Daniel,
Tomorrow will be your twenty-second birthday. I can hardly believe that in November, it will have been ten years since your abrupt departure, which so often seems like yesterday. I still remember all of the details about you. What you liked, what you would say, your wisdom, and your favorite games, computers and foods. I clearly remember what your hug felt like. Your nephew, who plays with some of the better items you had when you were small, knows you, by pictures and by our recollections. Sometimes, it's as if you are simply away at college. Your friends are all adults! Occasionally, I envy them for being here while you are not, but just as occasionally I sometimes feel sorry for them for having to navigate the trials of life, when you were called Home, and spared so many of them.
Just as I did on that day when the medical helicopter staff finally ceased CPR, I knew that you would go to find Papa Lawrence, and Jesus, and I told you to go, and not to be afraid, and that I would handle everything from here. I have done my best to honor that promise to you and to God, who blessed me more than you can imagine by allowing me to be your mother.
When you first passed, I felt occasional things which led me to believe that you might still be able to hear me occasionally. I haven't felt any of those in a long time, but I know you have other concerns and important tasks with God. This week, I was thinking about you and wondering how often you think of me. That song you used to like that was a hit when you and I used to drive to places in Charlottesville when the older kids were in college there, came on the radio. I haven't heard it in years. I'll look it up and place it at the bottom of the page. Something about "A Hundred Years to Live", by Five for Fighting. I took it to mean that you knew I was thinking about you, and darling, I wish a hundred years is what God had given to you.
Happy Birthday and All my Love,
Mom
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