A year ago today that my daughter Lexi died. I’m never sure whether to say “passed” or “died”. Death is a topic we all tend to avoid. To say someone passed away is giving a knowing nod without actually saying the word, kind of like calling it H E double hockey sticks or “you know where” while pointing down.

Incidentally, that’s not where Lexi is. Now there’s a great theological question best left to a great theologian. As a not-great, street level theologian, I say with blessed assurance that she’s with the Lord. My wife and I were just talking about her whereabouts this morning. In the hours leading to Lexi dying, she was looking at things with a unique glare, as if seeing something we couldn’t. This may strike some as mystical mumbo-jumbo, the kind of medicine you take to keep things afloat hope-wise, but I do believe that the grace of the Lord Jesus reaches into the inner soul workings of a nonverbal person in ways we can’t comprehend. I believe Lexi knew of a spiritual plane we won’t even begin to comprehend until our own passing, hopefully into the presence of Jesus. Based on that hope, I will see her again.

I once preached a funeral that included an open-mic time for the people to share their memories of the deceased. A bad idea from a young pastor. A woman stood up and said “If ANY of you want to see AUNT GLADYS again, you’ll become a Christian right now.” It was hostage evangelism. I don’t know if it worked or just scared the H E double hockey sticks out of the crowd. Who knows how the Spirit works, so I’ll leave that to Him.

Meanwhile, no more open mics at funerals.

Reaching into hurting hearts — that’s one thing that the Lord does at times like these. Brittany keeps saying that she feels like her heart is being torn in two, which is how I feel too, especially as I replay the events of the day a year ago in my head over and over. If hope is a medicine, it’s not like Tylenol where 30 minutes later the ache is gone. Instead, it’s like someone is with you in the pain. Jesus is the great physician who might dull the pain but goes one better in that He’s with you in the room, listening patiently to your pain while remaining present, full of love, grace, and mercy. There is peace in the ache.

It’s something (I’m told) you learn to deal with — the loss of a child. A woman who lost her son 30 years ago gives me a knowing look and a hug every Sunday morning. She says it doesn’t go away, and I believe her more now than I did a year ago. In that moment, she is the presence of Jesus. Maybe I’ll get to be that for you someday.

Lexi was many things for us — daughter, teacher, listening ear. She brought challenge to our world that had no reprieve. This is why so many parents of special needs kids/adults end up in a bad place. Divorce is twice as likely. Substance abuse is seen as the only escape from a Mobius strip of the daily grind. Kids go through phases where they’re afraid of the dark or staying out too late, or let their grades slip. These are but phases and seasons that come and go. In Lexi’s case, the diapers never ended. I would go speak someplace and do great things with microphones and spotlights, only to return home and have to brush the poop out from under my nails after an explosion. It’s hard to have a big head when you’re holding an audience one minute and holding a loaf of steaming feces the next. Jesus was there for all of it.

I hope that’s not too graphic for you. I’m trying to paint a picture here of why I’m not as self centered as I could be. I’ve still got a ways to go, but Lexi brought me right down to reality time and time again, and I’m glad for that. I was under her teaching, not for a long weekend, but for 20 years.

She would’ve been 21 years old next month. That’s a marker, kind of like today is a marker. As I’ve said before, I always had the hunch she’d die before me, but I sure didn’t think it would be this quick. She’ll be 22 next year. So it goes.

This weekend, Brittany and I mark three years of marriage. We’ve been together for 4, but it feels like 50. Today we keep looking at each other, crying a bit, and then moving forward with whatever life has for us. This late afternoon it’s landscaping for our front yard. Soon I’ll go get Zac from work. Cam has a basketball game tonight. People die and the rest of the world goes on, as it should. We’ve been given today with the relatively safe assumption of tomorrow. It’s only an assumption, though. Britt and I have learned — life can take a turn rather quickly.

If Lexi were here today, she would’ve started off by waking up with a severe case of bed head. Coaxing her with a bowl of warm oatmeal, she’d make her way to the bathroom to get ready. Dressed, ankle braces and shoes on, and (if Mom’s around) hair fixed up. She would’ve asked for a few songs and maybe a loaf of bread — whatever was in reach on the counter on her way out the door to the garage. She’d jump in the back seat of her Ford Focus, a rusted but trusted chariot that would get her to the end of the driveway as the bus gently glided down the road to our house. The back door of her car would be aligned perfectly by Tom, the school bus driver, so that Lexi would have as few steps as possible to take. Up the stairs and off to school. That’s what would’ve happened today.

At 7:19am, a Dean Transportation bus drove by our house but didn’t stop. The driver waved but continued on to the end of the neighborhood. I watch that bus – her old bus – go by every day around that time. It stings a little each time as the same route has one less stop.

Just as she wanted us to sing — the wheels on the bus keep going round and round, all through the town. Life moves forward for the rest of us.

I mean, seriously, what else are we supposed to do? Besides taking moments like this to process and mourn, there’s daylight burning and landscaping to be done. Basketball is meant to be played and night will eventually come. It’ll go that way tomorrow, too. And the next.

Those wheels on the bus keep going round and round. Though she’s passed (died, deceased, etc), she will come to my mind every day I’m here, whether the bus drives by or not.