730 days

2 years ago, we were sitting in Kenton's hospital room.  
The 4 of us.  
Our forever family.

Blinds pulled.  
Silent except for the sound of sniffles and tissues wiping tears.

We held on to each other, prayerful, hurting, as we faced a decision that had blind-sided us.  Knocked our feet out from under us.

The facts were sprawled out in front of us, like barbs on a wire fence.  
Each fact tearing at us, leaving us wounded. 
Bleeding.

Just a few hours later, our Bishopric would arrive.  
We would talk.  
We would cry.  
We would continue to hold on to each other.  

And then we would know.

After individual priesthood blessings.  
After the hours of prayer and tears.  

We would know.

And just like that.  Decision made.  Not lightly.  Not in a moment of panic or despair.  

But in a moment in that hospital room that was full of angels. We felt them there. Holding us in our moments of heartache and despair.  Sadness and heartbreak. We felt familiar angels. Loved ones gone before sent to comfort. And to grieve with us.

In a moment that was filled with both peace and anguish, we would know.  

We would nod as Kenton looked at each of us, tears spilling out onto his cheeks, telling us, "We stop treatment."

It was a moment pressed into our hearts by a loving Father in Heaven letting us know that Kenton's earthly mission was nearing completion.  That he had served well. Faithfully. Bravely.

There were so many more tears.  
We knew what that decision meant.  

It meant signing DNR papers.  
It meant talking about things like hospice. 

And funerals.

And it meant talking about things like eternal families. 
Heavenly Father. 
The Plan of Salvation. 

How I wish our family been granted an old-man life span for our Kenton. 

Some day this will all make sense.  
Today is not that day.

2 years ago.  
730 days.
It feels like only yesterday.  

And yet, it feels like forever.