THAT day

I will never forget that day.

Not the day he died. That day I remember, but it is broken into sharp fragments and bits of memory by shock and pain. Shards I can pick up and examine, but like pieces of a puzzle, no overall meaning or emotion connected to them, really.

The day I am referring to is the day that came shortly after the first anniversary of his passing. As Emily Belle Freeman put it, "Some days are harder than others. And perhaps you only know how hard the one year mark is if you've lived through one. There's something permanent about the not coming back that settles in just now."

Permanent. No more the first Thanksgiving, or the first Christmas, or the first 4th of July, his favorite holiday. In a matter of a single day, it went from 'the first' to 'for the rest of my life.'

Let me back up just a bit. During the first year after my son's passing, I cried every Sunday at church, without fail, during the sacrament hymn. These weren't simply tears of missing, but also tears of gratitude. The Atonement of Jesus Christ and what He made possible - that the dead would live again - became immediately and deeply relevant to me on a level I had never experienced before. I became used to these tears and even welcomed them.

Then the first Sunday after July 27th, 2017, the sacrament song began, and the tears started as usual. Only this time, they didn't stop at the end of the song, or even at the end of the passing of the Sacrament. I thought, "What is going on with me?" I felt a tidal wave of grief pick me up and carry me far out to sea. I couldn't stop. My eyes became red, my tissue shredded in my hand, and it was all I could do to hide my crying from those around me. Who sobs uncontrollably for an entire hour in church?

Somehow I made it through the meeting, yet even after a quick escape from the chapel and arriving home, the sorrowing continued. I texted my dear neighbor - a woman who personally knew my same grief - and said, "I don't need you to come over. I just need to understand what is going on. Is this normal?" She answered with her usual sensitivity, and helped get me through that afternoon.

And then that evening, it dawned on me. So often the body remembers things that the mind would rather forget. My body knew on a cellular level that the passing of this date meant something new for me. More mortal terrain to be traversed. More of my grief journey.

No more firsts, but for the rest of my life.

I wish I could say after four years, that I don't still cry here and there. That all the holidays and family get togethers are easier. They're not necessarily what they were, they are just ... different. And that's as it should be. Why would I expect my life to feel the same when my child feels gone?

But there is also hope. And the hope grows and increases every year, maybe because of the cleansing tears, and because I'm not counting firsts anymore. Maybe because we let ourselves feel the missing. Even Jesus wept.

"I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged ... how we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again."

It's all so amazing, this life.

I'm doing my best to live life, relying upon the time when we will see each other again. And that is faith. I'm grateful for those who have carried us through and continue to remember. It's amazing the difference it makes. And that is love.

With each year we are here and fulfill whatever mission we have, we are all getting a little closer to home.