A year ago, I started thinking about Dalton’s graduation from high school.  I didn’t let my mind linger there long because I knew I had twelve months before it was going to happen.  Now here we are a year later and we are days away from the event.  His classmates at Augusta High School will graduate this Sunday and Wichita Collegiate, the following Sunday.  The invitations to all of the graduation parties have been flooding in for weeks.  We have felt incredibly grateful for each and every one.  It means more than they know to be thought of at such a special time in their lives.  A couple of his life-long friends even included his picture in their own senior portraits.  I opened them and cried.

About a month ago, I ran into one of Dalton’s 8th grade teachers from Collegiate, Mrs. Hall.  She moved up from the middle school and is now teaching in the upper school.  She wanted me to know that the seniors have been writing these very extensive “life papers” and a good amount of Dalton’s peers had written about him.  It made me feel appreciative that his friends had not forgotten about him.

This morning, the seniors at AHS held their annual senior breakfast and they included Dalton.  Bailey Pennycuff and Jake Tucker each shared funny memories about him in front of their classmates – such as the time Bailey dared DD to drink paint water in 4th grade and he willingly obliged and the day Dalton told Jake he would “give him 100 points” to walk out onto the frozen pond by our house, only to turn around and abandon him when the ice started cracking.  I assure you I DID NOT know about that, but was not surprised.

It is tradition for the seniors in Augusta to visit their old elementary schools before they graduate.  Yesterday, Dalton’s classmates from St. James Catholic School sent me the most beautiful picture of them standing in front of the alter holding a picture of him.  Within an hour of receiving that, his 5th grade teacher from Ewalt Elementary, Mrs. Puckett, sent me a picture of his classmates’ final visit to their old school.  She text me a heartfelt message about how he was included in her thoughts that day.  It fills and breaks my heart in the same beat.

I forwarded the pictures of Dalton’s classmates visiting their old schools to my in-laws.  My sister-in-law replied with the following kind message:  “This is such a hard time to be joyous.  I cannot imagine how you feel.  Just know we are all in this together and we love you guys very much.  We miss Dalton so much.”  Immediately, the current bible study I’m participating in came to mind.  It’s called “Choose JOY – Because Happiness Isn’t Enough” by Kay Warren.  In session 2, entitled “Joy is a Conviction of My Mind,” we learned the definition of true, biblical joy:  Joy is the settled assurance that God is in control of all the details of my life, the quiet confidence that ultimately everything is going to be all right; and the determined choice to praise God in all things.  I may need to write that on an index card and tape it on my mirror above the bathroom sink.  It’s simple to read, but complicated at times to put into practice after an out-of-order death like we have experienced.  How do I do that all of the time when I feel so much sorrow?

There are a couple ways I do that I suppose.  First off, I focus on the beauty of the things I am blessed with today.  Colton is this amazing young man who is working, going to school, planning a wedding, and a foster parent to my future grandkids – Kaemyn and Kalyssa.  All of that at 22.  Words can’t say how proud of him I am.  Keely is 20, going to school for a business degree, works in internal marketing at Global Parts, teaches at Barre Forte several days out of the week, volunteers every weekend at New Spring Church to work with 2nd graders, attends a bible study each Sunday night herself, and is basically a second mother to her little sister.  God truly gave me a gift in my oldest daughter.  Then there’s Dawsyn.  In 2 1/2 short years, she has mended all of our shattered hearts.  Between her bubbly laugh and her unyielding bear hugs, you can’t spend five minutes around her without feeling intense joy.  Not just happiness.  I’m talking joy. She reassures me that her birth was no accident and God chose me to be her mother for a reason  Kay Warren wrote in our study that “joy and sorrow are two parallel tracks that run inseparably throughout our lives.” That is my life.  I’ll carry this sorrow with me until the day that I die.  But riding there right alongside that pain will be true joy in the areas of my life that God has blessed me with.  May I always strive to see my circumstances through the lens of eternity, rather than the lens of the temporary.  I will see my son again.

So, seniors at Augusta High School and Wichita Collegiate, enjoy your last couple of days before becoming high school graduates.  I am proud of each and every one of you.  The future belongs to you and you can accomplish anything you set out to.  Thank you for loving my son.  Thank you for being his friend.  And when the time comes to toss your cap up in the air, do me a favor and toss it for DD too.  You know as well as I do that he was always up for a good time.  Though he won’t be there physically, you can count on him being there in spirit.  I can see it now… he’ll be slouching in a chair (praying the ceremony gets over soon), legs crossed, arms behind his head while checking out the ladies, and spitting invisible sunflower seeds at the back of some of your heads.  All while maintaining the DD smirk and eyebrow raise.  Because you and I both know he wouldn’t miss it for the world.

MY PRAYER

Father, I want to believe that you can replace my mourning with dancing and I can become a woman who feels the sadness of life but still chooses to pursue joy.  I want to live today, right now, as someone who chooses joy.  Give me strength and courage to look for your blessings on this journey.  I CHOOSE JOY.

 

The emotional side effects of grief are pretty straight forward.  There is depression, anxiety, despair, fear and so on.  I know I experienced all of those plus several more.  That is probably to be expected for most anyone.  What totally caught me off guard was the physical nature of grief – the effect of what losing my son would eventually do to me.  Jenny.

 

Initially following Dalton’s death, I lost weight.  Who wouldn’t?  Who has time to eat when all you can think about is the fact that you buried a child?  Food does not look good, nor does it sound good.  That lasted about 4-5 months (approximately the amount of time I sat around like a zombie refusing to leave the house unless it was absolutely necessary).  Spring of 2015 came and we started going out in public more, gradually resuming normal daily routines.  One of those “routines” became eating out.  Cooking had lost a lot of its appeal.  Apparently, so did exercise.  Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months of ignoring self-care, until old habits eventually turned into new habits.  I had managed nearly 40 years of declining dessert after meals and all of a sudden there didn’t seem to be a single meal that Troy and I would forgo something sweet at the end of our dinner.  In fact, I was rather irritated if a waiter didn’t even suggest it, thus making me look like the pig who had to awkwardly bring it up.

 

In the beginning, I think the dessert ordering stemmed from the idea that if we drew out the night a little longer, we could postpone going home in the evening to a house void of our son.  After all, there were no basketball games or baseball practices filling our schedules.  No one was going to greet me at the door with a desperate look in his eye telling me he needed me to help him write a paper that was “due tomorrow.”  With no one to drive to school the next morning, I could eat what I felt like, drank whatever numbed the pain and then wake up late the next morning.

