You Have No Power Here...

I wanted to reach into the past and share a story from my book Dear Cheyenne.  This came up because lately so many families have been sharing stories of the unexplainable, those ineffable experiences somewhere over the rainbow.

This is from an excerpt dated December 17, 1999.  This was 13 years back into time. It's hard to imagine this was so long ago. Still, I remember it like it was yesterday.  Ah, "Time"... as Glenda would say, "you have no power here."

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Dear Cheyenne,

I am writing this at nearly midnight. Lately, I have been very sad, not just over your death but for so many other families. The deaths continue, and I am helpless to stop it.  All I can do I cry with the heartbroken families and share their pain.  

Tonight, I took Cameron, Stevie Jo, and Joshua to a holiday party for a grieving kids camp they attended this past summer.  It was being held at a Catholic church quite a distance from our home, but they really wanted to go and revisit the friends they made at camp. 

The evening was a wonderful time to reflect.  I was an “attendee” this time, instead of my usual “busy” role.  Thus, I had an opportunity to experience the celebration of remembrance.  We sang songs and viewed a slide presentation of camp. During the candle lighting, I broke down in uncontrollable tears.  I was so emotional that I had to leave the auditorium and walk to the back of the room into the foyer area.  Tears were pouring down my face, mascara blinding my eyes.   Thoughts of, “Why do I keep doing this?” and “I cannot do this anymore, I’m not strong enough,” haunted me. I specifically asked, in my heart, for a sign- for strength to continue this work. Over and over, I said to myself, "I just need a sign to keep going" and "Why am I doing this (work?)"

Just then, your big sister, Stevie Jo came to the back of the room to check on me. I looked down at her, trying to see her through the tears.

“Are you okay, Mommy?” she asked.  

“Yes, Sweetie,” I said, “I am just missing your baby sister.”

Knowing I just needed some time alone, she went back to her seat.  


With my head down and my heart heavy, I agonized over your death in my head.  I wondered why such horrible things happened to such good parents. I struggled because it had been so long since I’d felt your presence close to me. I have been so busy lately that I haven’t made time for solitude…to tend my own profound grief four years after your death.

When I finally lifted my head and wiped my eyes, I saw something that literally stunned me.  There was a large display shelf in the foyer area on the back wall with locking glass hanging on the back wall of the auditorium.  On the shelf was a large wooden sign:

Really? 

I began to laugh, almost hysterically. 

"Well, I did ask for a sign," I said wildly to myself.

So there I was, in all my insanity- laughing, crying- trying to make myself believe what I was seeing with my own eyes!

When the ceremony ended, I stood in my place, staring at the sign. I showed everyone who passed the sign; certainly they would never really understand.  But still, I had to share it. I asked several people from the church if they knew how the sign got there, or what it was used for, but no one knew. It didn’t really matter. 

I was there at that very moment, standing in that spot, asking those very questions for a reason. It was a gift. Thank you...

The pain of never seeing you grow into a beautiful young girl, never seeing your smile, or hearing your voice, or feeling you wraps your arms around my neck…or hearing you call me mommy- that pain is always there. It will be until my last dying breath. But I hold you in my heart, Cheyenne. Your love and your gifts are far bigger than the pain now.

Though I didn’t have enough time to be your mother here on Earth, I hope that you realize how much you are loved, and that love I have for you is beyond this world.

For as long as I live, I am the mother of five children- four who walk and one who soars. One who soars, beyond our world, outside of time, somewhere over the rainbow.