“Still Showing Up”

Finding Signs of Love in the Milestones, Memories and Moments That Matter Most

My absence from this blog over the past couple months hasn’t been because I had nothing to say. It’s been because of pure MAYhem: three kids deep in high school sports, one graduating with all the awards nights, events, commencement and graduation party prep that comes with it, and another moving home from college for the summer.

And that’s just half the story. Emotionally, it’s been a full-on roller coaster, made even more bittersweet by the fact that my late husband, Matt, hasn’t been here for any of these once-in-a-lifetime moments: our daughters Emma and Maddie sharing the field for Emma’s final soccer season, our son Tynan pitching a perfect game, Emma’s honors ceremony and graduation, and our son Brendan heading to the Big 10 Tournament as a student manager with Michigan State University’s baseball team.

Don’t get me wrong, we have been celebrating all of these milestones with joy. Matt certainly wouldn’t want us throwing a pity party that he wasn’t here to share in them with us. And I think Emma said it best on the day of her graduation, a day that Matt, as her biggest cheerleader, would have relished. She was about to put on her cap and gown when I asked her if she wanted to wear something—maybe the gold necklace Matt gave her the Christmas before he passed—so she could have a piece of him with her as she graduated. She responded matter-of-factly, “Mom. . .Matt is always with me.”

Wise words from our newest high school graduate. Even though, at times, it doesn’t feel like enough to have Matt with us only spirit, she’s absolutely right.

He was most definitely with us on her senior night for soccer, as the five us walked across the field with Emma’s name and accolades being announced. Just two years ago, Matt was on the other side of that microphone, and I can just hear him proudly declaring that a “pack of huskies” was about to come onto the field. And even after Emma’s last high school game—a season-ending loss to their rivals—I know, though he wasn’t there to give Emma and Maddie one of his big bear hugs, they felt Matt’s presence.

The same was true when Ty pitched a perfect game a few weeks ago, toward the end of his junior baseball season. Just thinking about this makes me emotional on so many levels. Matt excelled on the baseball field growing up and was a star pitcher, so there was no doubt that one of the thrills of his life was coaching Ty for all those years—from little league through the travel baseball season the year before he died. Matt spent countless hours playing catch with Ty, teaching him different pitches and encouraging him to “outthink” the batter. I know without a doubt that Matt was looking down from heaven as Ty pitched that perfect game, saying “atta baby” and grinning from ear to ear.

Similarly, I know Matt has been smiling down on our oldest, Brendan, a sophomore at MSU, since he snagged a position earlier this year as a student manager for the baseball team. He and Matt also bonded over baseball, and Matt would’ve been thrilled to see him get this opportunity. As a first-year manager, Brendan hasn’t been able to travel with the team much, but he lucked out when the Spartans qualified in the 11^th hour to the Big 10 Tournament in Omaha, Neb., and he was tapped to go. Omaha held meaning from the start because, after Matt was diagnosed three years ago, he, Ty and Brendan made a bucket-list trip there for the College World Series. I know Brendan felt Matt’s presence the second he got there.

But there was more. Matt always referred to Brendan as “The Brendan,” so in turn, Brendan would always call him “The Matt.” In the ultimate Godwink, Brendan called me when he got to Omaha, and said, “You’ll never believe the name of the restaurant next to our hotel. It’s called The Matt!” Talk about having a piece of Matt there with him.

As the saying goes, “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.” Easier said than done, of course. Some days, the missing feels bigger than the smiling. But then there are moments like these—on soccer fields, pitcher’s mounds, graduation stages and even outside a restaurant in Omaha—that remind us Matt isn’t really missing them. He’s woven into them. In the stories we tell, the signs we catch, the words our kids say without even realizing how much wisdom they carry. And while I’ll always wish he were here in person, I’m learning to smile because he happened. And because, in so many beautiful ways, he still does.