Wednesday I wrapped up the final day of the Gospel Coalition 2015 down in Orlando, Florida.  The timing of this conference couldn’t have been any better.  My husband’s company had an aviation show down in Miami over these exact dates so I hitched a flight there and back with the GPI gang.  Unfortunately, it fell over the five month anniversary of Dalton’s accident and it would mean spending that day in Orlando without my family.  That part terrified me.

Attending the Gospel Coalition ended up being exactly what my soul needed.  Granted, God and I had a little heart to heart talk prior to this trip.  He told me not to worry about being gone over the anniversary of Dalton’s accident, about not knowing one single person who was going to be there, or to stress over being the only Roman Catholic in a sea of Protestants.  So I took a huge leap of faith and headed to Orlando.  What an experience it would prove to be.

First, let me point out what didn’t matter.  What didn’t matter was what made us different at the conference.  And when I say “different” I mean it goes without saying there are some huge, fundamental belief differences between Catholics and Protestants.  We do not see eye to eye on several major theological issues, and guess what?  It didn’t matter.  It didn’t matter in those three days of worship because for those three days we were all the same.  We were there to share in the good news of the gospel.  There was no bashing of religions, instead, it was a blending together of Christians for one unified purpose.  The focus was on Christ and the kingdom to come.  The theme of the conference was “Coming Home, A New Heaven and New Earth.”  Randy Alcorn, author of Heaven and many other incredible books, was amongst the guest speakers of one of the workshops.

Walking into the conference room by myself on Monday night, I heard a soft spoken voice ask me if I was there alone.  I looked up to see a woman about my age.  I told her I was alone, so we agreed to sit by one another.  It turned out her name was also Jennifer and she had come to the conference solo.  Jennifer was there as a requirement for her eschatology degree.  Eschatology (for those who may not know) is a study of theology that deals with the final events of history and the ultimate destiny of mankind – specifically death, judgment, heaven and hell.  Sitting there waiting for the next speaker to begin, Jennifer and I got to know one another. We learned we both had three children.  Both of us are trying to decide what our “next step in life” is.  And both of us shared a mutual respect and tolerance for other people’s religious beliefs.  My guess is that is why we hit it off so well.

On Tuesday, Jennifer and I attended different workshops, but met up for dinner.  I got to tell her about how I waited for an hour to talk to Randy Alcorn after his presentation.  I told him what an impact his book Heaven had on me after losing my son.  It was critical to me that he knew what an affect his consoling words have on a person who has lost someone they love dearly.  After telling Randy the story about Dalton’s accident, his eyes were full of tears (which of course brought me to tears).  Later, I thought about how many times he has likely heard similar stories and yet he is still moved to tears.  That, my friends, is true compassion.  After I had spoke with Randy, a man asked me to take his picture with the famous author.  I waited to take the picture patiently and listened to this guy’s story.  Like myself, he had endured the unimaginable tragedy of losing a child.  His was a seven year old boy who had lost his battle to a rare form of leukemia.  Let me tell you a secret about when a grieving parent meets another grieving parent – you become connected on the spot.  No one understands the pain unless they have walked in our shoes.  You may think you have, but you don’t have a clue.  It turns out this guy was an evangelical pastor.  He told Randy about what his wife struggles with the most.  More than anything she wrestles with the idea of what her precious boy is doing “now” in the intermediate Heaven.  I felt like I was listening in to my own personal story.  Randy answered the question as he addresses it in his books.  He reassured this grieving father and pastor that scripture tells us that the saints rejoice over each and every sinner who repents on Earth.  So wouldn’t that suggest that the saints in heaven are able to see us when it serves the glory of God?  He went on to explain it isn’t to suggest that the saints are watching our every move from Heaven.  In fact, it most likely is our joys on Earth that God allows the saints to witness from above.

After snapping a picture for this guy, we walked away together and chatted.  He told me even though he and his wife have other children, he longs for the day he gets to be with his departed son on a resurrected Earth.  According to him, the best analogy is as such:  Have you ever lost your child in a crowd?  It doesn’t matter how long they were absent – whether it was twenty seconds or twenty minutes – do you remember that feeling?  I said indeed I had.  One time in Puerto Rico, when he was three years old, I had lost Colton in a busy department store for about half an hour.  Our entire family was searching everywhere for him.  After what felt like eternity, we found him hiding under a clothes rack.  So this guy asked me to recall that feeling when I finally found my child.  I remembered it like it was yesterday.  I was ecstatic, relieved, and blissfully content once again.  Everything had felt like it was in perfect order once again.  Then this father and pastor pointed in my chest and said THAT’S what our reunion with our children will be like.  It will be the ultimate coming home.  I walked into the women’s restroom and tears of joy and heartache streamed down my face.