 

I had packed on about 25lbs of “not really giving a shit” weight by winter of 2015.  Then February of 2016 came and at 39 years old, I discovered I was pregnant.  I took that knowledge as an excuse to eat even more because I was “eating for two.”  I knew I was gaining a lot of weight but it didn’t worry me because I knew I had always lost my post-baby weight so easily.  Except I didn’t take into account that that was 20 YEARS AGO and there is this evil thing called HORMONES that happens to us women as we get older.

 

In my last trimester of pregnancy, my weight was nearing 200 lbs.  The only time I got on the scale was when I was at my prenatal appointments.  It was embarrassing, but I managed to convince myself it was just “baby weight,” like I was about to give birth to the world’s biggest newborn or something.  Even though the sight of my growing body was starting to bother me, I mostly kept that fact to myself.  The only person I ever told that my weight was upsetting to me was my then-best friend.  She always told me I was being silly and that would make me feel a little better.  Truth be told, I was over the moon about having Dawsyn and putting on the pounds felt like a trivial side effect after losing Dalton.

 

I gave birth to Dawsyn in October 2016 and was totally confused when months went by and my post-birth weight put me at only about 15 lbs lighter than when I delivered.  That wasn’t supposed to happen.  Don’t you get skinny from breastfeeding?  Which, by the way, according to that theory, I should be a freaking stick.  So that didn’t happen, obviously.  And the pounds didn’t fall off like they did in my twenties either.  Not to mention, I was so enraptured with the idea of being a new mom again that I wasn’t going to part from her for two seconds to allow myself to exercise.  Sure, we took walks.  We spent lots of time outdoors and were always busy.  I even tried the workout videos from home, but lacked the personal discipline for them to be effective. For the most part, I bathed in the beauty of my new baby girl and did very little else.  I practiced mediocre to no self-care and I can’t say I really regret that.  There is not one burpee or jog around a track that I would trade for a single snuggle with her.  I would read every book and sing every song a hundred times over in the past two years just as I did without hesitation, even if a genie had magically promised me a set of six pack abs and a firm rear end.  During that time, I just needed her.

 

I would be lying if I said the lack of self-care stopped at all the extra weight I had gained.  The time came where I quit looking in a mirror for anything.  My face was so round and the tell-tale lines of anxiety and depression were unattractive, haunting reminders of Dalton’s accident.  I never understood where all the new wrinkles came from – crying I suppose.  My eyes were hollow and were perpetually puffy.  Sleep deprivation likely added to that.  Rest has only come in short increments since November 2014.  I seriously long to sleep normal again.  So big, baggy clothes became part of my daily routine along with little to no makeup because it didn’t exactly help the situation anyway.

 

Are you wondering yet what the point of all this is? It’s only taken eight paragraphs for me to get to it after all.  As many people close to us already know, Troy and I attend New Spring non-denominational church on Saturday nights and the Catholic Church on Sunday mornings.  It may not be ideal for everyone, but it works for us.  Pastor Mark of New Spring is currently preaching a series called “Healthy.”  The messages thus far have covered all aspects of being healthy, including physical, spiritual and relational.  The very first message of the series was titled “How do I Live My Best Life?” In this talk, Mark stressed the importance of physical health and how God really and truly is concerned with what we put in our bodies.  In the same way God wants us to fill our minds with healthy content and our relationships with good company, He wants us to make smart choices with the foods we put in our bellies.  Listening that Saturday night back in mid-January, it occurred to me that I had let food have mastery over my body.  Not only that, I recognized that my choices were leading to some serious health risks if I didn’t start taking back control.  The first step was going to be the toughest.  I had to choose to make some changes.

 

Only days after that talk Mark gave, I was scrolling through my Facebook feed late at night when I came upon a status written by someone at Kansas Surgical Arts (I had no idea I had ever even liked that page).  They were advertising a free consultation for a procedure called Orbera, a 12 month, non-surgical weight loss solution that involves inserting a gastric balloon in your stomach.  This idea was completely foreign to me.  Apparently the deflated balloon is placed into your stomach through the esophagus and then filled with saline solution.  The concept is designed so that the balloon basically tricks your stomach into feeling full, thus reducing the amount of food you can eat.  The balloon is removed from the patient after six months and he or she must follow an additional six months of healthy eating and exercise.  On its website, Orbera claims their patients lose up to 3x the weight of diet and exercise alone – up to 20 to 50 lbs.  Within those first six months, a person is reducing the amount of food they can eat and re-training their brain to better anticipate when their stomach is getting full.  A support team is in place during the duration of the year long program – a dietician, trainer, psychologist and doctor.  Oh, and it’s not cheap.

 

I scheduled my consultation.  By the end of my consultation, I had scheduled my procedure date for Orbera.  Is it an easy way out?  I don’t know – maybe.  Is it guaranteed going to work for me?  Absolutely not.  All I know is that circumstances and poor choices got me where I am today and I’m ready to get healthy again.  I pray this is the jumpstart I have been so desperately needing… my incentive to take back control of my life.  I want to be able to keep up with a highly energetic two year old (and two foster “grandchildren”) without feeling exhausted.  Hopefully the discomfort of my plantar fasciitis and carpal tunnel will ease, along with recent nagging joint pain in my hips and knees after some of the weight is gone.  I mean, it can’t hurt right?

 

The procedure is set for the middle of March.  Please pray for me because I am nervous.  More than nervous, though, I’m excited.  God loves me and cares about me.  And He is the biggest and strongest voice in the crowd urging me to get healthy again.

 

“Humanly speaking, it is impossible.  But with God everything is possible.” (Matthew 19:26)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You know, we really aren’t okay.  Four years have passed since Dalton’s accident and we still aren’t right.  We look alright, act alright, but we are anything but alright.  I guess that is what an “out of order” death does to a family.  There was no time to plan for it, no goodbye.  Death simply swooped in and took him from us one Saturday afternoon in November.

Why sometimes does it feel like we must pretend to be ok when we aren’t?  I have perfected the “we are doing good” response so expertly, I begin to believe my own lie. Most people would react uncomfortably if I told them the truth.  They don’t want to hear that I still cry in the shower and nearly every night after I put Dawsyn down to sleep. That I still function on an anti-depressant to help me get through the day and a sleep aid that allows me to fall asleep at night.  Then I wonder to myself if I’m going to have to do this for the rest of my life.

