I Never Went Away

They’re gone and now you’ve realized you will never see them again, never hear their voice again, or never have their arms wrapped around you in one of their sought-after bear hugs. This is one of the crushing realities of death and death is a crushing reality of life. It’s the part of life that isn’t typically talked about; discussion that might even be avoided at all costs. It’s a crippling reality; it cripples our thoughts, our movements, and sometimes even friendships. Death is best understood by those that have had to endure that unthinkable experience; often the loss of a grandparent or parent comes first. That was my first experience…the elders in my life. Even that does NOT prepare you to lose your very own child; a man that was once your baby, a baby that taught you how to love another unconditionally…a part of you.

A couple of weeks ago I blogged about the Extraordinary Gifts he left us with. What I didn’t share, at that time, is a gift I experienced that week. A gift that shook me to my core, melted my heart, and brought tears to my eyes. I was driving home from my last conference road trip of the fall season; a five-hour jaunt from just north of the California border. The drive was long and long drives lends time for deep thought. As I was getting closer to Portland, I was texting (hands -free!) with Dillon (BJ’s youngest brother) so he’d know when to expect me to pick him up.  When I got within a 30-minute range, I called him…just to hear his voice. But I didn’t hear his voice. I was once again crippled in the moment; crippled at the voice I heard. It didn’t sound like the Dillon I left behind a few days ago. This was a deeper voice and I had to ask who I was talking to. He said, “it’s me mom, Dillon.” I heard those words, “it’s me mom” and I had to maintain composure. You see, I didn’t hear Dillon on the other end of that phone call…I heard BJ. It was chilling. I even thought I might be losing “it”. I kept talking…just to hear the voice…although Dillon was busy with friends and didn’t want to entertain mom’s idea of a lengthy phone conversation. We hung up and I sobbed. I wanted to continue hearing the voice, BJ’s voice, that I was hearing. Is that wrong? Does that make me crazy? Is it out of line to want to talk to one son to hear the other sons voice? I don’t know. I rationalized my thoughts all the way to picking him up. He got in the car and asked, “did you notice my voice, mom? I think it dropped again. Can you tell?” I was driving so I couldn’t look at him, but I quietly responded, “yes, I heard you and yes, your voice dropped.” He sensed something was up and I’ve always been honest with my kids, so I told him what I heard, what I thought…I told him he has BJ’s “phone voice.” He smiled and said, “really?”  I responded, “I think so.” In the moment, was I missing BJ so much that I conjured that up in my heard. I thought I might never know. I talked to Dillon on the phone again the other day and sure enough, I heard BJ’s voice again. I can’t even begin to explain this, but I think it is another extraordinary gift we have been left with; another little piece of him to live on.

At this point, you might think I am crazy, or you might even want to pick up the phone and call his little brother…just to see for yourself. If you have lost a loved one and experience something similar, you are blessed. Keep your mind and heart open to the possibilities and the extraordinary gifts of the one(s) you’ve lost. Will you hear their voice in your son, will you see their smile on your daughter’s face, or will you note your grandchild has the same dimples or eyes or personality? It might be a gradual presence, or it might be sudden, but it is a gift and a piece of them; a blessing to us.