I recently met with a woman who just lost her daughter. She looked me in my eyes and asked for hope. This moment has been replaying in my heart, knowing the power that hope can offer when it feels like you don’t want to go on living. Hope can appear like a life raft when you are drowning in the sea of grief, surrounded by darkness.

To have someone who has endured the unimaginable stand before you in their joy and okay-ness, telling you that they are happy and living a meaningful life full of love and gratitude after losing what is most precious, just may be the medicine you need to go on. It sounds so simple, but it might save someone's life.

I know this was true for me. Moments after my son, Noah, took his final breath and slipped behind the veil, my mother looked me in the eyes. She told me that he was gone and that I would be okay. I believed her because she also lost her first child, and she is one of the happiest, most loving, and grateful people I know.

In that moment, I knew deep inside that somehow, someday, I would be okay too, and that life would go on. This is what hope gave me.

I have spent the past 16 years trying to share the light of hope with all who are suffering alone in their pain. Grief can be so lonely. We aren’t meant to do it alone.

As the years go by, my grief shifts and changes, continuing to illuminate my pathway forward. Each anniversary has a new flavor. Each year brings a new way of relating to the grief that I carry with me throughout the year. Each anniversary offers a new opportunity to feel Noah so close and to turn my pain into love, light, and gratitude for my life.

Some years are heavier, and some years pass with a moment of remembrance - a lit candle and brief space to feel my undying love for my son. This year has more weight. Noah died on leap day, so we only get to celebrate the anniversary of his death every four years. This year is the 16th anniversary of his death. When I say that out loud, it takes my breath away.

So much has happened since that dreadful day. My daughters have grown so much, and my community has become like family, filling up some of the emptiness that Noah’s death left within me. My marriage is what I am the most proud of and grateful for. My husband and I have had very different ways of grieving Noah’s death, but we have done it together, side by side, supporting each other and accepting our differences and holding each other through it.

I have so much to be grateful for, and on days like today, it is hard to touch the gratitude and purpose that Noah’s life has given me because I miss him so much.

As my grief continues to shape and change me, so does my need to share Noah’s story. I used to tell his story because I needed a reflection from the world that Noah’s life and death had meaning. It helped it feel real for me. The reflection acknowledged my own suffering and gave meaning to something that I desperately needed to attach a sense of purpose and meaning to in order to survive.

I no longer need the validation of other people’s reflection to feel worthy of my grief and to heal. However, it makes me feel good to share the light of Noah’s spirit and the great love that he has shown me is possible. Sharing Noah’s love will always bring me joy.

I’d like to share with you on this anniversary a remembrance of Noah’s life and death from my dear soul cousin, Irene, to offer hope and to pass on some of the teachings that Noah brings to our world.

“It was summer. The mountain air still had a chill. But like all life itself, the wildflower box on your deck was bursting in a profusion of purple, pinks, yellows, and reds. And his sweet, gentle smile poked through this bouquet as he nestled in the safety of your arms. It was summer, and his life lay ahead before him. Visions of laughter. Sounds of joy, dreams of becoming - all awaiting him and us with him in the great mystery of life.

But he wouldn’t have any of that. No, he came as a bearer of the gift of wisdom. The messenger of love. He saw the light. He left it with us. He knew he wouldn’t stay. He didn’t need to. Our Noah, each one of us owned his spirit. Our Noah left on a whim, knowing that his gift of unconditional love would keep us safe, would hold us up through our pain and sorrow when he was gone. Gone? Well, not really. You see, his love, his wisdom, his gift was so strong, so powerful, so everlasting that he knew he would never really be gone. He knew how strong our love was for him, how thankful we were to him for coming, for seeing the light, for radiating it through his great big soul and for giving us this gift - and then he had to go.

We stopped in our tracks … frozen. Frozen on that bitter cold day —a day between worlds, a day that comes around almost every 4 years, that day in the blizzard when crows cried and circled overhead, that day when the wind was so strong to rattle his tiny wooden casket, that day as he was lowered into this earth, that day the crows circle dispersed and were carried away by the frigid north wind to be seen no more. That day friends, rabbi, and family regathered to hold up the crestfallen Wendy and Brian and we with each other. That day we were frozen in our hearts, in our minds, in our spirit. That day we couldn’t ever imagine our lives without our child. We thought he was taken from us. He knew he was still here.

Sixteen years and the grief prevails. Sixteen years we could never imagine then surviving until now. But here we are. Broken, repaired, healed in so many ways, rebroken, repaired over and over again.

Here lies the truth of this story. All there is is love and love is the healer. Love is the grief. Love is the message our dear precious Noah has gifted us all.

May we all be healed by his love forever and ever.”

— Amen IreneSofia

My grief moves through me like water. It is warm and persistent and reminds me of my love for Noah. I don’t want it to go away. It is a part of me and a part of my connection to Noah. Missing him doesn’t hurt like it once did. The intensity of my grief doesn’t scare me any longer either. I welcome my grief as it has opened my heart to feel more love and connection. My grief is a touchstone for my love.

The trauma of Noah’s death I am ready to let go of. It is time for the horrific memory of his death to be released as it does not serve a purpose for my healing. Frozen. Primal. Fear coursing through me without a place to go. I am ready to release it from my cells and be free. This is why anniversaries are so important. They force us to remember and feel it all again so that we can touch the memories stored inside and heal new layers of ourselves that are ready to be healed.

For my heart today, I am back on the beach in Mexico listening to my favorite band with my feet in the sand surrounded by love. The song, More, plays on and touches my heart. “Vibrating with love and light, pulsating with love and light. In a world gone mad, a world gone mad, there must be something more than this.”

This is a song from Noah. A message of love and light to remind me that love is all there is. There is so much more than what we can see in this crazy ride of life. It is what we feel and the people who touch our hearts that matters in the end. This is Noah’s message and legacy and it feels so good to share it with you today.

With Love and Light,