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I sat in the middle of a staff meeting. My phone vibrated with a text from our sitter. Titus had a seizure. I whispered to a co-worker that I needed to go so I didn’t interrupt the entire group. As soon as I hit the back stairs, I sprinted to my car. I arrived home at the same time as my husband. Seizures weren’t new in our home, but they were worsening. And we finally knew the cause. Our son had been diagnosed with a rare, fatal, genetic disease called Batten just one month before.
I struggled to find sleep as the light of an autumn moon slipped through the window blinds after a day of releasing expectations and fighting a vicious head cold. Despite a generous dose of decongestant and a thin layer of lavender-scented vapor rub, the fog in my heart and mind continued to taunt me. I wrestled with discontent in my professional life. I carried questions about faith and my impact for the kingdom of God. And truth be told, it was one of those moods where everything seemed in vain.
I’m dyslexic. I switch letters and numbers when trying to spell out loud or input a number into my phone. My eyes frequently skip down to the line below making it necessary for me to reread sentences often so that I comprehend it correctly. Yet, I’m a writer. I have kept a journal since middle school, written blogs off and on since high school, and am working on a book about grief. Writing is my catharsis.
Grief is not something I have spent much of my young adult life thinking about. Although distant relatives have passed, I’ve only had one close friend leave this earth to meet Jesus. At least, until a couple of weeks ago, when another close family friend passed away suddenly. Once my shock subsided, the sting of her death really hit me; tears would come and go as I spoke with the family, and as little things would remind me of her. The more I have processed her death, the more I have been moved to action.