tomorrow

Well, here I go again. I can't seem to keep away from you all.

It's hard to believe our girl has been gone for 48 hours. I think about her almost every single second, something moms who've lost babies and children have shared with me... something I confess scared me... but something I find, now, to be strangely comforting. I stood in the mall today with my precious Sellers - we had promised her an "outing" and Pottery Barn Kids was her choice - and wondered what Copeland was doing right now. It's hard trying to grasp heaven, even for someone who grew up going to church and who should know enough to substantiate it. I just feel a little uneducated. Aren't we all? I suspect that losing a loved one does one thing for certain in a soul: you must decide, right now, for each moment, what you believe. No more of this silly blithering on about God and Heaven or even Jesus if it's not going to mean anything when you need it most. I have to choose. Is it real? Is it going to be real in my heart when I can't see through my tears? And does accepting heaven mean accepting everything else the Bible says? That there's also a hell... that without Jesus, none of us can get to the Father? Yes. I cannot take one without the other. I thought of the verse that says, "Store up for yourselves treasures in heaven." I looked at all the cute little doo-dads in Pottery Barn Kids this afternoon and part of me ached for the fact that I can't buy those things for Copeland. And then part of me realized how she would laugh, too. Laugh because the treasure - the real treasure - is Jesus. And she's as filled up with Him as any of us can ever be.

Tomorrow is the memorial. As Conor and I dug in our closets to find the right things to wear, it seemed strange to be pulling tops and skirts out in preparation for this day. Like I've said, we knew it was coming. But I find it odd that we are fast-approaching that moment, the moment these months of walking and crying and laughing and praying have metriculated into. The real moment of victory was the moment Copeland left us, but I know she would understand - and so would the Father - that for all of us here on earth, tomorrow symbolizes our letting her go. And I pray each day that I would love Copeland and Jesus enough to do that.

The video the church put together is astounding; I will post it here as soon as I get the chance. I wanted to share with you something about one of the songs we've chosen for the service. We should have some footage of that, as well. The opener is a song called "Every Road" by Amy Grant. The verses are definitely more "husband/wife" oriented... words that discuss leaning into each other when it would be easier to pull away. For some reason, this song has been on my heart since the evening Copeland died. I sat and listened to it for a while after she had left us and realized the chorus spoke to me in a way I hadn't realized I needed: "Every road that's traveled teaches something new/ And every road that's narrow pushes us to choose/ And I'd be lying if I said I had not tried to leave a time or two/ Every road that leads me, leads me back to you." I love these words. Conor and I were on a road trip once driving in Colorado. As we listened to this song, I realized that I wanted every road I took in life - every heartache, every joy, every moment we'd share that would either send us dancing or to our knees - to lead me back to him. I realize that, ultimately, that's what marriage is - and that's what our relationship with the Father should be. Just a winding, rocky path that requires only one real thing from us: that we keep coming back. I want Copeland and Sellers and all the children we ever have to know that they can rely on that fact: we'll keep coming back. Both to each other and to the Father. We're committed to it.

I pray if you can be there tomorrow, you will be blessed. I pray the songs and the words and the pictures and even the person sitting next to you will make a mark. We are so anxious to share what we have been filled up with.