It is only in talking to other mothers that have lost children that I can be totally open.  I become vulnerable and shoot it straight.  I’m not okay.  Troy’s not okay.  The kids aren’t okay.  We’re all going to carry this pain forever in a world where people expect us to be normal by now.  Advice givers like to tell us that our children are in a better place, that “God needed another flower in His garden” (dumb, btw), or that our child is our angel now from Heaven.  Try applying one of those platitudes to your own child and see how that feels for a second.  I understand to a degree how Job must have felt when his three friends gave him lousy advice when he was hurting the most.  A person’s quiet presence trumps any well-meaning words of wisdom you can offer when a friend or loved one is experiencing grief.

Colton drowns himself in song lyrics all day long while at work or doing homework.  It’s how he copes, how he feels a connection to his brother.  I have watched how the two beautiful kids he fosters have slowly brought life back into his spirit and a twinkle in his eyes when he smiles.  He’s not okay but he gets up and grinds at life everyday like it’s his last.  His speech has become poetic at times, often criticizing musicians for taking the easy road with their empty lyrics and lack of depth just to get a number one hit on the radio.  He seems to long for things of substance and sustainability and I love that.  I wonder if he would be this way if he were “alright.”

Keely fights an everyday battle.  She operates hinged in-between two dimensions – life with two brothers and life with one brother and a two year old sister.  A recent relationship that did not work out has left her hurt and confused, but seeking God in the hungriest way.  She is not okay.  A spiritual battle surrounds her and the devil tries to tell her she isn’t good enough.  Debunking the lies, she has turned to God for strength.  He knows her and sees her pain.  I have watched time after time as He has picked her up and told her she is worthy and that she is a child of the Most High.  Seeing your child filled with the light only the Holy Spirit can provide is unexplainable.

The recent death of Dalton’s dog has really set Troy back in his grief.  It is like taking a scab and ripping it off.  I forgot how haunting his crying sounds.  That awful, throaty man cry.  I hated it so much after Dalton died.  Most of the time, I would be having a fairly good day when I would hear him crying in the bathroom after he got home from work.  It would echo and I would slump to the ground and cover my ears so I couldn’t hear it.  We never talked about his crying and sometimes I wondered if he even realized it was so loud, or if he cared.  Each night for the last four years, after he would eat his dinner, he would change into his shorts and grab Dalton’s dog.  Together, they would cuddle together on our bed until they both fell asleep.  In her absence, he is not okay.  That sick ache in his stomach has returned.  She was the best companion, the true definition of a therapy dog.

As I sit at my desk typing this, I am thinking about Dalton.  Thinking about our family and about Christmas coming up.  I am acutely aware of others in far worse shape than us all around the world.  Others that, like us, for whatever reason, are not okay.   We are frayed around the edges.  Broken in every sense of the word.  Yet, here we are.  Getting up every single day and putting one foot in front of the other.  Not having to be perfect.  Simply trying to use our pain for God’s glory and helping others to accept that we really aren’t okay.

In Angela Miller’s book, titled You Are the Mother of all Mothers, A Message of Hope for the Grieving Heart, she writes, “For whatever it’s worth, I see you.  I hear your gutteral sobs.  I feel your ache deep inside my bones.  And it doesn’t make me uncomfortable to put my fingers as a makeshift Band-Aid over the gaping hole in your heart until the scabs come, if and when they do.  It takes invincible strength to mother a child you can no longer hold, see, tough, or hear.  You are a superhero mama.  I see you fall down and get up, fall down and get up, over and over again.  I notice the grit and guts it takes to pry yourself out of bed every single day and force your bloodied feet to stand up and keep walking.”

I know I’m not alone.  There’s so many of you with your own hurts and hang ups in life. This Christmas, I want to tell you from my heart to yours that I see you.  I see that you aren’t okay.  And, you know what?  That’s okay.

We met Cooper tonight.  He was a red-haired, 10 year old kid who just happened to be at Dick’s Sporting Goods at the same time as we were.  Dawsyn and I had been sitting on the floor watching some high school kids practicing their golf putt, when Cooper showed up to wait his turn on the putting green.  Right about then, Troy came around the corner and saw us.  The high school kids had finished their putting and Cooper walked over proudly with his golf club.  He was a bigger boy, built much like Dalton, so I was surprised when he told me he was only 10.  Cooper unabashedly approached Troy and offered him a right handed putter and challenged him to a “putt off.”  For a brief moment, I pictured Troy smiling and politely saying no thanks.  Instead, he helped Cooper find a better club so they could get their game on.  Turned out Cooper was a lefty.

Dawsyn is a watcher.  She loves sitting cross-legged and watching everything.  This was no exception.  She and I sat down on the floor at Dick’s in the golf department as spectators to the “putt off” between the two.  I started studying this Cooper.  His mannerisms, his voice, and his easy-going attitude took my mind straight to my boy.  He was witty.  Unafraid to talk to complete strangers that he personally deemed suitable.  Confident without being obnoxious.  Brazen enough to talk minimal trash to Troy, yet respectful enough to do it with a smile and a twinkle in his eye.  The kind of kid who might say to his own dad, “Hey. Calm down.”

The boys finished their “putt off” and I badly wanted to ask them to play another so Cooper wouldn’t have to go.  Instead, he put up his left-handed putter and (with a look of amusement in his eyes) thanked Troy for playing.  I followed him with my eyes until he disappeared completely through a section of clothing to go find his mother.  I resisted telling his mother was a neat kid we thought he was for the sake of her thinking I was creepy.  In lieu of that, I looked up towards the Dick’s Sporting Goods ceiling and told DD that it felt like we got to hang out with him tonight for about 5-10 minutes. And it had been perfect.

I cried the whole drive home without letting Troy even see my face.  Maybe I just needed to be alone in my hurt tonight.  I wondered if he had felt anything back at the store but I didn’t have the strength to ask.  That is what the week feels like leading up to the anniversary of a child’s death.  It breaks you into pieces like that shattered person you were in the days after you realized your child was never, ever coming back.  That is why I hate this week.  I hate that I had no idea I was spending the last full week with Dalton that I would ever have.  I hate how I got mad at him for throwing food out of the bus window after leaving the homeless shelter.  And I hate how irritated I was with him for not cleaning the loft and leaving his shoes where I would always trip over them in the dark.

Once home, I sobbed all through the time I was giving Dawsyn her bath.  She ignored it at first and then she started doing all sorts of things I think that were designed to cheer me up.  She was doing what any typical 2 year old would do and began to act very silly… attempting somersaults in the tub, putting bubbles on her head, and spitting water at me through her teeth.  It hurt me knowing that nothing she could do was capable of fixing what was wrong.  That is when I started thinking to myself that maybe it was cruel to even bring her into the world to be the child of two very broken people.  Not to mention two broken older siblings as well.  I may always wonder if that was totally fair to her or not.  I suppose that is something we will have to rely on the Holy Spirit to guide us through.  He can continue to lead us in our healing and growing stronger in our faith of God.

