We have seen some incredible sunsets over the last few weeks.
Quarantine has my heart, among other things, missing Toby so incredibly deeply.
I always feel like my heart can’t break any more, but it’s in the deepest places of grief, approaching the time of year when Toby was born and spent 12 incredible weeks with us, that I find that my heart, can and does continue to break.
I was upstairs tonight helping Luke get ready for bed and went over to our room and was, like other nights, talking to Toby. The evening had been very cloudy and we had been outside since dinner, with no sign of the sun.
I walked into our bathroom and within seconds the room lit up like there was a spotlight outside the window. I turned to look out the window and the sunset was bursting through the blinds like something you’d see in an animation. It was incredible.
Of course I didn’t have my phone upstairs so I went down the steps to get it and by the time I got down the steps the sunset was streaming through the kitchen into the front of the house.
I walked onto the back deck to take a few pictures and as I did, it appeared. Toby’s orb.
It is April 24th.
Take a look at the pictures to see his presence. And let me tell you a little story.
When you lose a child and become a grieving parent, you search the world, every moment of your days, for your child that died. You long to see them, hear them, smell them, feel their hand in yours. But when you cannot have those moments, you find other places where they are, letting you know they are listening and hear your shattered hearts every wish for them to be here. The orb is one place where I can find Toby, especially in places close to our home, and he has been continually present in these evening moments over the last few weeks.
I cannot explain it, but there is something in my heart that lets me know it is Toby, giving me the sense that he’s ok. It is a feeling so overwhelming that when this happened a few weeks ago during sunset, I took at picture of it from our kitchen and the orb appeared directly over his picture that is on our kitchen counter. I was so overwhelmed by his presence that the hair on my arms was standing up and I had goosebumps. I told my mom, aunt, and sister, I have only had that feeling a few times since Toby died and I could feel him so intensely that evening, just like tonight.
Sometimes these feelings and occurrences scare me a bit. I second guess myself and wonder if he’s not trying to tell me something or warn me of something that I cannot already see. It takes a little self-reassurance, but that comes with grief and PTSD, but I come to realize that most of these times that I can really see Toby with me, are moments when I’ve needed something help me through a heavy time of grief and a season where my heart is breaking. Again.
There’s a lot of uncertainty in our world right now. There is a lot of uncertainty in a grieving parents heart, daily.
But, do you know what I’ve found, four years into this grief journey?
There is joy to be found in each day.
Even if you don’t see it or feel it until sunset.
I love you, Toby. I feel your presence in our daily adventures. It doesn’t fill the void of you not being here, physically, but it does give me hope that you are walking with us, on this grief journey and keeping our family safe.
I miss you, sweet boy. Thank you for the sunsets.