Tuesday night I was captivated by the preaching of an African American pastor by the name of Voddie Baucham from Grace Family Baptist Church in Spring, TX.  His passion for preaching the gospel gave me chills and made me weep at the same time.  Pastor Baucham preached on Resurrection Life from Corinthians 15:35-58.  He spoke of Paul’s pastoral ministry and how he urged the doubting Corinthians to not be conformed to the world around them and to lead by Christ like examples.  The message was invigorating.  I was moved by the sermon content and the zeal in which it was delivered.  This pastor knew how to get into the hearts of his listeners.  There is something exhilarating to be said of an adrenalized, perspiring African American preacher sharing his love of the gospel to 6,000+ followers of Christ.  Towards the end of Pastor Baucham’s sermon, he spoke of one of the hardest job requirements of being a pastor… giving a eulogy at a funeral.  He talked about the difference between eulogizing for a ninety year old woman who has lived a long life and eulogizing for a child who’s life has ended way too soon.  What do you say to that child’s parents, brothers, and sisters?  What can possibly reassure them?  The answer is clear.  We have to have hope for what we do not see with perseverance and endurance.  We await the day, when we too, look Jesus in the eye while standing in our own flesh.  We put our faith in living on a New Earth in an incorruptible body.  Our suffering is nothing now compared to the glory of what is to come.  Can I get an Amen?

We checked off another first without Dalton over the weekend.  Our first Easter without him.  Now we have made it through several major holidays – Thanksgiving, Christmas, Valentine’s, St. Pat’s Day, and finally Easter.  Next month I will have Mother’s Day and Colton’s graduation.  In two months, Troy will have to face Father’s Day, which also happens to fall on Dalton’s 14th birthday (June 21st).  Whereas I am anxious to get my first year of “withouts” over and done with, it just marks longer time since I have looked my baby in his eyes and told him I love him.

I love Facebook for the straightforward reason I can connect with people on a broad scale (some more than others).  Most the time I truly enjoy it.  Reading about what my high school friends are doing these days or seeing the sweet, smiling faces of my nieces and nephews are simple pleasures for me. Other times, I find it hard to scroll through my newsfeed.  It is bittersweet to see the pictures of my son’s friends and what they are doing.  However, I will avoid social media sometimes for that reason.  Not because I am not happy for them, but because the pain of my own loss runs too deep.  Reading posts from other parents complaining about attending their child’s tiresome activities hurts even deeper.  I would give anything to drive 4 hours to watch my son play baseball all day in the sweltering heat in back to back games.  There is very little I wouldn’t do for 5 minutes of extra time.  My guess is I used to talk the same way before the accident on Facebook.  How quickly our perspectives change when we lose something so sacred to us, something we think is going to last forever.  Imagine not having that out of town tournament to drive to at all.

I was attending a workshop last night at the Spiritual Life Center in Wichita called Discovering Christ.  It’s a program we are excited to start at St. James on evangelization.  We were talking in our small group discussions when a member of our group from St. Elizabeth Ann Seton told us a brief story about a parish priest who was frustrated with his parishioners because every time he would ask a person how they were doing they would respond with a litany of how busy they were.  It wasn’t just certain people that respond this way, according to him.  He reported it was close to 80-90% of every person he would ask.  I don’t know why, but that really bothered me.  I used to do that exact same thing.  If you asked me what I was up to, I would probably give you a low-down on how many baseball/basketball practices I had driven to that week, how many doctors appointments I scheduled, or the little-to-no sleep I got the night before.  My point is that we all think our lives are busier than everyone else’s and that it has to be that way to get through this rat race we call life.  What a deception.

I hate the fact that I don’t have to fill my car up with gas as often, that I spend less time in the grocery store, and that I can sleep in every day now.  None of that is by choice.  It isn’t as great as it sounds, I promise.  My life has slowed down considerably and I have no choice to adapt.  It is no longer about quantity.  Instead, it revolves around quality.  I have decided there is no award for a parent whose son or daughter is a 4 year starting varsity athlete other than a pat on his/her own back. Our focus should be on our eternal life rather than the fleeting pleasures of this passing world.  I know I have regrets as a mother.  Dalton was a great kid, but far from being an angel.

Our days on this earth are numbered.  My focus has changed profoundly as a result of understanding that statement on a personal level.  I cherish every day.  I don’t want to be that person that whines about how busy I am. Quantity of life doesn’t hold a flame to quality of life.  Troy and I talk about how much life DD packed into 13 years.  It was almost as if he somehow knew his time was limited.  Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow.  You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away (James 4:14).

I started a new book a couple weeks ago called If God is Good – Faith in the Midst of Suffering and Evil.  One of the great questions this book answers is “Why do the great majority of suffering people want to go on living despite their circumstances?”  That is a complex idea to ponder.  I hear so many people talk about being mad at God when unfortunate events disrupt their life as they knew it.  It could be someone who has just been diagnosed with terminal cancer, a long time employee who lost their job shortly before they were planning to retire, or the unjust slavery, rape, and murder of the innocent in far away countries from ours.  Evil is everywhere we turn.  You don’t have to flip through the news channels very long before you see a story on Islamic terrorism.  Scroll through your newsfeed on social media and you will see story after story of acts of racism and bigotry.

It is human nature to want to point the finger at somebody or something when things don’t go our way.  We like to hold someone accountable; to have justice be served.  Unfortunately, there isn’t always an answer to satisfy us.  Live long enough and you will suffer.  As I see it, death is the only way to avoid suffering.  At some point in our lives, we will suffer.  We will have to confront evil.  The question becomes “How strong is your foundation?”  To me, the most important reason I work to evangelize others is to help them have a closer personal relationship with Jesus Christ.  If that relationship is built now, evil and suffering will not penetrate the firm foundation that has taken root within your soul.  I love Jesus’ parable of the sower in which a sower scatters seed that fall on four types of ground.  The seed that falls upon the hard ground never sprouts at all.  The seed that falls upon the stony ground begins to germinate and grow, but is unable to grow roots and eventually withers in the sun.  Then there are the seeds that fall upon thorny ground, where the seeds are able to grow, but the thorns overtake the plants.  Finally, there is the good, fertile ground that receives the seeds and produces much fruit.  I have tried my best to be the fertile ground as wife and mother.