Tonight, I just hope Dawsyn understands that it has nothing to do with her.  Nope.  I am simply a broken momma who saw a glimpse of what being around Dalton felt like again and I loved it though it was short.  It makes me hungrier for the real thing.  The real homecoming.  That feeling of longing just never dissipates. In fact, it grows in intensity the older I get.

But you be watchful in all things, endure afflictions, do the work of an evangelist, fulfill your ministry.  (2 Timothy 4:5)

I am trying.  I can promise you that.

Tomorrow evening at 6pm is the official ribbon cutting on Dalton’s Memorial Park in downtown Augusta.  The feeling could not be more bittersweet.  The park itself is nothing short of incredible.  It is probably more comparable to an amusement park than a playground.  Supposedly it is the tallest park in Kansas, has these humongous adult-accommodating tube slides and a zero gravity rail swing that is sure to be a hit amongst people of all ages.  That, I suppose, is the “sweet” part.  The “bitter” part is slightly more complicated.

 

To be honest, I have only driven by. I haven’t even gotten out of my car and stood next to the massive orange and black equipment.  That is not because I am not totally awed by the structure – it is quite the opposite.  The uneasiness and dread I feel (the “bitter” part if you will) comes from a familiar place inside me when I see these tributes done in the name of my child.  Don’t get me wrong, I love them…from seeing his initials on the warm up basketball jerseys of the Wichita Collegiate middle schoolers to his annual memorial baseball tournament in Butler County.  Ways of paying homage to him like that are terrific, yet the “bitter” feeling exists because he physically does not.  I would much prefer to have him here and let the park be nameless, jerseys to simply have the school mascot on them, and watch him play baseball in real time as a senior in high school as opposed to seeing him frozen in time as a 13 year old kid on an Annual Dalton Palmer Memorial Baseball Tournament banner.  And, frankly, the people who organize these honors for Dalton understand my anguish without painting me as ungrateful and self-centered. They are parents too do not fault me for admitting things like that.

 

As far as this park goes, it is my prayer to the community that the people of Dalton’s hometown enjoy it for many years to come.  Take your children, nieces, nephews and grandchildren down there.  Try not to become too winded climbing up those steep steps to the twisty slides. Go ahead and zoom down those suckers yourself.  Whiz by people as you take the curves of the zero gravity rail swing grinning from ear to ear.  Just do me a favor.  First, thank the city of Augusta and Augusta Project, Inc. for funding a project like this designed to draw more business to our downtown area while giving the youth a fun and safe environment to enjoy for generations.  Second, spare a couple moments telling a child or two who the park is named after.  Tell them, like this crazy park, Dalton was pretty wild and crazy himself.  He loved adventure and had a rampant imagination.  If you ask his closest friends, they would tell you he insisted on being the center of attention.  Isn’t it ironic how this park is definitely the focus of our downtown with its colossal structure looming over our very own historic State Street?  That seems awfully fitting.  Bittersweet, to be exact.

Happy 150th birthday, Augusta, Kansas.  May you enjoy another 150.

Lastly, I thought Dalton’s buddies might get a kick out of the video they all made back in the 5th or 6th grade while hanging out at the Stone Lake Park.  It was when the “Harlem Shake” craze was going around.  Notice who is front and center.  I apologize for the poor quality of the video, but I think you will get a chuckle regardless.

“We don’t stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing.” George Bernard Shaw

To Dalton’s friends,

It seems surreal that most of you are about to begin your senior year in high school. How can it be that Dalton should be graduating with you in the spring when he never even saw a single classroom as a freshman? I still see him in my mind as an 8^th grader. I know you do too.

Why am I writing you, you ask? For one, I don’t have a high school senior to give any words of wisdom to. Secondly, I still think about you and pray for all of you. This year especially. Many of you are spending the last year under your parent’s roof. Soon you will be going off to college or work or college and work. And today’s culture is much different than the one your parents grew up in. However, you have the ability to be a beacon of hope to your peers and the face of Jesus to the world.

I have always been a ridiculous note-taker. In school. When I was a teacher. As a mom. When I hear something that sounds profound, I try to stop whatever I’m doing and either write it down or put it in my notes in my phone. I take notes whenever I read, listen to a sermon on the radio, watch a sermon online or in person, hear a guest speaker, and attend a conference. Later, I reflect on those notes and try to discern what they really mean and how I can apply them to my life. I feel strongly that God is calling on me today to use what knowledge and experience I have received to pass it on to you as you embark upon one of the most exciting years of your lives.

Not in any particular order of importance, I have decided to bullet point several highlighted items in my notebook that I feel like are applicable to you right now in your life:

• It’s not about you. It’s what you have been called to do. If God has given you a platform (such as a role of leadership) He gave you that platform for Him. When leading (be it a sports team or a debate team), lead for the purpose God has given you – not the position. Do good to the people you lead. Be willing to confront evil. The opposite of a leader is a bystander. And, finally, lead for self-sacrifice and not for self-benefit.

• We can’t see what God can see. Don’t get so fixated on a door that closes that you can’t see the door that opens. (I used to watch my own kids go thru this with boyfriends and girlfriends).

 

• Pray. Why do you need to pray? 1) We know God hears us. 2) We are invited to pray about anything and everything. 3) God gives us the Holy Spirit to help us pray. 4) Prayers are always your safe place (He is your refuge – pour your heart out to Him. 5) Jesus even gave you a template about how to pray when He gave you the Lord’s Prayer. 6) Prayer invites God’s amazingly creative solutions into your problems. Never stop praying (1 Thess 5:17). You may not like God’s timing in answering your prayer requests, but His timing is always perfect.

• Trust God is working for you. Peter, James and John had to learn to trust Jesus when He instructed them to throw their nets deeper to catch more fish. They were probably annoyed since fishing was their expertise. Of course, they found out Jesus was right when they trusted Him. How about you? Can you trust God in an area of your competence (something you are good in)? It’s easy to obey God in a time of uncertainty. Obedience is a form of humility and it makes God ultimately responsible. God can never advance you past your level of obedience.

