Even though I don't understand the reason, I still believe. Like Job, I choose to believe despite the uncertainty. And because I choose to believe, my grief is changing me for the good.

Moving forward is what we are designed to do. I will never forget him, but it's okay to find pleasure and joy in other things in this life. In this life, there is a great deal of joy to find.

Moving forward is hard. Yes, the inexorable march of time moves us whether we want to move or not. But how do you "move forward" inside without feeling like you are leaving something--or someone--precious behind?

One word we would often use to describe Levi was "fearless."

He had no fear of anything--big machines, big animals, dangerous things, strange people (although he was often quiet around strangers--I think he was studying them, not afraid of them.)

I already recorded too few memories of our short time with Levi on film. Now, while those memories are still as fresh as possible, I intend to scrapbook them all, and some that don't have pictures, too.

One of the ways our loved ones chose to bless us in our grieving was to give us money to take a family holiday. We were already planning to take a quick weekend trip so that Jason and the boys could run in the Spartan Race in Westlock this past Saturday. Normally, we would combine that with a weekend stay at relative's, since they are only another two hours away.

But, in light of recent events, we decided to take advantage of our "time away" option and stayed at West Edmonton Mall for three nights in the Fantasyland Hotel following the race.

I can see why some people would choose to make a shrine out of their child's room when they lose one, leaving everything exactly the way it was. It is tempting to not get rid of a single thing, to leave it all just how they left it. Parting with the things seems like choosing to forget.

And truthfully? I'm terrified of the things about him that I am forgetting. My memory is so full of holes, punched there from this tremendous grief, that I already know that I have forgotten things that I wish I could hold on to tightly forever. Every day that passes feels like it is taking me one day farther away from my boy.

Being human is hard. There is so much pain involved in this thing called "life." But it is also joyful. What makes life easier is walking this road with other humans, and sharing those experiences of joy and pain with each other.

But there is a time and place for everything.

After having children, I really only had one major fear: backing over a child. As recently as last month, Jude gave Jason and I a "get to know you" survey that asked us a few meme-like questions, and this is the answer I put down as "my greatest fear."

And then, twelve days ago, my youngest child--for whom I had prayed for years and loved with all my heart--thought it would be clever to hide behind Daddy's truck as he was taking the big boys to school.

On Wednesday, I found I was grieving all the things that Levi will not get to do that I wanted him to be able to do. I find that writing songs helps me deal with very stressful and emotional topics, so I wrote "Things I'll Never Do". Here is a quick scratch recording on a video for this song.

Levi's eulogy was the most difficult thing I have ever had to write. Not because I didn't know what I wanted to say, because I did.

Sharing Levi's eulogy was the most difficult thing that Jason has ever had to do. But he did.

God gave us both the strength to share the story of this precious little man with those at his funeral yesterday. For those that were unable to attend, I am posting it here.

What makes someone inspiring? And why would I want to be that, too?

Grief is a funny thing.

One day, you can be perfectly fine, feel like you have accepted your loss, and that life will once again be wonderful to live.

The next day, you can be on the verge (or beyond it) of tears at every waking moment.

Crisis is hard. Grief hurts. But I would much rather be a strong, tall sunflower, or an intricate and complex bonsai, each a masterpiece of beauty, than a poor, coddled sprout that dies young in the luxury of inadversity.