When it comes to sin, we have all fallen short.  I have failed God many, many times.  My whole family has.  I know Dalton did.  I am sure DD had a few sins on his soul the day of the accident.  He would have to have been perfect if he didn’t.  Do I think that will create an eternal separation between him and God?  No way.  He was saved through God’s grace.  Dalton was only able to receive three of the seven sacraments in his 13 years.  But, through those sacraments of Baptism, Eucharist, and Reconciliation, he was nourished spiritually and brought closer to God. Though he was a sinful person (like all of us) his ground was fertile. Some people get the wrong idea that to live the Christian life, you have to have sinless perfection.  That couldn’t be further from the truth.  You don’t have to be sinlessly perfect for God to use you. Consider some of the people in the bible that God used to his goodness the most.  Moses wasn’t perfect – He killed an Egyptian.  Paul called himself the chief of sinners.  When Jesus was working miracles, Peter said “Depart from me, Lord, I am a sinful man.”  Nobody can stand before God and say I live a sinless life and never fail.

A little over two years ago, Troy and I were both not the people we wanted to be.  We chose to see our sin for what it was and make a change. Now we no longer drink alcohol.  The choice was made to save our marriage and to be better parents to our children.  We have a responsibility not to be stumbling drunk in front of our kids after a night out with our friends.  We didn’t want those to be memories they would keep with them into adulthood.  Parents set an example for their kids and we no longer believe alcohol has a place in our family.  Since then, we have found that we don’t miss the beer or wine in the least.  Our family has become much stronger because of the decision to change the way we view drinking alcohol.  Troy and I both pray it will have a life-long effect on our children as they mature and grow in independence.

I feel called upon to embrace good and reject evil.  God says, “Hate what is evil; cling to what is good” (Romans 12:9).  This passage makes the assumption that we understand the difference between the two.  The problem is we live in a culture that so often switches the price tags.  I find myself regularly withdrawing to Scripture to implore God’s Spirit to train my mind and conscience to recognize what is truly good and what is truly evil.  When it comes to learning and obeying biblical teaching, God tells us, “But solid food is for the mature, who by constant use have trained themselves to distinguish good from evil” (Hebrews 5:14).

It is baseball season and I want to scream.  Scream because I don’t have red dirt to scrub out of the knees of Dalton’s baseball pants.  Scream because I don’t have to search for his baseball cap 5 minutes before practice starts.  Mostly I want to scream because spring is knocking at the door, the sun is shining, and instead of dropping Dalton off at Darren’s barn for practice, I have to drive to Elmwood Cemetery to visit him.  His baseball bag, cleats, and ballcap still sit in my hallway undisturbed.  Thick, red clay is clumped on the bottom of the cleats from their last day on the pitching mound.  Dirt and dust covers the outside of the bag after its last appearance in the dugout.  DD’s final bottle of water peeks out from a pocket on the side.  Staring at it brings me a bizarre mixture of anguish and comfort.

The last couple of weeks haven’t been very kind to me.  I have hit some awful lows.  The devil has been there at every corner to remind me of my loss.  He wants me to think about the upcoming baseball season that I won’t be watching, the 8th grade graduation ceremony I won’t be attending, or the summer family vacations I won’t be planning.  I have to admit I have succumb to his deceit time after time.  Pulling over in my car, I have screamed and cried because a song on the radio makes me think of him.  I walk around the corner of an aisle in Wal-Mart, see a kid about his age with a similar build, and struggle to take a breath.  I know that this affliction is the work of the devil, yet the human side of me cries out in pain.

Troy and I were coming back from a walk last Thursday night when the sadness struck me out of nowhere.  It was pure heartache over the fact that I don’t ever get to watch Dalton play another game of baseball.  I expressed the hurt, along with some pretty intense anger.  Of all the people I would never have expected to say these words, Troy turned to me and said, “You DID get to watch him play.  He was good.  And you got to see him.  We both did.”  I stopped crying for a minute and thought about those words.  What a gift I really had been given.  I got to watch that boy play many years of baseball, from t-ball all the way to kid pitch.  Some parents never get to do that.  A parent of a severely handicap child will not watch their son pitch a no-hitter.  Countless mothers and fathers of children who die in childbirth will never see their son hit a home run.  Tormented couples who aren’t able to conceive will never watch their son make a diving catch at first base.  I got to.

My friend Traci asks me everyday how I’m doing.  Her son is on Dalton’s baseball team and was one of his best friends.  She was also like a second mom to him.  The fact that she checks on me every day means more than I can say.  I know when I talk to her that she feels the pain I am in.  Sometimes, just telling her how my day is going allows me to release the grief.  I don’t want to burden people, which is why I often don’t bring up Dalton’s accident to people.  On the other hand, I cherish any moment to talk about him when someone brings his name up to me.  Telling stories about him… saying his name… brings me peace.

