Friday, May 28, 2010

Worst Night Ever

I went to the funeral of a boy who attended the same school as Missy. A young man who was riding his bicycle late at night on a dark road, and for some reason, veered into traffic and was struck by a car. He was 17 years old. Missy has cried. I never met this boy, and I cried. The funeral was both beautiful and awful at the same time. So many people loved Steven. He was apparently a practical joker, and loved sleeping and eating, like most teenage boys. His father gave the eulogy. I sobbed. I sat there, wondering if I could give the eulogy for my children. The mom didn't. She sat in the front pew and cried quietly. I cried watching her. A life cut so short, so quickly, and in so much pain.

I came into the house, exhausted. My eyes hurt. I forgot my glasses for the funeral. I took two advil, put my glasses on. Missy went to bed, just drained from the pain of losing her friend. She ate lunch with him every day. She yelled at him for putting mustard on her shoe. She said, "Mommy, the last thing I ever did was yell at him." I told her that Steven was a joker, and it was all just a joke. She knew, but it still pained her.

Then I sat down and did some schoolwork, but I'm having a hard time thinking. Thinking about eulogies, about what music to pick. What outfit to choose. Steven had a can of Axe body spray in his hands, it was apparently his favorite. I smiled, thinking of how silly he must have been. MUST. HAVE. BEEN. Then I cry all over again. Bucket came up behind me and patted me on the head. Still not great with social cues, but he knew I was upset. He knew I had been at a funeral, but he's never been to one, so he's not sure what they're like. He said, "Mommy, you cried." I nodded, because my voice is stuck in my throat. Then I held him and cried again. Cried because I'm so blessed that I get to give my son another hug, and Steven's mom's arms are empty tonight.

Just hug people you love today. Do it, because it could be your last time hugging that person. None of us knows the day God will call us Home to him. Mine could be tomorrow. Heck, it could be in ten minutes. I don't know. Get right before it's over.

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