The Love We Still Carry: March 3, 5:35PM, Five Years Later

Tomorrow Marks Five Years.

Five years since Wednesday, March 3, 2021.
Five years since 5:35 PM.

Five years since Daylon Martise Burnett took his last breath after a school day we will always remember.

I was sitting at my house with Ms. Burris. We were still processing the day. We had just learned students would return to school on March 4th. The staff had voiced our concerns about returning so soon. We did not feel it was the right decision. We made it known.

It was important, they said, to get back to normal.

But Daylon was still fighting for his life.

We had no peace.

We felt powerless.

Then we saw the Facebook post from his mom.

Words I will never forget.

5:35 PM.

The moment Daylon took his last breath.

The moment our worlds were forever changed.

God, that moment made time stand still.

And yet, the clock kept moving.

Something inside us did not.

A part of us never returned to normal.

There are moments the body does not forget.

Trauma does not just live in memory. It lives in the body. 

Our nervous systems remember dates, sounds, seasons. The chest tightens before the mind catches up. Sleep shifts. Breath shortens. Muscles brace without permission.

And sometimes, the body responds with tears.

I used to fight mine until I learned something.

Emotional tears are not weakness. They help the body release stress. 

When we cry, the nervous system begins to settle. Heart rate slows. Breathing deepens. 

The body softens.

Tears are the body’s way of saying, this was heavy.

Scripture says, those who sow in tears will reap with joy.

So maybe, tears are seeds.

Maybe, it is okay to cry.
Maybe, it is healthy.
Maybe, in order to get it together, sometimes we must fall apart.

Dear Grief. Dear Anger. Dear Trauma.

I want to speak to you.

You are safe here.

I no longer shame you.
I welcome you.

Grief, you are love with nowhere to go.
You are the cost of loving deeply.
Even Jesus wept.

He knew resurrection was coming, and still, He cried.

That tells me tears are not a lack of faith.
They are an expression of love.

It hurts this much because I loved this much.

You are heavy.
And as long as I am breathing, I know you will be here.
But you are safe here.

I have learned to carry you and still be grateful.

Anger, I see you too.

You have a right to be here.

The Word says, be angry, but do not sin.

I had to learn what that meant.

You are not evil.
You are protective.
You rise when something sacred is violated.
When something valuable mattered.

You remind me injustice is real.

But you do not rule me.

Christ does.

There were moments I had to close my mouth and give it to God.

Not because I was weak.
Not because I had nothing to say.
But because I was standing in a spotlight I never asked for.

I told God more than once, I did not ask for this.

I did not ask to carry this publicly.
I did not ask to hold steady while my hands were shaking.

And those angry tears?

Grace.
Mercy.

Because if Jesus was allowed to flip tables, I have absolutely asked, respectfully of course, when is it my turn?

And every time the answer came back the same.

Not today.

Today, you stay steady.
Today, you let Me be God.
Today, you do not let shaking hands undo what faith is building.

So thank you, anger, for alerting me.

And thank you, God, for restraining me.

Trauma, I acknowledge you too.

When safety is disrupted, bodies absorb it.
When loss is sudden, something inside recalibrates.

Some of us have been in quiet survival mode ever since and others even before that day.

Hyper aware.
Easily startled.
Tired in ways sleep cannot fix.

That is not weakness.
That is a nervous system doing its best to protect us.

But you do not define me.

Christ does.

My identity is anchored in who God says I am.

Peace guards me.

The Word says, cast your cares on Him.
Do not be anxious about anything.
The peace of God will guard your heart and your mind.

Peace does not erase memory.
It guards the heart that remembers.

After trauma, the brain learns danger first.
It scans. It braces. It prepares for impact.

But peace teaches the body something new.

You are safe.
You survived.
You are not there anymore.

That is not denial.
That is retraining.

Love is how the brain returns to safety.

Gentle words.
Steady presence.
Regulated breath.
Consistent truth.

And God is love.

So when I pray, when I worship, when I let my shoulders drop in stillness, that is not performance.

That is healing.

That is the Holy Spirit operating in His keeping power.

Not erasing what happened.
Not pretending it did not hurt.
But guarding my heart while my mind learns how to rest again.

Some People Say the Good Die Young.

If I am honest, part of me still believes that.

Sometimes I think certain souls are on special assignments, sent to awaken something, sent to leave an imprint that outlives their years.

