Grayson’s Eulogy

May 16, 2026

Good morning. Thank you all for allowing me a few moments to share from my maternal heart. I ask in advance for your forgiveness for quoting from my own book. The words I originally wrote were the truest ones I could think of. This fact still holds true today. Many of the stories I will mention were highlighted in yesterday’s funeral program. (If you would like a physical copy, please email me at writing.coreyhatfield@gmail.com and I will send one as time allows.)

When Grayson was a young infant, I discovered that he would sleep in my arms with minimal effort, so I began napping with him in my bed for efficiency’s sake. Upon awakening. I held perfectly still so as not to rouse him and instead spent many silent moments examining his unique features. For, like a cartographer, I was subconsciously charting a mental map of the child I’d one day need to know better than the back of my hand. As Grayson lay sleeping in my arms, an unbreakable bond was being forged with the one who would require more than I’d ever feel capable of giving.

Mary, the mother of Jesus, is called the Light Bearer. She knit flaming cells of light within her womb, but like the burning bush, she was not consumed. She carried light and became light. Yet when I try to do the same, I groan and stagger beneath its weight. My soul-womb is not yet spacious enough to bear my son’s light.

But he has been expanding me since the day of his conception. His limbs of light extend into my dark places, time and time again. They ground me in hope and joy and laughter, and in his eyes, the veil is thin, and I can almost see straight into Heaven.

Just as black is not the absence of color but the union of all, so is Grayson not an absence but a brimming fullness. The complete embodiment of all things—all joy and sorrow, all blessings and pain. The universe is contained within him, and I am being widened to contain them both.

A friend once asked, “How can you love him when he causes so much pain?” I answered truthfully, “While Grayson has been at the center of so many challenges, I’ve never once viewed him as the source of my pain. I am who I am because of him.”

Many of you know of the pain and sorrow in our lives; I would be gravely remiss to overlook the blessings and joy.

Whatever Grayson gives, he does so wholeheartedly, without expecting anything in return—like the morning he woke me up early, bursting at the seams to celebrate his birthday. A cup of coffee, a spoon, and some creamer lay on the table next to my reading chair, alongside my journal and pen and a heartfelt note he’d dictated on his iPad: i love you mommy i think about you in my heart so does god and Jesus if i could i would give you a piece of my heart god and me thank you for being my mom sorry you didn’t sleep well god prays for you every night and day.

His theology is better than most.

Grayson’s notes are compilations of recycled phrases. He collects sayings like others collect stamps or coins. “You rock” was one of Mr. Roth’s favorite phrases, and therefore a frequent greeting in letters. Another expression originated with Grayson. It popped out of his mouth when he could barely speak, and he’s said it every night since: “I think about you in my heart, Mom. I think about you in my peace.”

I’m not exactly sure what he means by this, but I like the idea of being thought about in someone’s peace. 

While his letters provided helpful insight into his brain, Grayson’s crazy stunts were more amusing than anything. He became obsessed with feeling weightless, and all his quirky infatuations, like water slides, roller coasters, and marble ramps, partially satiated this sensation.

Anyone who possessed the eyes to see would have noticed how frequently his right hand slipped down every sloped surface and launched into the air like a marble set free from gravity’s pull. His eyes followed the trajectory of the imagined marble so intently that I almost expected to see one. Grayson saw ramps where I beheld only stiff-armed church pews and racing, curving water slides rather than bendable twelve-inch rulers. He was the king of envisioning. For him, possibility and reality were conjoined twins, with no veil of separation between them. His mind conceived the ideas, and his heart birthed them into existence.

When I grew still enough for the eyes of my soul to focus, it became readily apparent that he lived in a dazzling universe of faith and potential—one such as I had never known. Grayson was my introduction to many things in this world, but his ability to dream surpassed them all. If he could believe it, he would achieve it.

Every day, a fresh idea led to unique props and relatively appropriate costumes. One morning, he came downstairs dressed in a life vest with a garbage bag tied to the front and declared it “Skydiving Day.” He traipsed to the park, leaped from the jungle gym, and grew enraged when his parachute failed to slow his landing. On “Scuba Diving Day,” he came down wearing Jacob’s tight-fitting long underwear as a wetsuit, with two grocery bags taped around his feet to keep them dry. Why dry feet were so important, I’ll never know. I trailed behind him to the neighborhood lake and then dealt with his fit when he discovered his wetsuit and “boots” were insufficiently waterproof. But his tantrum came to a screeching halt in a brilliant flash of inspiration. To be a real scuba diver, he needed to breathe underwater. Could I just run back home and grab him a straw?

