I was sitting in the living room a while ago when I noticed a police officer remove his hat as he climbed my back stairs. My mind raced back to that horrific day in the ER when I learned that Joseph died. My heart leaped into my throat. My husband often travels for work but is at home today, so I knew nothing happened to him. With tears flooding my eyes, I yelled for Phil and flung the door open.
“Who is it?” I demanded of the officer. Thankfully, he was looking for someone else, and neither Curt nor Wyatt (nor the person the trooper was looking for) was dead.
I came unglued and collapsed into my husband’s arms the minute the officer walked out my door. His visit was a reminder that I am not exempt from losing another child. None of us is.
Even though I was interrupting their workdays, I sent my two living sons text messages, asking each to let me know he was okay and reminding him how furiously his dad and I love him.
Life is like that when you live with one foot on earth and one foot in heaven. Sometimes, little triggers cause major meltdowns and catapult me right back to that horrible moment when I learned that Joseph was dead.
This time, I fell apart when I saw a police officer remove his hat and walk up to my door. The first time was when I took an injured friend to that same ER, where I learned my seventeen-year-old was dead.
Most of the time, when I come upon a car crash, I pray for the victim and his parents. But there are occasions when I inexplicably come unglued at the sight of a mangled car or flashing lights.
Some say these occurrences are PTSD. All I know for sure is that those rare moments overtake me, and all I can do is surrender to them, believing that God sits with me in each, just as He has in every other moment of my grief.
Friend, do you have children? Hug, visit, call, or text every single one of them today. Tell each one you love him. And then drop to your knees and thank God for each child by name and the privilege of being his parent.
Life is not a promise. Every breathing moment is a gift.