Every Mother’s Day weekend, DD’s baseball team (The Butler County Cubs) will host a tournament in his honor.  It will be held this year on May 9-10 in El Dorado, KS.  I plan on being there to cheer on his team.  The spirit of my son will live on forever in many people’s lives.  That band of teammates is one such group of special boys that will play in his memory always.

Dalton made a video a year ago right before we were to fly to Florida for spring break.  In it, he talks about how he wants to be remembered if he died on the airplane.  I posted the video on my facebook.  Why do I think it’s significant?  Because this was a faith-filled perspective of a 12 year old who shared his thoughts on what Heaven might be like.  If you haven’t already, please take a look.  When I watch it, I see a child who had a personal relationship with the Lord.  He didn’t act afraid.  If was as though he was reassuring us.

“No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man.  God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your strength, but with the tempation will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it.” (1 Corinthians 10:13)

 

Yesterday would have been my Grandma Meckel’s 96th birthday.  I remember my grandmother as nearly having a saintly existence.  She was a faithful Catholic and a spiritual inspiration to me for my first 30 years.  Her favorite things to do were to cook and care for her family.  Growing up, I used to resist her insistence that I wake up for 8am Mass and say my prayers.  I suppose that is pretty common.  We used to take family vacations to see my relatives in Texas.  It would be Grandpa, Grandma, my brother Mat, and I all packed into a Lincoln Continental.  My grandma and I would have to sit in the back the entire trip because “that’s where the girls belonged.”  My brother only made the situation worse by positioning the passenger seat all the way back and in a full recline, all with a huge grin on his face.  I used to imagine doing terrible things to that grin.

I learned life lessons from my grandma.  The most important thing she taught me was how to care for others.  Grandma was love.  The way she loved her family was fierce.  We were everything to her.  At our family gatherings, grandma was up at dawn to prepare the meals for the day.  Everyone started their day with a breakfast food from each of the five main food groups.  Grandma tried so hard to teach me that it was the woman’s duty to prepare the meals and clean house while the men worked.  That didn’t often go as well as intended.  Regardless, my grandmother taught me much more than how to iron clothes and set the dinner table.  She taught me life lessons.  Once, my brother and I were at a store with her and Grandpa when I asked her to buy me a little yellow pencil with a big chicken shaped eraser on the top.  Grandma said I didn’t need it.  I remember seeing my brother’s face smiling as I had to put the pencil back on the shelf.  I was around 6.  I thought about it some more, looked over my shoulder for a clerk, and put the pencil in my pocket.  Later, that evening, I got my “new” pencil out to write with it.  Grandma discovered it and told me to go put on my shoes.  She had Grandpa drive us back to the store where he waited in the car with my brother.  I walked up to the clerk’s desk and returned the pencil I had stolen.  I was humiliated.  I hated that feeling.  Walking out, my Grandma told me that I had been wrong.  She asked me how I felt.  All I could do was cry.  She told me to never do it again.  That was the last time we would ever speak of it.

My parents divorced when I was three and Mat was six.  That sort of life experience can only be described as a monumental loss.  The life I knew had been shattered.  Everything was changed.  My security was disrupted and my future was uncertain.  After a couple years, my dad had to move away due to his job circumstances and suddenly I was limited to seeing him on Christmas and summer break.  That was very, very hard for a little girl.  He had been the one who taught me to say my prayers at night and ride a bike.  He sang countless songs and read hundreds of books to me before bedtime.  My favorite memory was when he would lay down beside me and wait for me to fall asleep and then he would drift off himself.

Today, I see that loss as a blessing.  Divorce is awful.  There is no way to sugarcoat that fact.  However, what I gained ended up being remarkable.  New, incredible people entered my life.  I acquired two extraordinary step-parents and was blessed with a little sister.  I consider all three gifts from God and without experiencing the pain of divorce, I wouldn’t have known the joy of these important people in my life.

The first book I read after I lost my son was called A Grace Disguised by Jerry Sittser.  On the inside of the cover of his book, Sittser says, “The experience of loss does not have to be the defining moment in our lives.  Instead, the defining moment can be our response to the loss.  It is not what happens to us that matters so much as what happens in us.”  The author lost three generations of his family in one car wreck – his mother, his wife, and his young daughter.  How does a person heal from a loss like that?  Where would you start?

Faith.  I have faith in God’s plan for me and my family.  I do not get a blueprint of my life.  I can’t see what will happen in the future, so I have to trust in God.  My circumstances are devastating.  But, I am determined to transform that devastation into one of life’s blessings.

In the Old Testament, David and Bathsheba lose their baby boy.  We can only assume they were consumed by the torment of losing a child.  However, David confessed to his wife that he would see his son again one day and be comforted.  Scripture tells us David said of his deceased newborn son, “I shall go to him, but he will not return to me” (2 Sam. 12-23).  There was no mistake in David’s mind.  He believed his son was with God in Heaven.  I share that conviction of faith with David.  Whether there is a state of purification or not, I know that my son is bound for eternal paradise.  My vision of the afterlife is full of children populating the New Earth and playing under the perpetual light of sunshine.  I understand that those that make it to the New Heaven will look somewhere around the age of 33, yet when I think of that beautiful setting, I see children.