• Staying power is staying when things get difficult. (Ever wanted to quit a team because the physical demands felt too tough)? There are 7 Laws of Staying Power: 1) Any truly worthwhile quest will present you with a “quit now” moment. 2) A life of quitting early will leave you with an inventory of unfinished business. 3) We tend to overestimate our own strength and underestimate God’s. 4) You don’t have to beat your opponents – just outlast them. 5) Often battles are won at moments that don’t feel like real victories. 6) God commends us in every way: in great endurance; in troubles, hardships and distresses. 7) Perseverance may end up being your greatest achievement.

• Be a kindness dispenser. It’s hard to be kind and unhappy. Being rude to someone shows how insecure and weak you really are. Like Isaiah tells us, God has blotted out our sins and our transgressions are no more. Forgive one another. You are going to need mercy shown to you one day so show it to your friends. Trust me when I say life is too short to hold grudges.

• Follow Jesus. If you follow Jesus, you will discover your own life and it will be manifested in love. You will never follow Jesus to hate, be racist, rage, to grudge, or get even. All commandments come down to loving God and loving others. Every problem you have – love solves. “The drama is killing me!” “I feel like I’m being shut out.” “People let me down.” “I don’t know how to fit in with the kids in my school.” Consider this… If you focus more on God’s love for you, your love for Him will grow. The more we love Him, the more we can love difficult people.

• Girls, especially girls – hear this one. Not everyone that can give you advice should be giving you advice. Try these 3 questions to ask yourself if you are seeking good advice or not: 1) Does this person know more than I do? 2) Will this person tell me what I need to know or tell me what I want to hear? 3) Is this person motivated by the right thing? Remember, there is no such thing as neutral advice. Every advisor is motivated by something and a good person brings loyalty into their advice giving.

• Finally, does God have it in His plans for YOU to be a catalyst in making a difference in today’s school/cultural life? YES! God wants and expects you to be different – the way you think, talk, and behave. To be holy is to be different. Let the Lord God guide you. Gal 5:16 tells you that the Holy Spirit will guide you so that your sinful nature will not take over. Let the fruits of the Holy Spirit fill you with how you should talk/think/act. Be aware of those who are hurting around you. Be DIFFERENT and talk to them. Listen to them. When it’s just you and another student walking down the hall, don’t avoid eye contact (even if he/she does) and say hi. Smile. You have no idea how far a smile goes in the mind of a kid who thinks they have no value or purpose.

Lastly, I ask that whenever possible, talk about Dalton. Call me or write me and I’ll be happy to talk to you about Dalton. One of the hardest things about losing a child is rarely does anyone say their name anymore. And that is NOT what a bereaved parent wants at all. If possible, we would love to be invited to some of the games, concerts, plays, graduations, etc. that you will be participating in during the school year. After all, we were very much expecting to be watching Dalton play sports in High School, but that was not part of the plan.

So be kind to your parents. Be patient. They, like you, aren’t perfect. But they care so much about you and want this year to be a great success. Don’t groan when they remind you to not text and drive, to stay away from the “wrong crowd,” to wait until you are 21 to drink, and to have the courage to say absolutely no to using any kind of drug. Will it separate you from the “in crowd?” Maybe. Or maybe that “in crowd” will see something about you that is different. Favorable. Honorable. You won’t know until you try it. I challenge you this year to simply be different.

To be very blunt, drugs and alcohol and reckless behavior can lead to some serious consequences. Though Dalton was not under the influence of and drugs or alcohol that day in 2014, he likely was driving recklessly. What happened was an accident, but it never should have happened in the first place. Don’t let your negative, impulsive choices impact your loved ones and leave them devastated like we were.

I recently heard a story about a grieving mother orca whale who held on to her dead calf for over 2 weeks before she finally let him go. It seems crazy to compare myself to an orca whale, but wow I get it! The initial pain, shock, and disbelief are all reasons I could see her wanting to just keep that calf close as possible for as long as possible. How bittersweet that moment must have been on Saturday when she finally told him or her goodbye. I remember my own moment of not wanting to let go. I did not want Dalton’s casket to close for the last time. My boy was in there with all my hopes and dreams for him. Just tucked in like he was taking a nap. Of course, little did I know at that moment he was likely already experiencing Jesus face to face. Picture him now watching and praying for all of you on earth to be different (God knows he was lol). He is cheering you on to be the light in a world of too much darkness and make this year count like none before.

With all my love,

Dalton’s mom

P.S. I hope these pictures of many of you bring a smile to your face. They did mine.

Our family spent last week at The Lake of the Ozarks in Missouri. Surrounded by trees in the Village of Four Seasons and nestled on the point of a cove, we enjoyed a seven bedroom home bustling with entertainment inside and out for the Meckel/Hoyt family reunion. We fished, swam, and boated. The kids were in heaven. There is nothing quite like having the whole entire family together and just enjoying each other’s company. Of course, Colton sang karaoke whenever he wasn’t whipping everyone at ping pong. In addition to our regular game of Pitch, we played some others like Family Feud and Song Burst. Everyone was equally awful at Song Burst, so that one didn’t last long. Well, everyone except Colton. Because no one just happens to know on the spot every word to songs like “Any Day Now” by Ronnie Milsap aside from my oldest son. He lives for that stuff. Therefore, instead of watching him answer all the questions on lyrics to old country songs, we decided to call it quits on Song Burst.

To celebrate my niece’s birthday, all the kids made slime. I have to admit that was a first for me. My step-mom had every ingredient known to man that children put into slime these days. It was a mess and completely awesome. Dawsyn, Kaemyn, and Kalyssa have never had so much fun getting filthy. Oh, and I think Keely too. They were elbow deep in Elmer’s glue, contact solution, washable paint, glitter, and these little foam ball things. The adults watched in semi-horror as the kids had a total blast with their creations. After it was over, we cleaned and we cleaned and we cleaned. Surfaces were wiped and the floor was swept. Twice. As Keely bent down under the table to ensure her area was clean (because let me tell you she had way too much fun) she noticed a penny close to one of the legs. With a knowing smile she picked it up and thanked Dalton for giving her a sign he was around.

Pennies. I could devote an entire blog to the pennies we have found since DD has been gone. I am curious… has anyone else ever experienced anything similar to this after losing a loved one? I know it sounds nuts, but many of our family members have found pennies appearing out of nowhere in random places. And often, like under the table after making slime, they show themselves after we know for certain nothing was there before. To make it even more interesting, beginning around age 11, Dalton became obsessed with pennies. We would give him a large bag of pennies and muffin pan(s) and he would sort them according to the year. He memorized the year every family member was born by studying and organizing pennies. Hence, when we find a penny, it means something.

