I used to turn off the music when I got into the car.  My pain multiplied when music played.  I used to feel strangely lucky when I heard someone else say that they lost someone important to them.  Now I know that loss changes your life forever.  I used to think that my hope in heaven was enough to let you go.  I now believe that moving mountains is not too little to spend time with the one you love.

Once or twice, I woke up thinking that you are still alive.  My dreams left me thinking there was still time to make the end different.  Time to tell you that I am coming for your birthday even if you are in the hospital.  Time to come when you told me not to.  Time to say I am sorry for a handful of things I am sorry for.

I still think of calling you when I am driving in the car.  Sometimes, I feel your presence as if you were standing in the room.  I see your freedom in the presence of Christ.  I see that there are no boundaries to who you are now.

I still think of the day I watched you walk home to the Lord.  I still think of the day I told you that your death would not be a disappointment to me.  Having experienced the loss of you and the aftermath of your ascent, I could not be more convinced that life, in some ways, begins at death.

It used to be that I would humbly ask God why.  I would propose answers like you finished your life’s accomplishments.  I now believe that a person’s passing has more to do with limitations.  I think that when you have become all that you can be in your human body, God brings you home.  In coming home, what used to be is no longer.  When you are healed and whole, what used to be is no longer.

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