In the days succeeding Dalton’s funeral, my agony knew no limits. The pain was not exclusively emotional.  There was an actual physical pain that accompanied this loss.  I had no appetite.  My stomach was twisted into hundreds of knots.  My mind wrestled with the reality of what had happened.  Everything felt desolate.  I was barely functioning.  My routine was a predictable pattern:  wake up, go sit on the couch, stare into space, receive visitors that I would forget our conversations after they left, sit back on the couch, go to bed.  Oh, and cry before, during, and after.  I sought help from my doctor for anti-depressants and sleep aid medication.  Of course, sleep was a double edge sword.  It was nice to get rest, but I only dreamt of my son.  I grew in despondency waking up day after day to his absence.

Somewhere around a week after Dalton’s accident, I met a person that would come to have a huge impact on my spiritual healing.  Her name was Ashlie Jack.  She would end up being a model of encouragement for me in the weeks and months to come.  A friend of Troy’s from El Dorado contacted Ashlie regarding our son’s accident.  In turn, Ashlie reached out through Facebook to Troy.  Ashlie’s story of her daughter, Bayleigh, was parallel to ours of DD.  Both were victims of sudden tragedies and neither had the opportunity to tell anyone goodbye.  Bayleigh had been 15 and driving in a rainstorm when her car was washed to the opening of a culvert off the side of the road in El Dorado, KS.  Her car was trapped between the opening of the culvert and a ledge drop off.  There was no way she could drive forward.  Based on evidence of the recreation of the scene, the police believe Bayleigh’s car was pushed by the rushing water to the back of the culvert (80 feet) in less than 3-4 minutes.  There she remained pinned inside her 2000 Honda Accord, with no room to climb outside the doors.  Hours later, Ashlie would ask for a rocking chair from the hospital staff and hold her only child’s lifeless body while she gently rocked her.  I don’t know about you, but that image rocked me to the core.  As I envision it now, I see a modern day resemblance to the blessed Mother cradling the freshly crucified body of our Savior.

Ashlie talked to our family about how she views grief.  To her, she sees grief as this huge ball she carries around with her everywhere she goes.  Some days it is heavier than others. It has been nearly 6 years since her daughter’s passing and she still struggles.  We found out that our children had common interests.  Both loved chicken nuggets, had a King Charles Cavalier for a dog, and were the center of attention.  Immediately, Ashlie said the most important thing I needed to hear.  She was absolutely certain that her Bayleigh had found my Dalton.  Those words comforted me like none other had.  In Ashlie’s presence, I felt strong.  She gave me faith.  Like a classmate you envied in school, I wanted to be her.  I wanted to fast-forward the agony to the part of the journey she was at.  I wanted to be 6 years out, instead of 6 days.  I begged God to lessen my misery, or better yet, bring me back my son.

Back when Dalton was a baby and I was teaching part time as a kindergarten teacher, I would clean the St. James rectory to make a little extra cash.  Naturally, I would take him with me when I cleaned.  Surrounded on the floor with toddler toys, Father Sam would play with DD. Dalton’s favorite things to do were to yell and throw objects.  Father thought it was great, I not so much.  My fondest memory of that time was when those two would be yelling and playing with one another and Father would exclaim, “He is praying!  He keeps calling upon Abba.”  At the time, I didn’t want to burst Father’s bubble and tell him that “Ab-ba” is a pretty common sound for babies to make.  Today, I have a different perspective.  “Abba Father” is one of the most significant names of God in terms of understanding how He relates to people.  Aramaic in origin, the word “Abba” would be closely translated to mean “Daddy.”  In earlier times, young children would refer to their fathers as “Abba.”  As the word “Daddy” suggests a personal, intimate relationship between a child and his/her father, why can’t it be used by a baby to call upon its Holy Father?  I, for one, don’t think it is beyond the possibility to at least consider.

Something all sufferers need to hear is a message of God’s love for us:  It is all abounding.  It proliferates.  It is overflowing, even to the point of being excessive.  In his book, The Problem of Pain, C.S. Lewis writes, “We want, in fact, not so much a Father in Heaven as a grandfather in heaven – a senile benevolence who, as they say, ‘liked to see young people enjoy themselves,’ and whose plan for the universe was simply that it might be truly said at the end of each day, ‘a good time was had by all’…I should very much like to live in a universe which was governed on those lines.  But since it is abundantly clear that I don’t, and since I have reason to believe, nevertheless, that God is Love, I conclude that my conception of love needs correction.”

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.

In his book, Heaven, author Randy Alcorn  tells us, “God is big enough not only to fulfill your dreams but also to expand them as you anticipate Heaven.  When you experience disappointment and loss as you faithfully serve God here, remember:  the loss is temporary.  The gains will be eternal.  Every day on the New Earth will be a new opportunity to live out the dreams that matter most.”

I read that quote recently on a flight to Arizona.  It struck me pretty hard.  I read it over and over.  Reading it and believing it are two entirely different things.  You can’t just skim over an idea like that and not dissect it.  “As you anticipate Heaven.”  Am I truly anticipating it like I should be?  Do I live every day to glorify God?  “As you faithfully serve God here.”  Do I do everything for Him?  Am I giving 100% of the best of me?  Have I been devoted in prayer?  “The New Earth will be a new opportunity.”  How much thought have I given to seeing Dalton in a resurrected body on a resurrected Earth?  Am I doing what is called of me to be with my loved ones on the New Earth?  Will my name be written in the Book of Life?

