Remembrance: From Retrieval to Resurrection

The days of this past week have felt sacred to me. Each day marked a five-year anniversary, leading up to the day when we located and retrieved Graham’s body from the frozen lake through which he’d fallen on New Year’s Day. We could finally say goodbye. The presence of those anniversaries—all thirty-eight days of them-- has been palpable. Each year, it has felt as though my body knew before my mind did—carrying the memory somatically, long before I named it. The body truly keeps the score. And that is why, for me, naming it, feeling it, and honoring it has felt so important. It is not only the pain, but the love and comfort that wrapped around us that comes to me.

As I remembered this week, for several days in a row, I felt the anguish and exhaustion of trudging through the frozen lake, breaking ice with every step. But I also felt the presence of the neighbors of Blue Heron Park and total strangers reaching out to help us. I felt the unwavering conviction of Alan with his search and rescue dogs. I felt the love of neighbors as they brought fresh-baked banana bread and water; some even suited up with waders, got into the lake, and broke ice alongside us. One woman donated the pants right off her child when my granddaughter’s were soaked.

I felt the day Justin from Dive International in response to a public post my daughter, Amelie, had made, arrived with a colleague to search the lake using a modified sweep pattern. Even five years later, I can still feel his strength—his calm composure, steadiness, and deep compassion. That is the power of energy. We had exchanged only a few words.

And then I felt the weekend when the authorities finally agreed to offer resources to help us—the weekend when we brought Graham’s body out of the lake. I felt the eagerness and willingness of David, the diver who arrived with six other young men, all prepared to don their scuba gear and search for Graham. Had the authorities not arrived, David would have gone into that lake, and I have no doubt these men would have found Graham. I could feel it in them. They were determined.

And I felt all the emotions and sensations of finally being done with the search—of knowing we were right all along, despite weeks of being dismissed by the authorities; of at last being able to properly honor my son’s life and death; and of being wrapped in the power and love of community—God’s foot soldiers.

Most mysteriously, most magically, I felt love from Graham himself. Even in my heartbreak, I felt ready to nurture this new relationship with him in spirit. I knew I would, because now I knew it was possible.

I find that each time I am willing to experience—to re-experience, to truly be with—the sensations, emotions, and thoughts of that powerful time, I am transformed. The thread of love and connection grows stronger, synchronicities multiply, and the puzzle pieces begin to fall into place. In a strange and unexplainable way, it all begins to make sense.

Graham’s body was retrieved on February 7. Years later—on Mother’s Day, of all days—I received the photograph attached to this newsletter, taken on that very day. I couldn’t help but be struck by the angelic image in the sky: a blue orb encircled by a rainbow-like halo—the rainbow, with its seven colors.

I later learned that the number seven represents wholeness and perfection. It is associated with ascension, spiritual completion, and a life beyond obstacles. Seven is considered a deeply spiritual number—a sign that a guardian angel is near, watching over. A sign of hope. A sign of eternal life.

I also learned that February comes from the Latin word februa, meaning “to cleanse” or “to purify.” Baptism, too, is a form of purification. Over time, Graham’s death in the lake began to feel like a kind of baptism—a purification that preceded his ascension to heaven. And I came to wonder if that the angel in the sky was God’s way of saying, “This is my son, in whom I am well pleased.”

With attention, witness, openness, love, and the insight of community, these revelations continued to come, bringing comfort, assurance, and hope. By turning toward my experience—one that could easily be named as trauma—I have instead come to sense a sacred, holy plan. Not my plan, of course. But when is it ever?

I find it no accident that on February 8—the day after the anniversary of retrieving Graham’s earthly vessel from the lake—we begin our Sacred Journey With Grief retreat in Belize—with 8 participants. It was not intentionally planned this way, at least not by me.

Spiritually, the number eight symbolizes new beginnings, resurrection, and eternity—a step beyond completion and natural order. Across traditions, it is associated with abundance, karma, cosmic balance, infinity, regeneration, and divine grace.

Once again, it feels destined. It makes sense. As a dear friend recently said, “Graham led you to him through all the people he brought to you during the search; now he’s leading others to you, so you can give back.”

Gathering with other women in the rainforest—holding space, bearing witness, and offering community and sacred modalities to support each unique sacred grief journey—feels perfectly aligned. And knowing that Graham himself guided me to this work brings a deep confidence, a knowing, that all will unfold as it should. All will be well. And all shall be well, and all shall be well. Even in our heartbreak—our pain, our hurt—we know this to be true because of love. And all shall be well.

We invite your prayers and loving intentions for our time together, just as we continue to send them to every heart we touch through these words and beyond. We know it matters. And we are deeply grateful.