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It really happened.

My 6’5″, hilarious, handsome, one-of-a-kind, life of the party, son is gone.

One day he was alive and the next day he wasn’t. The day when my daughter drove from Atlanta to tell me that her brother had died in his sleep lasted far longer than 24 hours. It was 6PM by the time I realized I was still in my night clothes wearing only one sock.  The next couple of months were lost; I still don’t know where they went. What’s more, I don’t really want to relive them or even think about them again.   People remind me of phone calls and visits that I simply don’t remember.

The official date of death is listed as April 22, 2018 since that’s when his roommates found him, but after checking phone records, etc, it seems that April 20 is more accurate. He was 25 years old.

I’ve had a decision to make involving a verb or a noun.  To grieve or be a grieving mother. I have chosen the former. I learned how to grieve by doing it wrong and I won’t do it again. My daughter was burdened with telling me the news that she feared would end my life as we’d all known it.  I couldn’t let her be right and allow her to lose me as well as her brother.

Not going through this on my own steam this time. Either God is real or He’s not. Either He’s going to do what He promised He will or He’s not.

The Lord is near to the brokenhearted
And saves those who are crushed in spirit.

Ps. 34:18

 

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