My most painful experience in this lifetime has been the loss of my nephew, Easton. Easton was a beautiful, wonderful child. He became sick at the age of 11 months and fought a genetic disease for the next year and a half. He was a sweet, tough, amazing little boy with eyes bluer than the sky itself.
He loved frogs, and if you’ve seen my frog tattoo, I may have told you the story behind it. (if you haven’t heard the story, ask me about it the next time you see me.)
We were connected, him and I, in this world and in the next. Sometimes when I think about the relationship that we had while he was here, it breaks me that I didn’t hold him more. It makes me terribly heartbroken that I won’t get a chance to be an aunt to him any longer on this side of heaven.
However, my relationship with Easton grew in its intensity after he left us. I remember my first dream about him like it was yesterday. His face and the way he hugged me will be burned into my heart forever.
Easton also inspired me to write. His first push was a poem. Things grew from there, and ultimately he led me to write this blog, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me explain my experience with loving him and losing him.
When I first realized that Easton wasn’t going to get better, and that we were going to lose him, I was pissed. Excuse my language, but there isn’t a better word for it.
I remember being in the hospital with family all around. I remember the crying and the comforting. I remember the hushed voices and the process of letting go, but I had none of that in me. I was just so mad.
My anger stemmed from a few places. I couldn’t understand, at all, why a child would ever be subjected to going through the pain and turmoil he’d been through. I was mad that my life was, in that very moment, changing forever. (I had no idea how much, but I could feel it just the same.) I was angry that my sister had to be torn to pieces and that her heart would never be able to be the same. I was angry that my kids and nieces and nephew had to lose the sense of innocence that comes with being a child. I was pissed they had to lose a life with Easton.
I was mad that my heart was broken and that, I too, had to lose a life with my sweet and precious nephew.
The next 12 years would be a process of letting him go, and a process of learning a new way to “be” with him. In the beginning I felt a fog around life. I didn’t process much for about 6 months. The first time I had a dream about him, I was eviscerated. The 2nd, 3rd, and 20th times my evisceration lessened and my aching for more of those moments grew.
12 years later, my ability to “see” him in my day to day is ever present. He is everywhere I am and his love is something I can feel every time my husband and I take a step closer to our dreams.
Easton pushed Brad and I to a life of stepping outside of our comfort zone. His life, and his death, showed us that this life is precious, but the next one is even more so. Anything that we do here in this life, pales in comparison to what we get to witness and be a part of in the next.
God made Brad and I Easton’s family for a very specific reason. Easton had a story to tell, and we were blessed enough to be able to listen up close. God knew that little curly headed, blue eyed boy would capture our hearts like no one else could, and He allowed us to be a part of Easton’s story.
We keep his spirit alive within us each time we ignore our fear and embrace our faith.
