headstone for your gravesite.  I said not really.  I have never drug my feet so badly on a subject.  The thought of your headstone destroys me.  Dad too.  It just feels so final.  I don’t want you to just be another headstone at the cemetery.  It is important to me that people don’t just walk by you and briefly acknowledge your name.  Above all, it’s the little dash between the year you were born and the year you died that bothers me the most.  How can 13 1/2 years be symbolized by a simple dash?

What happened in place of the dash is too much to fit on any headstone.  It began in Dr. Zielke’s office in November 2000 when I first heard your heartbeat and you were the size of a jelly bean.  I remember holding you right after you were born and wondering how the heck you got all that black hair.  After we brought you home, Keely would hold you and kiss your face over and over while she pretended you were her own baby.  When you were 2 years old, I tried to teach you to say your name.  You would point at your chest and say, “DD.”  That nickname would go on to stick your whole life.  Your dad got the brilliant idea of getting you a 4-wheeler power wheel when you were only 3.  Shortly after that, I would find myself stopping traffic and running after you in the street because you would try to drive it to Papa’s house.  Also about that time, you had to be watched every second in Mass.  One day you shimmied through several people to get to the aisle so you could run up to see Father Sam.  He gave you a wink as he was holding the consecrated host high up in the air and never said a word.

Nowhere in the dash of a headstone is everywhere you have been and the things you have done.  People passing by won’t have a clue about all you had the opportunity to do.  You have watched the Cubs play at Wrigley Field. You have fed dolphins at Sea World and been to Universal Studios in Florida and California (not to mention you have been to Disneyworld three times).  Remember how tired you were when we got to our hotel in Shanghai?  Yeah… you slept for 22 hours and then woke up in the middle of the night hungry and ready to sightsee.  Then there was that time in Paris when you were bored out of your mind at the Louvre and you told me to hurry up and look at the Mona Lisa so we could leave.  Naturally you also hurried me to take the family picture in front of the Eiffel Tower so you and Colton could get back to the hotel and “play football.”  More recently, you begged to go to the Great Wolf Lodge.  You spent five hours in the arcade blowing all the cash you got for Christmas.  You traded all your tickets in for some off-brand Beats headphones.  Less than a week after earning those headphones, you left them on the sofa and Jake ate them.  How could anyone forget when the Nicholson’s came to visit us and you were swimming with Brady and Brooke?  You hammered a tennis ball right into Brooke’s face and then told her mother that it wasn’t your fault she had “butter fingers.”   Just yesterday I went to turn on the ceiling fan above the hot tub.  Remember that one?  You and Canon were playing basketball and you threw the ball up so hard it broke off one of my fan blades.  You did a terrible job hiding the missing blade and when I asked you about it you said you weren’t sure what happened and you really thought the ceiling fan just came with four blades.

I know I must design your headstone eventually, and I will.  For now, I’m still stuck thinking about the dash.  So much happened between 2001 and 2014 that can’t fit on a block of cement.  Perhaps that is why I share it all in this blog.  Maybe my purpose is to minister to others about God through you.  I try talking to Dad about you but he can’t.  He just cries.  His dreams for your future are crushed and he misses your face.  He says he no longer expects you to walk into the kitchen and sit down for breakfast with him.  I guess you could say that reality is starting to set in for him.  If there is any way God would allow you to give your dad a sign that you are okay, it would mean everything.  The Father’s Day visit was beyond our expectations.  That made us feel the best we have since the accident.  It might sound crazy, but I still text you and snap chat you.  I tag you on FB posts and I look through your Instagram account frequently.  I know you would be embarrassed about that, but I’m the mom.

DD, please prepare a place for the rest of us that are waiting to join you some day.  I dream about kissing your face and then you milking my fingers because I’ve kissed you.  Does Jesus have Dr. Pepper in Heaven?  You have got to tell me that when I get there.  How about sunflowers seeds?  I miss all of the shells you left inside my freshly made bed when you knew there was no food allowed in the bed.  SURELY there are sunflower seeds in heaven.  Maybe  you have met Grandma Meckel and Sherry.  Tell them both I love them.

Finally I want you know they tried everything to save you.  I just pray it was instant and you felt no pain.  You are still my little boy and I worry about that stuff.  And let’s agree not to stress out too much about the dash for now.

Love,

Momma

P.S. Only with God’s blessing, can you try to send Dad a sign that you are okay?  He needs it.