February 11

I always enter Logan's Home-going Day with a sense of hopeful trepidation. I guess that's something of an oxymoron, so I'll explain what I mean. In the days and weeks and months after he died, I looked for him everywhere I went. I looked for him in "Cars" toys and in Corvettes and in silly dances and in sunflowers and in clear blue skies. And since I looked so often, it followed that I caught glimpses of him often as well. As the years wore on, I stopped looking quite so fervently and started just noticing the obvious signs that he's still with us in some sort of tangible way; like I'd notice a string of Corvettes rolling down the freeway or a newly stocked shelf of those precious Cars with Faces, as he called them. And honestly, I probably stopped seeing him everywhere because I no longer needed those sightings in order to manage the pain. So when I reference hopeful trepidation, I mean that although I don't expect to see signs like I once did, I silently wish for them. And today, the eighth anniversary of his passing, his humor broke through whatever walls I tried to erect to protect my heart.

I awoke feeling vaguely melancholic, and then a few beats after I opened my eyes, I looked over at Lambie and remembered. I gave that sweet lovey an ear rub --because that's what Logan did; his little fingers wore away the fluff, leaving them in a threadbare state only achievable via conveyance of the purest form of love-- and got dressed before I headed downstairs. Adam did me a solid by taking Abby to school, so I headed out with the boys, and then made my usual stop at Starbucks, where I'd planned to sit for an hour or so as I sipped and surfed a fraction of my morning away. I plunked my bag down on my usual table and got in line. I ordered my usual and a cheese danish and headed over to wait. And that's when things got a little weird. In my periphery, I saw one of the baristas, a super pleasant gal named Katie, approach the manager, and the two of them had a conversation. A moment later, Katie turned and walked toward me, holding out a card from another barista, who ended her tenure as an employee last week, and a mug. Then she directed my attention to this:

That's right: I'm the customer of the month at my local mother ship. (It's totally fine to laugh aloud at that.) It's an honor that's usually bestowed close to the first of the month, yet I found out about it today, February 11. Logan's day.

As I looked at the sign, I found myself caught in the frozen space between laughter and tears. Sensing my emotion, Katie asked about it, and she hugged me after I shared my hard truth.

I thought about it more as I went about the day: as I talked with Adam when I got home a little later and as we sat eating cheeseburgers at Nation's and then again as I donated blood. And the funny thing is, although I wasn't a coffee addict back then --in fact, back when Logan was physically here, I went to Starbucks maybe once a month-- I'm sure this was him delivering two messages to me: 'hi mom!' and, more poignantly, 'you may not be able to see me right now, but I can see you. And I know what matters to you. I know what will make you smile. And yep, I'm still the same goofy guy.'

Of course I wish I could hug him and look into those eyes and tell him that I love him, but I'll head off to bed tonight feeling confident that he's still here with us in whatever way God makes possible. And for that not-small reality, I am grateful.