Other than The Bible, Heaven might be the most important book I will ever read.  If you are not familiar with the notion of a New Heaven and New Earth, you need to be.  The book of Revelation in the Bible can be very confusing.  There was a time when reading it made me nervous and weary of what was prophesized.  My interpretation of it was small and misleading.  After reading Randy Alcorn’s book, I see it completely different.  I don’t fear God’s wrath as a means of destruction of mankind.  I have a better understanding of what is to come.  Though I am aware that physically I will not be on this earth when its fiery obliteration presents itself, it doesn’t terrify me.  It will be a return to Eden.  A paradise in which I pray I will be lucky enough to share with the people I have loved in this world, and have loved me.  I have hope.  That hope for a resurrected Earth is what motivates me every day of my life.

If you are thinking that I don’t have bad days, then I am misleading you.  I have terrible days.  Last Friday was as awful as they get.  We took a family trip to Phoenix for the weekend.  It didn’t help that I had a miserable cold.  In typical “mom fashion,” I tried to be fun and energetic with the kids and Troy because we were out of town.  We were driving to a mall when the flood of tears came.  There wasn’t even a trigger to spring forth the emotions that day, that I know of.  That is how grief can bite you.  You can be laughing one second and crying the next.  Maybe it was the extra seat in the car.  Or the quiet ride.  Or the fact I knew he would have loved to go to the NBA game we were going to that night.  It is hard to say.  But his absence was felt hard.  I cried throughout the entire Suns vs. Bulls game.  I was thrilled to be watching 3 ex-Jayhawks share the court, yet I bawled like a baby through it all.  I wanted to watch Dalton watch it.  I needed his smile and enthusiasm.  I needed him to bug me about concessions every five minutes.  I needed him to beg me for unnecessary fan gear that he would never wear again.  I needed him to ask me to take him to the bathroom so he wouldn’t get lost.  I just needed him.  I had people staring at me all night, wondering what in the world was my problem.  It’s not every day you see a woman cry her eyes out at a professional basketball game on a Friday night while surrounded by her family.  I hate that my kids and husband had to see it too.  Some days the grief is relentless like that.  Later, as I got back into the hotel room, I walked into the bathroom.  I slumped down under the sink and screamed into the towel while my family watched tv in the next room.

On Tuesday, November 18th, I dressed for the viewing and rosary for my son.  I wanted it over with, yet I didn’t want to rush the process.  I was fully aware that I only had one more day to look at DD’s beautiful body while on this earth.  Somewhere around this time, shock and denial reared their ugly head and I couldn’t think as clearly.  My thoughts became jumbled and faces appeared indistinct.  Together with Troy’s family and mine, we received hundreds of condolences as people made their way through the viewing line and later at St. James.  Love from friends and strangers enveloped all of us even through the pain.  Who would have imagined so many people could be united in a common emotion?  Our sorrow was deep, but we knew we were not alone.

It was probably around 9pm when the last person left the church.  The rosary had been beautiful.  Dalton’s friends and Keely read their stories perfectly about him.  It had been a packed house.  I tried to tell every person I could that I appreciated them coming.  Most importantly, I was feeling blessed for having the opportunity to have the Virgin Mary act as my intercessor between myself and God during this time.  I felt an intense connection to the Mother of Jesus that night.  She understood and was there to comfort me.  Father Schemm didn’t rush us in the least after everything was over.  In fact, he told us to take our time and to depart when we were ready.  Troy, the kids, and I walked up the aisle towards the sanctuary one last time that night.  The casket remained open and our precious boy appeared to be sleeping peacefully.  We took the time to read each and every hand written note on the outside of the casket.  We held each other and broke down.  The church was glowing with candlelight and the space felt inviting.  I remember Colton saying we couldn’t leave him there all alone.  I told him there was no greater babysitter for Dalton than being in the presence of Jesus.  It wounded my heart to say those words, but somehow I was conscience of the fact that my son was home.

Victor Hugo, the author of Les Miserables, had this to say of his anticipation of Heaven:  “When I go to the grave I can say, as others have said, ‘My day’s work is done.’ But I cannot say, ‘My life is done.’  My work will recommence the next morning.  The tomb is not a blind alley; it is a thoroughfare.  It closes upon the twilight, but opens upon the dawn.”

The morning after the accident, I woke up with the hurt deep in my stomach that would loom there relentlessly until the beginning of December.  I don’t know how to describe that ache.  Growing up, I played soccer.  I was a goalkeeper.  Occasionally, I would take a ball to the gut that knocked the wind out of me temporarily.  That is the best I can come up with to compare that feeling.  Except, this ache would go on to cultivate itself within me and never subside.  I wanted my son.  I needed to hear his voice and look into his eyes.  I craved the touch of his skin, his laughter, the smell of his sweaty head after playing outside.  I needed to know what he was doing.  At the time, I did not see the afterlife as a suitable alternative to him being with me.  Who would lay his clothes out in the morning and take him to baseball?

