Seven Years

Seven years.

He's been out of my sight and my arms and my grip for seven years. Eighty-four months. Two-thousand, five-hundred and fifty-seven days.

But he's never been out of my heart or my mind or my memory. No, he's firmly, gently, irrevocably nestled in those special places, and though years ago I feared that the passage of time would dull our connection, it hasn't. It's true that some of the finer details have grown dim, but the essence of who he is -- that's still with me because I carry it around in the back pocket of my heart.

The connection has changed, of course, because although Logan will be frozen in time as that effervescent, car-loving, dancing little boy I adored when he was with me, I've changed. Because that --aside from the ever-present, ever-real, ever-existing love of God-- is life's biggest guarantee: regardless of whether we want to be different, we will change. Our experiences --good, bad, joyful, tragic-- will transform us over time. And although it's easy to allow the heartbreaking moments to define who we are and to let bitterness take root in our hearts, in my case, doing so would be a disservice to my Sunshine's memory, because "sadness" doesn't define him. No, Logan is joy and humor and silliness. And perseverance and patience and determination. And bravery and light, even in the midst of disaster.

And love. Definitely love.

And since he lived with such love, I must as well. I must live and love and forgive and press onward, even when life feels heavier than I'd like and it would be easier to just... stop.

So as I look back on the seven years that have passed since I held him into Life on that rainy Saturday, I'm keenly aware of that love and am thankful that it is and was --and will be again in a bigger, brighter, bolder way than I can even imagine-- whenever Someday arrives.

And until that day, I will live out his example by living this human life as fully as I can.