I am painfully reminded almost every day how short life can be.  How quickly things change – permanently.

My son, David Glasser, was a Phoenix Police officer who was killed over 6 1/2 years ago.  He was doing his job just like he had done every day for 12 years.  But on May 18, 2016, his life ended.

The worst happened.

Those of us who were left behind will never be the same.  Our worlds blew up and the emotional fall-out continues.  Every time I visit Davey’s spot in the cemetery, I am reminded of  all the families whose heroes are buried in the same area and are on this painful journey with us. 

It’s a struggle.  Some of my steps moving forward really hurt.

If you’ve been reading this blog, you know that the last thing Davey said to everyone that he cared about was “love you”.  He even said it to his squad members and waited until they said it back.  It has been such a blessing for us to have that last ‘love you’ echoing through our heads as we deal with the grief and loss of Davey’s death.

If you have been reading this blog, you may also know that one of the things I wish Davey had done was write me a final letter I would receive if he didn’t come home one day.  It would be something I could get out to read over and over again on the dark days when I need some encouragement.  I have now written letters to everyone who is dear to me in my life and they will receive it after I’m gone. I’m going to date them and write another one every ten years or so if I stay on this planet for a while longer.

I know Davey loved me.  He and I thought alike so we didn’t have to say a lot to communicate how we felt about each other.  Now, I would really love to have some of that written down in a letter.

So imagine my amazement when I was recently searching through our small document safe that holds our important ‘stuff’ and I found an envelope with Davey’s handwriting on the outside.  In the envelope is a list written in Davey’s handwriting.  The bottom of the page says, “Sunday School 1999.”

He was 18 years-old.

He had written what he thought his life would be like “40 years from now”.  He gave a couple of options of what he wanted as a career and one of them was ‘police officer’.  He described the woman he would marry, how many kids he wanted, and his desire to continue to grow his relationship with God and be active in a church family.

It’s amazing to me that I kept this.  It’s definitely a God-thing. I’m an anti-hoarder so I’m very selective of the things I choose to keep. The number of old things I’m willing to move and store goes down as the years progress.

I shared the list Davey had written with my husband and Kristen because this is as close to a letter as we’re going to get.

I have discovered that this list encourages me.  It reminds me of Davey and sparks great memories of how his eyes would light up when he talked about his plans and dreams.

He didn’t have 40 more years.  But reading this list makes me so grateful that we took full advantage of the 16 more years he had at the point when he wrote this.  No regrets.  We had 34 awesome years with him here on earth and that’s going to have to be enough until we see him again in heaven.

Thank you for the letter, Davey.

Miss you.

Love you!

What am I thinking about?

What am I focused on?

I ask these questions when I find myself in a dark place. When I’m sad. When I’m stuck in yesterday. When the list of what I have lost seems way too long.

When my shattered dreams fill my head as the tears drip down my face.

David Glasser, my son, was a Phoenix Police Officer who was killed in the line of duty on May 18, 2016.  Those of you who knew him realized that he was unique – he blended integrity and faith with loving people and having a great time in an unusual way.  My husband and I lived 1 1/2 miles away from Davey the last 5 years of his life so we got to spend a lot of time with him and his family. We were very close.

And suddenly – without warning – Davey was gone.

Every day, I am reminded of just how much of the light and joy in my life went with him.

Once a year, as a memorial to Davey, a group of our family and friends visit his spot in the cemetery and release balloons into the sky.  This is a very old tradition reaching back to biblical times when incense was burned so it could combine with the prayers of God’s people as they floated up to heaven.

Every year, as our balloons covered with messages of love rise high into the sky and finally disappear, I am reminded that this is what I need to do.  Look up.  And I invite those of who have experienced a huge loss in your life to join me.

I look up and see the sun shining on all of the blessings God has given me that are still here.

I look up and remember how important sharing messages of love and encouragement are to those of us left behind.

I look up and remember that my prayers – our prayers – go to a God who loves us and who wants the best for us and who can do the impossible.

Looking up has been vitally important to my journey since Davey was killed and I have decided to name the book I’m writing, “Then I Looked Up”. The subtitle is Losing a Child, Finding His Legacy of Love. We are on target to publish it in March and it may be possible to pre-order it.

You will be the first to know!

As this first month of 2023 quickly comes to a close, I encourage all of us to “Look up” to God this year and let him fill our lives with joy, and hope and love.

Miss you, Davey.

Love You.

The pain is burned into my memory.

The grief is deeply etched into my soul.

That day – the day my son, David Glasser who was a Phoenix Police Officer, was killed in the line of duty.  May 18, 2016.

It’s the day when my life as I knew it exploded.  All my expectations for the future had Davey in them so it was all ripped away, leaving a huge, hurting hole in my life.  After almost seven years, I know that nothing will ever fill that hole.

I totally understand why people like me get stuck in a pit of despair.  I’ve been there.  I was violently pushed into a deep, dark place of grief by Davey’s death …. and I wanted to stay there.  Clutching his smile, his jokes, his integrity, and his love for others close to my heart, I didn’t want to move.  The dark felt good and right – my shattered heart felt right at home.

But my head knew that – somehow – I was going to need to crawl out of that pit.  I knew I could not let myself get stuck there.

With God’s help, I moved toward the light.  One step at a time.  Some days my steps went backwards but I was moving.  I made myself look up instead of back and, when I looked up, I saw my two little grand darlings – Davey’s children – who needed me.  I saw my daughter and husband who needed me.  I saw other family members and friends who needed me.  There is a reason I was still here and it was not to stay in that dark, terrible, but somehow comforting pit.

Looking back I realize that lying under the need to stay in the pit was a numbing fear that, if I moved forward, I would leave Davey behind.  That hasn’t happened.  All of my love and memories of him have moved forward with me.  He was and is and always will be a part of me.  He’s not here but he’s not gone.

For Davey, there are no more tomorrows here on earth but those of us left behind have important tomorrows where we need to be engaged and loving and – somehow – find hope again.  It’s the hope that only faith in God can give.

So the challenge for me and for you is to love others around us like there is no tomorrow because, someday, there won’t be.

Miss you, Davey.

Love you.