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Forever Sweet Boy In memory and celebration of the precious life of
David Michael Benyo
July 18, 1993 - May 4, 2000
Those of us who have lost a young child will never know that child as a rebellious teenager or a too-busy adult. David will never grow too big to sit on my lap. He'll never be too "cool" to accept my hugs and my kisses in public. He told me just days before he died, "Mommy, I'll always remember that kiss that you just gave me." When I want to hear his voice I recall the "Hi, Mom" that came over the phone when he was in the hospital with Dad and it was my turn to be home with his sister Deanna. I would answer,
"Hi, Sweet Boy!"
David will never grow too old to be my Sweet Boy. He died 2 months and 2 weeks before his seventh birthday after valiantly fighting cancer for two and a half years. He is forever my Sweet Boy.
May 4, 2005
Five years after David’s angel anniversary, grief is a push-pull experience. I seek a balance, not between letting go and holding on, but between moving on and honoring. I have the richness of Deanna’s presence, of telling her each day how I delight in her growing, of struggling each day to guide her spirit gently but firmly through the lessons of childhood it is a parent’s job to teach. And I have another child who no longer grows before my eyes, a child whose precious spirit I no longer guide but yet seek to nurture—My Forever Sweet Boy.
STILL
for Beloved David Michael Benyo
July 18, 1993 – May 4, 2000
Forever Sweet Boy,
your precious spirit hovers gently
over every thought in my mind,
lingers sweetly under every emotion in my heart.
It has been five years since you died.
I remember thinking to myself
in the midst of my soul’s excruciating futile gasping for your breath of life
that one day it would be somehow different.
Someday it would be five years that I had breathed without you.
And so it is.
Some cries have become whispers.
Others have become floods.
They are fewer, but torrential
in a moment when present time is jarred
by the reality of past tense:
“I had a son.”
At last I know you are gone.
Still it is incomprehensible;
Still the gaping hole does not close;
Still in an instant the stab of your absence
can completely deflate me.
Still you are my Forever Sweet Boy;
Still I love you so!
Still I HAVE a son . . .
and I miss you terribly!
Someday it will be ten years that I have
breathed without you.
And still some things will not change.
Still you will be my precious Forever Sweet Boy,
and I will love you so!
Still I will know you are gone,
and I will miss you terribly.
Still I will ache.
And still I will honor you.
by Michele Benyo
May 4, 2005
Journal
David's Story: My Letter to David read at his funeral on May 8, 2000 Dear Precious David,
I have been writing to you since I found out you were coming to us in November of 1992. I have filled volumes of cloth-bound journals with accounts of your life and all the joys and delights I marveled to see daily. So much of what I wrote was in utter awe; words never quite seemed to capture your essence. I settled for descriptions such as "bright" and "exuberant." . . . From the moment you were born and forever I adored you.
Mothers I knew struggled with guilt when they just didn’t always like their toddlers. I struggled with you—as a three-year-old rather than a two-year-old—and in spite of anything adored you. We were kindred spirits; I understood you. I think I was good for you, and I know you were good for me. You taught me so many truths. I looked forward to a lifetime of incredible growth and amazing wisdom, always enamored by my curly-headed Sweet Peanut.
By the time you were four-and-a-half—an adoring big brother with a fifteen-month-old sister—I had set aside the feeling that had haunted me for a long time after your birth—the feeling I identified at the time as the fear that I would not see you grow up. Then in December 1997 I was introduced to a new word—rhabdomyosarcoma—and the unspeakable fear came flooding back. You know all too well the world that word plunged us into—and that was when you really began to teach me great truths.
We began the journey with an 80-some percent survival rate. My reaction to that was "That’s not good enough!" A year and a half later I would have been delighted with that statistic. . . You did so well the first year; your cancer retreated in the first six weeks, and you went through your treatment with few side effects. Everyone was shocked when your cancer came back in June of 1999, six short months after the end of your treatment.
