😢
It has begun.
We were hit by a driver turning left at a yellow arrow.
We did not know that it was the beginning of the end.

On May 2, one year ago, I posted a report of that accident. With this photo of Coleman and Jason.
Still smiling. Still being a connected dad. Still willing to go through the hard thing to recover. Still completely hopeful.

Memories of last May and June now crowd into my heart and mind. One right after the other in a jumbled mess of thoughts and emotions. Jostling for space. Disregarding all social distancing guidelines. Floating away and then coming back to spend more time with me.

I cry. Then stop. Then cry again.
Unwilling to push back against the onslaught of sadness that rolls through me in waves.
For months, I’ve been prepping myself for right now. The anniversary. The year mark.
May 24. It’s coming.
But I feel something, remember something, relive something every day leading up to that moment. And the moments that followed.

It’s not just that day. It’s those weeks. Starting with that fateful car accident, extending past the day he died and into the weeks around the funeral.

They are a storm I must struggle through.
It’s part of the journey called grief.
There will be days that are much easier than others. And there will be moments that are heavier than most.

I see it swirling. I feel it press on me.
But I will do this storm.
I will take steps forward. I will pause when necessary. I will ask for help. I will huddle down as the ache overwhelms me. I will feel weak with missing my best friend.

I will cry thousands of tears for a son who doesn’t get the privilege of having his dad here. To teach him. To be his coach. To be his buddy. To watch him grow.

And I will also laugh and smile and feel joy and talk with friends and pray and feel my Savior’s love and know that God’s Plan is true and keep walking 15,000 steps each day.
All of it is grieving.

May and June have begun.✊🏻💙