On June 26, I got a reminder.

I am home from Oregon State with my family for the summer. We had just run a few errands on our relatively lazy Sunday afternoon when my mom asked me to come with her to the 5:30 church service that evening. I had not been to Cathedral for a while, so I thought that it would be nice to go with her. Pulling into the Cathedral school parking lot, a vivid flood of emotions ran through me.

On June 26, I was reminded that it does not simply go away; the hurt, missing you, wondering why. It does not simply go away.

Coming quietly in through the back doors of the gorgeous Cathedral, my eyes began to blur, my throat began to choke up, and my hands began to shake tremendously. This was the first time that I had stepped foot into this Church since we were here for your service.

This was the first time that I had been in this Church since we sat as a class in these pews a couple of months earlier, gripping hands and fixated upon your senior photo at the front of the Church.

They say that it will always become easier. And in some sense, that may be true. It stops hurting every day, we stop wondering why every day. We are able to laugh and adventure and smile without an unbroken feeling of guilt hanging heavily over our heads. It stops hurting every day.

But then the reminder comes, it comes out of absolutely nowhere. And it hurts just as badly as it did the moment that we got that phone call. My stomach aches, my body shakes, and tears fall steadily down my red face. And it hurts just as badly.

I have read through our last few conversations time and time again. And every time, it hurts just as badly. But in the same breath, it brings a very subtle, yet very genuine smile to my face.

Because then I get a different reminder. I am not reminded simply that you are gone, but I am reminded of who you were. I am reminded of how with every conversation, with every interaction, you brought a warmth that was more appreciated than you may have ever known. I am reminded of your smile, of your light. I am reminded of how easily I could talk to you about anything. I am reminded of how many side-aching laughs we shared in the back of Mr. Price's classroom.

So let us use these reminders not as moments to remember the hurt that we feel in your absence, but rather as moments to never forget the way that you lived and the way that you had with people.

Jack, we are still working every day to live the way that you did, in immense positivity and incredible gratitude. We are keeping your light alive, and I hope you know that we will work every day to never allow that light to dim.