I see you, Tanner.
I’ve been asked if I’ve seen any signs yet: those little glimpses or assurances that Tanner’s okay and still with us.
Friday was the first.
Back many years ago, shortly after high school, three friends were killed in a car accident. At the memorial for a pair of cousins, a mother spoke about the presence of a pair of white butterflies and how she saw her son and his cousin in them. I remember, honestly, thinking there was some desperation in her hold on these butterflies that would appear, as if out of nowhere.
The next day, as I rode my horse, this one white butterfly appeared and fluttered alongside me for a while. I just grinned, my heart eased, and I was grateful to accept a visit from the friend I had lost.
As the years went on I began losing many children I fell in love with through the Make-A-Wish program. And each time, whether sitting at a graveside or a taking a quiet moment in a park, I would pause and look… and so often find myself visited by a single, white butterfly.
And so, with my baby gone, I haven’t stopped searching. I lay in bed and gaze at the backyard, waiting for the assuring flutter of little white wings.
But he wasn’t coming.
On Friday morning, as I laid in bed, I told Darrell of the story and significance of the white butterfly. I prayed repeatedly for God to send me this sign my heart has found peace in over the years. A few hours later, as Darrell gazed off, he admitted never spending so much time looking at the backyard for a simple butterfly.
Friday was one of my bad days, full of tears and the feeling as if I couldn’t move. The Mac truck that’s run me over seemed to have just parked atop of me.
Finally, in the early afternoon Darrell had gone to Instagram and was scrolling his feed as I lay just watching my favorite rose.
He paused to read a poignant meme: “In your darkest hour, that is when God will shine the brightest.”
And then, in that very exact moment, a white butterfly came down, fluttered just feet from my bedroom glass doors and then just as quickly fluttered off again.
Darrell and I both watched the butterfly in sheer gratitude and amazement. I jumped and screamed, grabbing his legs to make sure that he also saw my baby.
Tanner, I see you.
And Lord, I see you in this, too. In my darkest hour, you are here.
Then, last night, sitting on the patio, talking with friends and family and plotting how to silence the yapping dog next door I felt a quiet push to look at my phone.
It was 8:20.
Exactly.
The very moment one week earlier that the doctors declared my son an angel.
Tanner will always be with me, he will always be my son and the heart of this family. I continue to pray for signs that he is here, that he is with us.
I love you, Tan-man.
Come see me soon, I miss you with all my heart. 
