There was always a point when driving down Duerr Drive, usually a little bit too quickly and usually with my mind off in the clouds somewhere, when I would look ahead and see your home before me. Before I whipped that little car into our driveway, before I turned the key in the ignition, before I grabbed my bag out of the passengers side and before I loped through the doors of my own, I would always look to yours.
And I would always know there were friends inside. Friends who were grieving beside us, friends who were celebrating birthdays with us and smiling back at us and who recognized hard days and whose hugs brought with them, and still do, feelings of peace and familiarity . There were big hearts inside that home just a few yards away, and to know those big hearts cried and celebrated and danced and hugged alongside ours meant (and means) the world.
There’s a quiet (and sometimes not so quiet) strength about you that has always radiated off your bones. Maybe it’s the faith that covers each step you take, maybe it’s the heart that keeps on beating with joy despite the obstacle around each bend, maybe it’s the trust that’s guides your days, or maybe it’s the spitfire that runs through the blood that fills your veins. Whatever it is, it’s there and it’s beautiful. It’s a comfort and it’s a sense of reassurance. It’s you and I love it.
And I know it’s helped mom day in and day out. Thank you for being just around the bend for her. Thank you for holding her hurting heart in your protective and comforting hands. Thank you for reminding her of the joy and the peace that lives and that awaits, for reminding all of us.
Thank you & I love you.