Touch The Sky

This Easter felt different.

Not because the message changed but because my heart heard it in a deeper way. After losing my sweet  Tatum Sky, everything about heaven feels closer. More real.

There are seasons in life where truth becomes more than something we know… it becomes something we cling to. I found myself reflecting on the incredible gift of Jesus in a more personal, more eternal way.

Grief has a way of reshaping everything, even my understanding of why Jesus chose the cross.

It wasn’t just for forgiveness, although what a beautiful gift that is.
It was for restoration and reunion.
I celebrated the cross and the gift He bought for us, not because life is always easy. Not because every prayer is answered the way I hope, but for the promise that this life is not the end of the story.

There are days my heart aches in ways words can’t touch.
But because of what He has already done, and what He has promised in the loss, there is hope for this life and joy for our future reunion.

Because of Him, death doesn’t get the final word.

There is a deep comfort in knowing that those we love who have gone before us are not lost… they are with Him.

And when we look for them, in daily reminders and sweet moments, they are still with us.

I have a peaceful place on my back patio.  A fountian with quiet flowing water, a sound that has also calmed my soul no matter where I am, a view of the backyard and pool that God blessed us with, a couple years ago, a dream I’ve had my entire life, and a reminder that God does answer prayers, not always in the moment or the way we want Him to but He does, and the soft clinging of the beautiful wind chimes that were given to us for a gentle reminder of Tatum when they ring. All of these special things together make for a special place for me.  And when I can, I go out and enjoy my space.  

Recently, the sun was shining, and it was a calm, beautiful Sunday afternoon.  I chose to read and work out on the patio while enjoying my special place.  There was a grounding I needed from some particularly active days, and in that moment, all was well with the world we have now.

Every so often, I would remember sweet baby Tatum as the chimes gently rang, and I’d remember a precious moment I had with her.  About an hour later, one of our neighbors started playing loud music.  Not just from a radio, but in a band, in person, with drums banging and guitars blaring.  Not only was it loud, but it was grinding rock music; besides not being a genre I listen to, it was obvious the practice was needed.  It was a screeching noise that, to me, sounded like nails on a chalkboard, and my peaceful sanctuary was immediately gone.  

I sat trying to decide if I should pick up my things and go inside, but was lingering in hopes it would be a short practice, I let out a sigh and then all of a sudden a hard gust of wind came through the patio clanging the chimes in a loud manner and all of a sudden I saw Tatum’s little face when she got frustrated or angry.  I chuckled and said, ” You tell them, Tatum Sky!”  I smiled, then was reminded of last Easter and the Easter Egg Hunt we had for all the grandbabies.  Zyla, at 2 years old, was the only one who enjoyed it; Aliyah, barely 2 months old, just enjoyed being held; and Tatum, at 6 months, made that little face I remembered.  She wasn’t feeling Gmama trying to include her in the egg hunt at all.  It brought a smile to my heart to be reminded of that moment.

It’s in those moments that bring the blended feelings that loss so often brings, the sadness of missing, the frustration of unanswered questions, and the peace of knowing she’s alive and fully enjoying life, and yes, it brings joy that one day we will be reunited.

That truth changes everything.

Grief and joy can live in the same place, if we’re brave enough to embrace them both.

There are moments where I miss deeply, where my heart aches for what once was. But woven into that ache is something steady and unshakable, hope.

Not wishful thinking.
Not “maybe someday.”
But a confident trust knowing that because of Jesus, there will be a reunion.

And that… that is what makes my heart glad.

Until that day, here I am.  And how I live matters.

We are called to live lives that reflect His grace and His glory, not perfectly, but faithfully. Lives that point others toward the same defiant hope we hold onto.

Our lives can be the invitation that some people need to receive the truth of Jesus that we have.

Through kindness.
Through love.
Through simply showing up and living differently.

So during this season, I was deeply reminded that our story doesn’t end here.

That the cross was not the end, it was the beginning.
The empty tomb means fullness of life.
That heaven is real, and reunion is coming.

And until then, I will work to live in a way that reflects that truth.

With hope.
With joy.
With peace.

And with purpose rooted in His promises.

Because He has made me glad.