No matter how prepared you think you are, no matter how busy you keep yourself, no matter how fiercely you guard your heart, no matter how many “good days” you’ve had, there will always be those days when sadness finds you and sometimes . . . that is okay. Sometimes it is okay to embrace grief and cry until you cannot shed another tear. Losing a child gives you that right. As the 2nd anniversary of Dallin’s passing looms on the horizon, I try to lose myself (and my sorrow) in the service of others. It helps. But at this time of year I also allow myself to wander back through the years and remember, really remember, my beautiful, blond-haired, blue-eyed boy so full of life and promise. I cherish countless warm and wonderful moments, memories of his childhood, his adolescence, his mission, his marriage and yes, his last 14 days on this earth. These memories are sacred to me; they also unlock the floodgates of feelings I have learned to temper with faith. I hold tightly to my faith; I believe with all of my heart, it will continue to wrap its comforting arms around me, as it leads me to a glorious reunion. But even with faith as my companion there are times when the reality and magnitude of Dallin’s absence in this life, brings me to my knees and reopens the deepest of wounds. Today was one of those days. It started with it being the Sabbath. For me Sundays always evoke tender feelings, a desire to feel God’s love, a yearning to find direction and eternal perspective and thoughts of each of my children. After attending our church services, Brad and I took a drive to the cemetery where we visited Dallin’s grave. It is a beautiful place nestled between the red rocks of Gunlock and the little town church. The autumn leaves softly crunched under our feet as we slowly made our way to Dallin’s spot, passing his pioneer ancestors along the way. It’s somehow comforting to know their earthly bodies are here together in this sacred ground. A sense of connection, family and eternity always settles in my soul when I visit. As we stood in front of his headstone, like each time before, seeing Dallin’s full name, along with his birth and death dates etched in stone, was like suddenly waking from a nightmare, only to realize it is not a dream. After our anguished tears gave way to reflective silence, we held onto each other soaking in the stillness of the moment. My eyes were closed. I felt the warmth of the sun on my cheek and the gentle breeze in my hair as it drifted through the remaining leaves on the surrounding trees. I heard the sound of birds singing in the distance. The smell of fall was in the air. I envisioned Dallin there with his arms around us, as we held each other close, with one of his hands resting on my right shoulder. (I don’t know why but whenever I think of Dallin being close by, this is where I imagine his hand.) The moment was full of peaceful longing. I took a deep breath and slowly opened my eyes. The very first thing I saw was a large monarch butterfly fluttering on the wind to my right. It was close enough to touch. It seemed to dance on the breeze as it made its way through the headstones. Suddenly my mind went back to a year ago and the priceless gift of love given to me by my little sister and my niece. A song of hope entitled, “A Little While” . . . for Dallin. The song was written and sung by my sister. My niece illustrated and created the graphics for the video. In each scene of the video, there is a monarch butterfly symbolizing Dallin’s spirit being ever present in my life until we are reunited. I know some may say my experience in the cemetery was a coincidence. Some may even say I am foolish to believe it was “a sign.” Call it what you will but I know deep down in my mother’s heart, it was a message on the wind, a message of eternal hope, comfort and love. ❤

 

Here is a link to the video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7BnkkjY6rHY&feature=youtu.be