The entity that had simply been a disease before was now an ugly, insidious monster preying on my precious son. That’s when I learned that this cancer is notorious; this cancer is one of the bad ones. This cancer almost always takes its victim if it makes its way back a second time. . . I can’t lose my son! I CAN’T LOSE MY DAVID! Those words were so futile, Sweet David! But they were all I could feel—and I could feel my heart torn out of my chest. The agony was excruciating. Fear and grief were joined in a black cloud that hung over me. I couldn’t imagine how life could go on without my beloved and adored son.
But then one weekend in September the cloud lifted. It has never returned, even today, when I shall bury you, never again to hold your warm soft hand that you always so willingly gave me, or kiss your sweet smile that endeared you to so many. Going into surgery in June you said, "I’m not afraid, I have Jesus in my heart." . . . I really studied that lesson, David, and I began to know things I only thought I knew before. Without a doubt I began to see and experience how God works in our lives. And that’s when the cloud vanished.
So when your cancer came back a third time this past February, in many ways I was prepared. The feeling that haunted me for months six-and-a-half years ago was God’s first step in preparing me. It gives me comfort now to know He had a plan for you that you have fulfilled. You were His Divine Instrument, and He has called His Good and Faithful Servant home. I can see such purpose in your short but wonderful and beautiful life. God’s grace filled you with such strength and stamina and shone from you in such bright, tender and loving ways. The awe I felt as your adoring mother was affirmed by the affection and admiration of so many around you who were charmed and inspired by your spirit. Your lessons have been passed on among grownups and children alike . . .
When your death was imminent, I focused on my gratitude for the precious gift of you and praised God’s wisdom, however difficult for those who love you. The countless ways you touched countless lives, even lives of many people you don’t know, seemed to be redeeming. . . But tomorrow I will awaken with no visitation or funeral to make arrangements for or attend. The flurry of activity that swirled in the emptiness will have ceased. And you will be gone. . . For two-and-a-half years I have trusted God despite your suffering; I have bought into his wisdom. But now you will be gone. . . I will absorb the lessons; I will tally up the tremendous gain of having you as my beloved child. But you will be gone. And I will miss you so very deeply and painfully. . . . I will remain so very proud of you. And you will be gone. And I will ache . . . And I’m not so sure God’s powerful purpose for you will redeem my loss, afterall.
Over the coming months and years I will try to sort things out—the lessons, my emotions, my loss, my gain. Sweet, sweet memories will echo throughout every moment of every day. I will remember the sunshine smile you gave me every morning; how you always stopped whatever you were doing and came to me to give a hug when I needed it; my best shopping buddy who loved to hold my hand wherever we went; how you still liked to have me rock you and always asked me to sing "Lullabye" first; your generosity—few things were too precious to give away to someone who needed or wanted them; your love of your sister—you could be so gentle with her, and it bothered you if she didn’t return your affection then and there; your imagination—you loved to pretend (ninjas or hunters or rescue team or Pokemon trainers) more than anything; your love of animals and nature—our walks along the Minnesota River exploring, visits to nature centers. You knew everything about every animal that the Discovery Channel and Animal Planet had to offer; you dreamed of someday being a falconer and living on a farm where your many dogs would have lots of room. . . You were a happy, sweet little boy, yet you fought such a big battle . . . People everywhere we go have been sharing testimonies—even writing them down—about how knowing you has been life-changing for them, for their children. I am so very proud of my strong and gentle boy. I will love you so very much for ever and ever until one day you meet me at Heaven’s gate, my bright, exuberant son, saying, "Mommy, I’m so happy to see you! Have I got things to show you!"
Oh, it has been such a precious journey, Sweet David! And it isn’t over yet. My life, Daddy’s life, Sweet Deanna’s life and the many others you have touched will always feel your spirit. You are like a smooth round stone dropped into a pool; your gentle ripples rolling quietly out and beyond and on and on . . .
I will keep writing to you about our journey, My Beloved David. There are many more journals to fill.
I love you!
Mommy
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