My Dearest Joseph,
As I sat in the family room by the warmth of the fire tonight, I glanced at the oil portrait of you hanging above the mantle, then gazed into your introspective hazel eyes. This time, our eyes locked—and I yearned to have another heart-to-heart with you. Your dad, the artist, captured your quiet, stoic personality to a T. But still, it’s not the same as having you in the family room to see, smell, hear, and feel.
As I studied your face this evening, I attempted to envision what you might look like now, fourteen years after your death—at the age of thirty-one. I could not. Would you still wear your hair so short that the cowlick in the front stands up? Would you have grown taller than the 5’10” you were? Even though it wasn’t meant to be, I fantasize about what might have been. Might you know how irrevocably your life—and death—shaped us?
On occasion, I run upstairs to put the laundry away and, for a split second, catch myself walking into your room to tousle your hair and engage you in a conversation. But, as I enter the emptiness, I find only memories of you sprawled out across your bed, reading Coach K’s book Leading with the Heart. The reality of your absence then sucker-punches me again and leaves me gasping for air.
Would you be married and have children? Would you have married an older girl like you thought you might? Because you were such an introvert, I suspect you might have married an extrovert, perhaps someone as outgoing as your brother, Curt. We would have loved whomever you chose simply because you loved her. The past couple of Christmases, I’ve found myself dreaming that I plopped your little ones on my kitchen counter surrounded by mixing bowls, butter, and sugar. And then, together, we made your favorite Hershey Kiss cookies. And as only a doting grandma can, I slipped them the wooden spoons to lick and candy kisses to stuff into their little cheeks.
Would you be working in Sports Management as you hoped to do at the tender age of seventeen? As loyal of a fan as you were, I suspect you’d still be following Duke Basketball, the Dallas Cowboys, and the Cleveland Indians. We kept your jerseys, you know. They’re tucked away neatly in a keepsake box.
Occasionally, I pull them out and wish you, your dad, brothers, and friends were again packed into the family room, exchanging insults about each other’s team during our annual Super Bowl party. And I would wade through the testosterone and fanfare to slip into my kitchen and whip up a pizza party for the half-time show.
Your dad, brothers, and I reminisce about our days with you. Admittedly, there are still tears, but we laugh a lot, too, especially when recalling your dry humor. One of our favorite memories was your last Christmas Eve. You made us laugh ourselves silly when you, in all your slenderness, presented twelve-year-old Wyatt a lovely wrapped sandwich topped with a shiny bright red bow and a card that read, “To Fatty.” I miss watching you and your brothers pull innocent pranks on one another. And they miss your participation in their brotherly shenanigans.
You would ooze with pride if you could meet the extraordinary adult men your little brothers have become. Curt is a marriage & family counselor and is married to Michelle. They have a baby boy! Did you ever consider that you might have a sister-in-law and be an uncle? Wyatt has a brilliant mind and an unquenchable curiosity. He makes a living using his talents as a photographer and an artist. He’s halfway through earning his Master’s Degree. Now and then, I hear a bit of you in his voice, especially when chatting with him on the phone.
Honey, did you know that Dad and I would have willingly and happily died for you? I know our love pales compared to the love of our Heavenly Father, but many nights when I’m praying, I ask Abba to remind you how furiously Dad, your brothers, and I love you. We ache to see you again.
But we are doing okay, Joseph. We’re now able to experience moments of sorrow and joy in unison. We’re surviving the unimaginable and growing to have an understanding, strength, courage, and peace that we might never have known. For that, we are grateful. Our magnificent God sits with us in our grief. He is sustaining us. He has spoken color back into the gray world that had become our life. He is making beauty from ashes and has graced us to be a part of that. We have scars but also a clear purpose—and that is a gift.
And speaking of gifts, Joseph—knowing you are face-to-face with Jesus brings us immense joy and peace. Thank you for leaving us that gift.
February is here—the anniversary month of your home-going. As I always do this time of year, I will make your favorite supper—pork roast, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, and applesauce. Whenever I make your favorite foods, watch your favorite teams on TV, or glance at your portrait above the mantle, I offer thanks for my seventeen years with you. And I heal a little more.
I am eternally grateful for the honor of knowing you and the pleasure of raising you.
I’ll love you forever,
Mama