And maybe that is the part that surpasses understanding. Trying to make all this pain make sense.

I used to ask God, Why?

Why did I have to witness this?
Why did I have to carry this?
Why did I have to survive this?

And quietly, in a way only He can answer, I sensed Him say,

Why not you?

Not as punishment.
Not as cruelty.
But as calling.

Long suffering produces endurance.
Endurance builds character.
Character strengthens faith.

I did not choose the fire.
But I chose how I walked through it.

I chose not to become bitter.
I chose not to become numb.
I chose not to let trauma disciple me.

I learned to Handle Hell Well because I kept my eyes on Him.

And maybe that is why when people say the country is at war, I nod quietly.

Because some of us were born into war zones.

War in neighborhoods.
War in school systems.
War in homes trying to survive.
War in systems that did exactly what they were designed to do.

And when people say these are dark times, I agree.

But darkness is not new to everyone.

And still, we cannot live on survival alone.

We all will experience loss one day.

Not if.
When.

And there is no such thing as neutral.

We are either helping or hurting.
Healing or causing harm.
Interrupting cycles or reinforcing them.

If you do not know what to say, say nothing at all.

Do no harm.

Pain multiplies when it is mishandled.

Over the years, I have learned not to be angry at people.

People are often surviving what they were taught.

My anger is directed at systems.
At beliefs that go unchecked.
At mindsets that normalize dysfunction.
At wickedness that disguises itself as culture.

We wrestle not against flesh and blood.

And no matter what it looks like, God is still in control.

Not passive.
Not absent.
Not surprised.

In control.

That truth does not remove our responsibility.

It clarifies it.

Trauma is not just spiritual. It lives in the body.

When something terrifying happens, the brain shifts into protect mode. It scans. It braces. It prepares for impact. That is why hands shake. That is why certain dates tighten the chest before the mind understands why.

The body keeps the score.

Unless we slow down and notice what we are thinking, we operate on default.

And default grief wants the person back.

It rejects reality.

It drifts into imagination.

Anything to escape what is.

My daughter once said grief feels like learning how to walk again. Like falling down and waking up in a new room every time.

She was right.

And I told her something I pray she never forgets.

Even on the happiest days of your life, a part of you may feel sad that your dad is not there.

And that is okay.

You can be happy and sad at the same time.

You can laugh and still miss someone.

Both can live in you.

Healing is not pushing parts away.

It is learning to love every part of yourself.

And when we stop fighting what we feel, our bodies begin to feel safe.

We still need solutions.

We need adults who understand what trauma does to children.

We need classrooms where children are seen before they are labeled.

We need faith that is practiced, not just quoted.

And we need to teach people what to do with big feelings.

Mindfulness is simply slowing down long enough to notice what is happening inside of you. Taking a breath before reacting. Asking, “what am I thinking right now?”

We also have to practice joy.

Not fake smiles. Real, small joy.

The sky is beautiful today.
This hug feels safe.
That laugh mattered.

Sometimes, joy and sadness sit next to each other.

That is not weakness.

That is love.

Everybody dies.

But not everybody truly lives.

And I am grateful Daylon Burnett lived.

He laughed loudly.
He loved deeply.

He was loved deeply.
And he matters.

I still see his smile.

I still hear his voice.

I still remember the way he made a room lighter just by being in it.

His legacy is not just what happened that day.

It is the love we still carry in our chests.

It is the way his name still makes us pause.

It is the life he did not get to live and the love he sparked in all of us who experienced his joy. His joy truly was contagious. 

To his siblings, I am so proud of you.

I see the way you carry him.

I see the strength in you.

I see the light in you.

Every time you shine, a part of him shines too.

I know he would be so proud of you too.

And to his mom… my sister and friend,

There are no words.

But I want you to know your son still matters.

He mattered in my classroom.

He mattered in our halls.

He mattered to our city.

He mattered to me.

Five years later, the love has not faded.

It still moves through us.

It still shapes us.

It still pushes us to do better and love harder.

Daylon’s love did not end. It transformed.

Love does not stop when breath does.

It multiplies.

And as long as I am breathing, I will carry that love well.

Not numb.
Not bitter.
Not ruled by fear.

But aware.
Tender.
Anchored.

Alive.

Kept.

I invite you to do the same. 

Day by day. Decision by decision. 

Moment by moment. 

Breath by breath.