Dalton’s 17^th birthday was on June 21^st. Rather than return home after our lake vacation, the girls and I decided to tag along with Troy to Cleveland and Detroit on business. We arrived at our hotel in Cleveland where we were staying on the 23^rd floor that night. Coincidence? That was Dalton’s number in nearly every sport he played. I handed Troy the key to our room and told him what floor it was on. His eyes said he was thinking what I was thinking. Roughly thirty minutes before, we had been in an Uber heading to the hotel where we saw a building with a Lebron James’s banner on it somewhere around 10-15 stories high. Towering over the city street, Lebron’s muscular outstretched arms appear like he is enveloping all of Cleveland as his number is proudly displayed upon his back. 23. Duh. How could I forget? Dalton had loved Lebron. We chose to bury him in his new Lebron shoes he had received less than two weeks before his accident. You can see them in the very last Instagram picture he would ever post @hotstuffpalmer.

Things only got more interesting once we reached Detroit. We met a gentleman named Steve who worked at the small airport we flew into. Tall and confident, he complimented a t-shirt I was wearing that read Blessed Beyond Measure. Quickly we engaged in a conversation about our common faith and he told us how he had been very ill once and was clinically dead for some time. I asked him what he remembered. Eyes lighting up, Steve anticipated telling his story. It was almost like he had been waiting for me to visit with him that day so he could tell someone all about it. Making a semi-long story short, Steve recalls vividly how everything appeared intensely bright white upon death. Like a brightness that couldn’t be explained in normal terms. It was as if what he saw was too white and too shiny to adequately describe. That was all he remembered seeing. However, it wasn’t what he saw that made the biggest impression. It was what he felt. I found myself captivated by Steve’s facial and hand expressions as he did he took his best stab at explaining what an immense feeling of love that had washed over him during his “trip to the other side.” I asked him why he thought he didn’t stay dead. He said he knew it wasn’t his time because he still had four kids to raise. Immediately, I wondered why that November in 2014 would have ever have been the right time for a 13 year old boy to die. Respectfully, we thanked Steve for sharing such a beautiful story with us and told him why it meant so much to us to hear his story on that particular day. It was further confirmation that Dalton was helping us get through one of the toughest days of the year.

We took Dawsyn to the Rainforest Café on DD’s birthday night because that was a restaurant he had liked so much when he was younger. All was going well until the “rain storm” came and the animals appeared to come alive. Dawsie flung herself into my lap with a death grip around my neck. She would wave her pointer finger at the gorillas and tell them, “No, no. Get back!” Maybe next time. We requested an Uber to pick us up after the restaurant. Feeling conversational, we asked our driver some questions about how he started working for Uber, what type of work he did before that, and if he liked Michigan. After only a few short minutes of small talk, the driver began talking about his family. The first thing he shared was that he had lost a son in the Iraq war. He had been a POW for 5 months. His name was Byron and he had only been 19 years old. My heart hurt for him. And I wondered if he told all of his passengers about Byron. He took us to the Hilton Auburn Hills Suites (located at 2300 Featherstone Rd) where we each took turns giving him a hug before he left to pick up his next passenger. Bereaved family members have a way of connecting to one another very quickly.

Troy had meetings in Detroit the following day so the girls and I decided to go shopping. We called another Uber and a sweet lady named Maria showed up twenty minutes later to pick us up. I have never been in the presence of a chattier stranger in my life. We learned so much about Maria in a small sliver of time. She had met her husband of 23 years where she was raised in South Africa. They had four children together and they struggled their entire married life to make ends meet. She had little exposure to God growing up. That changed the day her son (then 3 years old) had a seizure and stopped breathing. They were at least 20 miles from a hospital in an unfamiliar area where no one spoke English. Maria’s husband was holding her son’s limp body as she ran around frantically trying to flag down someone to help them. During her moment of panic she began praying to God to help her child survive. Unbeknownst to her, a motorcyclist had already stopped and picked up her husband. Cradling their son, her husband was transported by the motorcyclist to the closest hospital. At the same time Maria discovered her husband and son were not where she left them, a second motorcyclist stopped. Unable to communicate, she somehow felt compelled to hitch a ride with this stranger. He ended up taking her to the hospital where her husband and son had arrived moments before. Imagine her joy as she saw her young son breathing on his own. According to Maria, the doctors suspected it was the wind from the motorcycle ride that somehow helped the little boy snap out of it. Not long after, Maria’s son would tell her that he knew he had died. He remembered seeing all white and three people. One he recognized as his father, one was his grandfather, and one was a person he did not know. That was the day Maria accepted Christ into her life and became a believer.

Keely and I sat in the backseat of this strong woman’s car and wiped the tears from our eyes. I told her about Dalton and how her story meant so much to me. She shared that she had suffered a painful loss of her own recently. Her husband passed away only a couple of years ago to a bizarre illness. He was her soul mate and her best friend. She spoke of how difficult it was providing for their daughters (now 7 and 9) on a single income. I thought she was going to get emotional when she took me by surprise by tossing her head back and laughing. She said he knows he is gone, but he lets her know he’s still around. Figuring there was a story there, I asked how.

“By leaving me pennies,” Maria said with a wink.

All Keely and I could do was look at each other and smile.

When I started writing this blog it was after the death of my 13 year old son.  For whatever reason, putting my thoughts into written words felt therapeutic to me.  Writing helps to alleviate the pain I guess.  Choosing a name for the blog was tricky.  Healing was my intent after suffering the worst loss imaginable, so healing through loss seemed like a good phrase.  I knew it wasn’t going to be a one step process and that is why the word “through” was important to me.  I was going to have to work through the stages of my current loss.

Loss comes in many forms.  And, unfortunately, it has entered my life once again.  Except this time it is with the loss of  friendship and trust I have treasured for over two decades. Working through this latest loss is likely going to take some time.  My goal in writing this particular blog post is not to publicly shame anyone.  Sharing this with the intention to get even would put me at the same level as the betrayers.  Instead, I will try to use this experience to lead someone else who is hurting to Christ.  It is impossible for me to share my faith in God and not practice what I preach.  We have enough of these “so-called Christians” in the world masquerading as sinless and above the rest.  They give the non-God followers another reason to turn away from Christianity altogether and label them as hypocrites.  I refuse to follow suit.  In every blog I have strived to be as transparent as possible – giving my readers the good and the ugly.  This will be no different. In order for me to lead by example of showing mercy and forgiveness to the people in this story, you will need to understand the level of betrayal first.  We live in a broken world and as much as I pray this never happens to you, you must not be as naïve as I was and consider that you could be walking in my shoes one day.