My in-laws came over that morning, and many mornings to come.  The endless flow of visitors began around 11am on Sunday.  I felt ashamed I hadn’t attended church.  I just couldn’t.  I was envious that my daughter still went that day.  Her strength felt unattainable to me.  I do not know who all I spoke to in the next 24 hours.  I can’t recall the faces.  I don’t know what I said to people.  Visitors ranged from teachers and counselors at both Augusta Middle School and Wichita Collegiate to preachers from local churches, to owners of various restaurants.  Friends, close, as well as distant, came by to show their support.  Parents of Dalton’s friends expressed their condolences.  Tears and pain in their eyes mirrored my own.

My dad and step mom arrived, as did Father Sam.  We reminisced with Father about Dalton as a little boy and how ornery he was.  He said we all needed to lean on one another and hold dear to our faith.  He went on to say the devil would use this time to tempt us the most, as we were very vulnerable.  The ache in my stomach intensified.  Father stayed quite awhile and did his best to comfort the four of us.  Visitors continued to arrive, tears shed, and stories of Dalton told.  I wanted to show my gratitude to everyone who came to console us, but I wasn’t sure how to do that.

We met with the funeral director at Headley.  We decided how to write Dalton’s obituary, who we would ask to be the pall bearers, and what casket to place him in.  A white one was chosen so his friends would have the opportunity to sign it with sharpies.  On each of the four corners would be removable ornaments of the Pieta (the Virgin Mary cradling the body of Jesus across her lap).  The whole thing seemed surreal.  No part of me wanted to be making these arrangements.  Though there was nothing to look forward to when we got home, I longed to leave the funeral home.  In silence, the four of us drove back to the house.  That night, minutes turned to hours and nightfall came.  I didn’t want to fall asleep for the second time without knowing my son was tucked safely in his bed.

Monday started the same as Sunday.  What a routine.  Wake up in the morning with a sensory overload.  Tears.  Stomach ache.  Longing.  We had no answers to the sadness.  No one did.  I went to brush my teeth and I stared at the mirror.  A vivid memory invaded my thoughts.  Five days earlier I had been in my bathroom with Dalton.  He was lobbying hard for a new pair of basketball shoes that he just “had to have.”  I asked him what was wrong with the past four pairs I had bought him.  After a few minutes of discussing how unnecessary another pair of shoes were, the conversation ended like it usually did.  DD promised he would “work to pay them off” and I reluctantly agreed knowing he never would.  After he succeeded in convincing me that day, he turned to my vanity mirror, tipped his chin up and rubbed the little cleft in it.  He smiled at me and said, “why did you have to give me this dent?”

My sister and her family got into town by early afternoon on Monday.  Relief mixed with heartbreak surged through me at the sight of my sister.  I looked at my nephew and saw the image of pure anguish on his face.  He shared a special bond with Dalton and it hurt me to see him suffer.  Somewhere within the next hour, a detective appeared at our doorstep.  He read the final police report to us and handed me a large envelope.  Inside the envelope were Dalton’s final possessions:  orange gloves with blades of grass stuck to them, the blood-stained ski mask, and his phone.  I broke into a thousand pieces.

Father Schemm visited us that day as well.  Many preparations had to be made for the rosary and funeral services.  I flipped through a book and chose the appropriate readings and psalms for the Mass.  In hindsight, I don’t know how I did that.  How does a mother select those sort of things?  Again, I tried to pray to God for guidance and found myself only able to ask for strength.  My brother and sister agreed to read at the funeral.  We decided on the three brave boys to read at the rosary. It was also important to Keely that she be given the opportunity to speak.  Father anticipated a large gathering at the viewing, rosary, and funeral.  He went over the whole procedure on what to expect.  He informed me that right before the funeral Mass, the casket would be closed for the final time.  The pain in my stomach reinforced my misery.

I have no idea how, but Keely and I were able to go pick out Dalton’s personal belongings to be set out at the viewing and rosary.  We selected pictures, art projects, trophies and other mementos to give my friend Missy to arrange at the viewing.  She took control of the whole thing.  She asked me for an outfit to bury DD in.  I chose the blue and white Butler County Baseball Cubs shirt he wore about 5 times a week, some sweatpants, a pair of brand new Elite socks we had bought at Dicks exactly one week prior, and his Lebron basketball shoes.  His baseball coach was going to provide a jersey to bury him in that would go over his t-shirt.

Upon going through Dalton’s dresser drawer that day, I stumbled upon a holy card entitled “A Prayer for November” that no one in our family had ever seen before.  On the front was a picture of the crucifixion with the phrase “O Lord, Remember The Palmer Family Living and Deceased” and on the back was a prayer.  The third paragraph of the prayer read “When I am sad at the death of those who were close to me, may my sadness be firmly supported by my faith that life is merely changed not ended, that those I love are still with me though unseen.  O Lord, increase my faith in the great mystery of eternal life.  Teach me to live each day knowing that all here passes and that when we leave we will travel very lightly.”  I had no idea at the time that I would one day do much more than just read those words… I would live them out and preach them to everyone I could.

 

It did not take long for the news of Dalton’s accident to explode on social media.  It was all over Twitter, Instagram and Facebook.  As per the case in many initial social media reports, many of the details were reported inaccurately.  Some said he had died in the ambulance on the way to Andover.  Many mistook the type of ATV he was driving.  There were stories of Dalton being pinned under the Ranger.  RIP posts quickly permeated their way through comment after comment.  Though they didn’t quite understand, children all around our area were just beginning their own agonizing journeys of grief.

“Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them.  May they rest in peace.  Amen.”  Father Schemms voice cracked as he closed his prayer book.  I don’t remember if Troy’s parents or my parents stayed in the room with Dalton or not.  I recall Troy’s dad not wanting to leave DD by himself, so it’s likely he hung back.  After a short discussion with Father, we made our way back into the hospital hallway.  Our friends and family members greeted us.  I hugged many.  I was very aware that this wasn’t just my loss.  People all around me were hurting.  This was a son, brother, grandchild, cousin, nephew, teammate, and friend.  I started thinking of my sister and all the rest of my family.  Had anyone told them yet?  Do I call people?  Should I go back into the room with Dalton?  How is Tyler?

Time crept by at a tormenting, slow pace.  The grief came in extreme waves.  I thought rationally for a minute or two, accompanied by bursts of anger, followed by fits of tears.  I wanted to console my mother, Troy’s dad, the kids… I just didn’t know how.  It was getting late.  A tall, kind gentleman from Headley Funeral Home showed up to talk with us.  Calm and consolatory, he told us what was going to happen next.  A vehicle would be at the hospital soon that would transport Dalton to the funeral home.  We could choose to stay with his body until then, or go on home.  I needed to think about what day I would like to hold the rosary and funeral.  Did I have family that would come into town? He said I need not to worry, and that my son was in excellent care.  Tomorrow he would be all cleaned up and I could come visit him.

Fear pierced my soul.  How do we go home without him?  DD hated being alone.  Someone always had to be at the house when he was home.  Home.  He would never, ever go home again.  It would take a long time before I would be able to understand that he really was “home.”  At that point in time, I was far from accepting that Dalton was at peace.  After thanking everyone for coming to the hospital, we agreed to have Troy’s parents wait with Dalton.  Leaving him that night was like nothing I can describe.  Excruciating pain wouldn’t adequately describe that feeling. The looks on Troy and the kid’s faces reflected my own.  We were so broken.  I placed kisses on the body of my son, lingering for what felt like eternity on the top of his head and walked back out those double doors.

We climbed back into the jeep to drive that horrible drive home.  We got about halfway home when my good friend, Father Sam Pinkerton, called.  The emotions started back up again.  Father Sam had known Dalton since birth and baptized him as an infant.  I could feel the pain in his voice, which opened up the very fresh wounds of my own heartache.  He immediately said he would like to be the co-celebrant at DD’s funeral.  He told me he loved me and that he would come by the house in the morning.  Despite the torment, I hung up the phone and a beautiful thought entered my mind.  I felt blessed to be a Catholic Christian.  I knew I wasn’t alone.

Pulling into our driveway, there were cars parked everywhere.  Again, emotions rose up inside me.  I knew our friends were there waiting on us.  We parked our car in the garage and got out.  I remember Colton punching the refrigerator and seeing a picture magnet fall and shatter into pieces.  We walked past it and entered the house.  We must have had 20 or 30 people waiting on us.  Not a sound came from anyone as we came into the kitchen.  No one knew what to say.  It moved me to know they were there in support of us.  I saw food everywhere.  I had no desire to eat, but insisted the kids have something.  The first person that walked over to hold me was my son’s longtime friend, Breck.  It hurt bad.  I wanted to take away his pain too.  But I knew there was nothing I could do.  Just two days earlier, I had scolded Dalton for chasing Breck in the house, shooting him with his air soft gun (a common occurrence).

Many of Troy’s friends were there to console him.  I was so grateful for that.  Colton’s buddies were there also and tried their best to watch over him.  I think Keely went up to her room.  My dear friends (Shannon, Cheryl and Lori) were there for me.  We hugged, cried, and talked.  They didn’t try to fix anything, they just listened.  I asked them over and over when Missy would be there, as I knew she was driving home from an out of town Collegiate football game.  Troy wanted to go to the bedroom, so most of our company left.  I think some of Troy’s family might have been at the house, I’m not sure.  I remember excusing myself for a bit to call my dad in Springfield.  He wanted to say something to comfort me, but could only express how sorry he was and that he would be in town the next day.  Missy arrived late.  The expression on her face said everything.  I knew she had been crying.  She’s known my son since birth.  Her own son, Canon, was his best friend.  The girls and I sobbed and held each other.  The strength of our friendship just ascended to a new level.

I didn’t want to leave Troy alone in the bedroom.  I decided to go to bed.  I walked past Dalton’s little basketball goal, the four basketballs I had told him to put up earlier that day, a pair of his shoes, and walked into my room.   He had always shared a bathroom with us.  His deodorant, toothbrush and face wash sat beside Troy’s sink.   I took my contacts out, put on my pajamas, and crawled into bed with my husband.  We held each other and sobbed convulsively.  I looked and him and asked him how we were ever going to make it through this.  He said he didn’t know.  I shed more tears and said I didn’t want God to have Dalton yet, that it wasn’t right.  I tried to pray and found I couldn’t form any clear thoughts.  All I could do was petition God.  I prayed for Him to give me strength.

“I know God will not give me anything I can’t handle.  I just wish He didn’t trust me so much.” – Mother Teresa