To the people that I will be writing about, I would like to say something.  You both knew (and encouraged) my writing to work through the hurt in my heart after Dalton died.  You both praised me for the transparency in my words and commitment in sharing the gospel.  Above all, you knew my blog was having an impact on my readers and that I have the ability to reach a multitude of men and women with the single push of a “publish” button.  Yet, you called my bluff and assumed your deception would never be the subject matter of one.  You were wrong.  But I’m not staring at this computer screen and punching these keys because I enjoy publicly sharing very private details of my personal life.  I’m pouring this out because I need to heal.  Forgiveness is something I will give freely to you both.  Consider it a gift from me to you.

And so it begins.

My best friend called me last Saturday night to inform me she has been having an affair with my husband off and on since 2009 (a little less than half of my 22 year marriage).  Painstakingly trying to absorb what she just said, she continued on by citing other “examples” of his infidelity that she knew “100% were true” (which ended up being blatant lies).  I started crying and told her my life had just completely been turned upside down with her phone call.  She said she was sorry, knew she had been an awful friend, hoped I could find a way in my heart to forgive her and that she was a new person now.  I have no idea why she decided to come forth with this information now, but for whatever reason she did.

This was a woman I have looked up to for 22 years.  I met her shortly after I met my husband back in 1995.  She was beautiful, smart and exceedingly assertive.  Her quick wit and sense of humor enamored me throughout our entire friendship.  Over the years, I watched her grow into a professional woman of great strength within a man’s world.  Her charm amongst co-workers and business partners was mesmerizing at times.  She maneuvered her way up through the chain of command and held an influential position within a thriving company.  In hind sight, I saw the changes in her personality as her success grew, but I chalked them up to casualties of climbing the ever-so-steep business ladder. With that being said, there is no doubt in my mind now that the quest for power, control, and status led to her downfall.

Through the course of our 22 year friendship, we shared more together than I have space to write on this blog.  Births of our children, countless vacations, endless hours of laughter, sharing of our faith and the list goes on.  Three and a half years ago that list included the death of my son (whom ironically was her son’s best friend as well).  While pacing in a tiny waiting room at the hospital, she was the only person I called to say that an ambulance had brought DD to the ER and we had no idea if he was going to make it.  She was devastated for me and left where she was watching a football game from out of town to come be by my side.  In the days to follow, she handled every detail.  She went with Troy and I to make all the funeral arrangements.  She picked out his casket and set up the entire viewing presentation the night of his rosary.  I gave her the clothes to dress my child in for the last time.  Then, the day of the funeral, dressed me myself.  She was more than my rock.  She was everything I didn’t have the strength to be. I leaned on her and she didn’t disappoint.

In October 2016, I gave birth to a miracle little girl.  I remember my friend coming up to the hospital to see her for the first time.  Knowing how badly I wanted this new baby, she had tears in her eyes as she said she had never been so happy for me.  Little did I know she was involved with my husband even at that time.  And during the pregnancy.  And after until Dawsyn would turn about six months old.  “For it is not an enemy who taunts me – then I could bear it; it is not an adversary who deals insolently with me – then I could hide from him/her.  But it is you, a man/woman, my equal, my companion, my familiar friend.  We used to take sweet counsel with one another; within God’s house we walked in the throng.”  (Psalm 55:12-14) 

According to my friend, leading up to the end of the affair in April of 2017, she said she wanted to commit her life to God and that is why her involvement with my husband had to come to a halt.  In an interesting twist, the day after her confession of betrayal, her account of the affair had already been altered to a degree.  Now she was manipulated by my husband and was the victim.  It doesn’t really matter.  If and when she does fully devote her life to being a changed person, I am/will be genuinely happy for her.  Despite how scorned my voice comes across in these words, I am not her judge and do not know her heart like God alone does.  And, after 22 years, I still care about her soul.  As crazy as it sounds, there are SO MANY memories of our friendship that I will always cherish and do not regret.  That may not make sense to people, but it is the truth.  Praying her admission of being a new person is not under false pretenses (and knowing her like the back of my hand), my guess is she will tell everyone she is relieved and how she is much happier today.  She has come clean of the sins of her past.  Purged her life of lies and the “negativity” that surrounded her.  I suppose confessing to her best friend that she began an affair with her husband 9 years ago sincerely could purify her soul and help her start anew. Maybe this has been eating at her for some time.  If that is the case, I will not judge.  The Lord knows not just her actions, but her intentions as well.  God doesn’t keep scorecards.  If she is this new, born-again Christian, then there is rejoicing in heaven over another saved soul.  God isn’t interested in what we have done.  He only cares about what we have become.

So why tell this?  Where am I going with this?  It is not for pity.  Don’t give me that please.  I am so far from perfect and without blemish that I don’t deserve a single person’s pity.  I am writing this because #1, writing is what I do and I won’t be silenced and #2, there is a lesson here on forgiveness and mercy to be taught. Is it too soon to preach those concepts?  Naturally, in the last 5 days, I have questioned that myself.   In our small group bible study (that comically my friend was the leader of), we have learned so many practical ways of handling difficult relationships by modeling ourselves after Christ.  During the Easter season, we studied a series called “The Keys to a Blessed Life.”  One of the lessons dealt directly with how we are called to be merciful by God.  It’s a hard pill to swallow, but I am slowly understanding why these steps for mercy are so fundamental for those of us who place our salvation in Christ.  The first section of this lesson answered why we are called by God to be merciful to others.  In my notes, I wrote “Because God has shown ME mercy.”  Think of that for a minute.  Are any of us perfect?  Which of us can cast the first stone?  The next three notes I recorded in my journal read, “God commands me to be merciful, I’m going to need more mercy in the future, and showing mercy brings happiness.”  I could stop here now and give a testimony of how feeling resentful and unforgiving only hurts myself.

Forgiveness is an act of faith followed by a journey of continuing to forgive and release.  The definition of mercy (according to Google) is compassion or forgiveness shown toward someone whom it is within one’s power to punish or harm.  Administering mercy to someone does not excuse what they have done.  It relinquishes you.  The forgiver.  Think of all the horrible things we have done.  The things people know about and things we keep hidden and buried.  Is there anything we can do that can’t be forgiven by God if we truly have contrition in our hearts?  Not a thing.  Let me say it again.  We must show mercy to others because God has shown mercy to us.  On the other hand, there is nothing in the bible that commands me to be friends with a person who has deceived me.  If I don’t ever want to see that person again, or talk to that person again, I don’t have to.  In being completely transparent with all of you, I would be lying if I said part of me gets this image in my head of my friend in her Louboutin heels, fitted designer dresses, meticulous hair and make up and doesn’t fantasize about knocking out her perfectly bleached teeth.  Those thoughts are the very human side of me.  But I can’t and I won’t.  What I DO have to do, though, is be good to those who hurt me.  “Love your enemies, do good to them, and lend to them without expecting to get anything back.  Then your reward will be great, and you will be children of the Most High, because he is kind to the ungrateful and wicked.  Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.” (Luke 6:35-36)

You might be wondering where this leaves my marriage.  It takes two to tango and I’m quite aware of that.  I’m also aware in the days and months ahead they both will likely put the blame on the other person.  Does it really matter at this point though? Regardless, the application of mercy will stand in my relationship to my husband just as I have applied it to my friend as long as he and I can build a union based on trust and fidelity from this day forward.  My husband has shown me mercy in the past for my mistakes and I have him as well.  No marriage is perfect.  The “outwardly perfect” ones are generally the ones that seem to toil behind the scenes the greatest.  Ours is far from being textbook and we have a mountain of work ahead of us.  I can tell you that I have two children that, though both are nearly grown, are always watching and learning.  They see the ugly truths of this world and what sin can lead to.  My greatest aspiration as it pertains to them is to be a model of love, hope, and forgiveness.  It is what I want them to show others.  It is also especially important to me that my two daughters one day recognize that their mother was empowered enough to speak up.   Notwithstanding, that same mother (that isn’t going to hide what happened) is also going to show mercy to the ones who hurt her.

Then there is also this 13 year old boy that just may be watching me from heaven.  Perhaps he sees this mess we are living in right now and watches as one of his parents shows mercy to the ones that deserve it the least, and he gives his smirk, subtle head nod, and thumbs up sign as if to say, “That’s my girl.” 

 

 

“You intended to harm me, but God intended it all for good.  He brought me to this position so that I could save the lives of many people.”  (Genesis 50:20)

 

Calmly carrying a whining, cranky 19 month old, I walked over to our mini bar area in the living room and selected a glass. I poured it full from a bottle of 19 Crimes Cabernet Sauvignon, balancing the glass as I walked to my kitchen patio, doing my best to keep a temper-throwing child from knocking it from my hand. Seemingly unruffled by her latest fit, I told Alexa to play some relaxing music, pulled my chair back and set my glass down on the table. Realizing I wasn’t walking outside to entertain her in some way ignited a new firestorm of protesting cries. I removed her from my lap, took a deep sip of my Cabernet, and tilted my head back, closing my eyes. All I wanted in that moment was to be the mother of 3 teenagers again. That thought came so quick, I was afraid for a second that I had said it out loud. Though I was so exhausted, I knew I should feel guilty about having that thought. Except, right then and there, I wasn’t.

Don’t get me wrong. Being a parent of all teenagers had its own set of challenges on a daily basis. Endless friends of the kids would be over at all time of the day. Cars would be parked and blocking our way in the driveway, homework scattered all over the kitchen table, bags of opened sunflower seeds in nearly every room (plus his dang “spit cups”), and it was an every day battle to get Keely to clean up her bedroom. The most tiresome thing I recall was simply trying to be everywhere for everyone. I was Dalton’s chauffeur (plus half of his friends) and I loved it. I found out so much gossip from having those boys in my car. Then, of course, there was always the football games we attended to support Colton and the basketball games to watch Keely cheer. Life was busy, but it wasn’t a “Good Lord, I’m so freaking tired, my whole body aches, and why doesn’t this baby ever sit still?” kind of busy.

Let me say that, in Dawsyn’s defense, she has been really sick. She has viral pneumonia and it probably stemmed from a bad cold she was fighting prior to that. All I know is that for 13 nights straight, she has coughed and make this horrible whining noise while NOT SLEEPING AT ALL. She’s a horrible sleeper anyway, then mix in a sickness and its exponentially bad. I do truly feel sad for her. She is hurting and can’t really understand why. The only form of communication she knows is to cry and whimper. I think I’m trying to say that doing this at 41 feels much different from when I was in my early 20’s. And that’s not even mentioning the 30 extra lbs I can’t seem to lose. (That has been such an exciting perk of this last pregnancy). The extra weight is most likely the culprit for my plantar fasciitis – WHICH FEELS HORRIBLE BTW.

I do not regret the decision to have Dawsyn whatsoever. She is a blessing and has helped to heal our hurting family. I just have THOSE DAYS where I think about how different my life was 3 ½ years ago. Mainly, I believe I have forgotten how much work toddlers are. I smile when I think back to how smoothly I raised three of them under five years old in what seems like another lifetime. Back when I had the stamina to go, go, go. Back when it didn’t take me 10 seconds to rise to my feet from a sitting position after reading books to Dawsie on the floor. Despite being a little older, I still manage to do everything she wants to do in a day. Her batteries never seem to wear down. It’s full-force busyness until she crashes for a SHORT nap. Any chance I get, I try to get Colton, Carly or Keely to play with her so I can get at least a 30 min reprieve. Then I’m good to go again!

One day Dawsyn will ask questions about Dalton. Questions about what happened to him and questions about why we waited to so long to have her. At some point in her life, she will understand that she wouldn’t be here if her brother would have lived. We will have to be very careful explaining to her how much we loved Dalton (and Colton and Keely). Maybe we tell her Dalton went to live with Jesus and he is waiting on the rest of us there. Eventually, we will explain to her how much our hearts hurt and we needed a little miracle. And then I will share that God placed the idea in my heart about welcoming another little baby into our world and she was that baby. I pray she accepts that because it is the truth.

So how did our night end after I chugged my glass of wine? I picked up the grumpy, whimpering little girl and gave her a bath. Put her pj’s on her while she fought every aspect of that task. Walked into her room, turned off the lights and turned on her white noise machine, sat down in my glider and got ready to nurse her. Yes, we are sill doing that. I let out a sigh of relief that the end of the day had finally come. Sitting there I could feel every sore muscle from holding her nearly that entire day. My hair was a mess and I was trying to remember if I had brushed my teeth that morning. Then, completely out of the blue, she stops nursing and pulls back to look me in the eye. She smiles and blows me kiss.

I smiled back and told her I loved her. I sat there wondering if that kiss came from her or if it came from someone who knew his momma needed something like that. It didn’t matter. It was perfect.

 

“The best use of life is love. The best expression of love is time. The best time to love is now.”– Rick Warren