One summer morning, Grayson dragged me outside when there was barely enough light to see. A YouTube video had provided the key to his success. He instructed me to bury the head of a shovel and pack the surrounding dirt tight. Then, planting his feet on the shovel head, he leaned back on the wooden handle concealed by his shirt, and let his head fall forward, closing his eyes as if under a spell. I snapped many photographs to prove the authenticity of his illusion. The shovel stayed buried all summer, and I often caught him talking to his imaginary audience while “levitating” on its wooden handle.

His most serious weightless attempt came in the form of a red balloon.

While cleaning. I lost track of Grayson. Suddenly, I heard the garage door creak, followed by Jacob’s hesitant voice. I could tell he was trying to suppress a laugh, and nothing about the situation sounded promising.

“Um, Mom,” he called. “You’d better come see what Grayson did.”

More muffled giggles.

Knowing that whatever awaited me in the garage could not be good, I dropped my dish towel and responded promptly. Before I even rounded the corner, I saw the red glow. A giant, rubbery red balloon was filling my garage—its string wrapped around the handlebars of Grayson’s bike.

Flabbergasted, I paused while piecing together the story in my mind. Knowing it would take something massive to lift his body into the air, Grayson snuck away when I wasn’t looking, a pair of scissors tucked in his pocket—and rode his bike to the neighborhood model homes, where he snipped the string of the largest balloon he’d ever beheld in his life. It occurred to me then that he had ridden through our entire neighborhood dragging a bobbing model-home balloon behind him. Although my jaw was on the floor, I had the presence of mind to snap a picture, and the second I did, the balloon drifted toward the top of the garage, hit something sharp, and popped. All hell broke loose, followed by a massive fit and concurrent apologies to the model-home salespeople.

They hadn’t even realized their balloon was missing.

Honest to goodness, I have stood outside in the heat of summer before God and all our neighbors, attaching branches to my son with a belt as he pressed himself against a tree trunk to test whether he could successfully disappear. I have rolled and bound him with plastic wrap and packing tape just to see if he could roll faster down hills, and I have stuffed sweatpants full of T-shirts and arranged them with shoes on a chair so Grayson could lie on the floor, his legs hiding behind the couch—thereby creating the illusion of being sawn in two.

His wacky ideas drive me half mad. My other half is thoroughly entertained.

But most hilarious of all is Grayson’s YouTube history, which I’ve often reviewed with tears streaming down my cheeks. His sought-out topics have included: how to make a shocking spy device, how to walk through a closed door, how to do freaky body tricks, how to charge your iPod with a sock, how to make string go through your head, how to shock yourself, how to break you arm in three seconds, and my personal but totally random favorite: Kevin Hart women anger issues.

Grayson’s zest for life is like a blinding ray of sunlight—intense and impossible to ignore. If he is elated, rest assured, the world will know. But the joy he bestows is subtle, like floating particles of dust drifting on slanting shafts of light. Some will be repulsed, beholding only sloughed-off flakes of dead skin. But others with the eyes to see will be enchanted by the sparkling glitter dancing in the sun.

Much of life with Grayson has been loud and turbulent. The lows have been extremely low, and the peaks more like barely perceptible hills. Our victories have been measured in slivers—an intentional smile, sitting still in the dentist’s chair, not leaping from a moving vehicle—events that most parents take for granted. Such gifts occur in the cracks of time, the in-between moments, and when I forget to pay attention, they slip by—uncelebrated and unnoticed.

The joy that comes from being Grayson’s mother trickles in through holy streams of effervescent laughter. It hovers in silent, marveling wonder and sneaks in unannounced when I come to my senses and find myself knee-deep in his outlandish schemes. Being his mother has peeled my fingers from any semblance of perceived control. He has made me belly-laugh and blubber like a baby; he has humbled me and made me so proud I could burst. Above all, he reminds me daily, in the words attributed to Mother Teresa, that “I can do no great things—only small things with great love.”

I once read that the difference between a fly and a bee is that a fly will be drawn to the single pile of dung amid a field of wildflowers, whereas a bee will seek the lone flower in a landfill. Day by day, I am striving to be like the bee, though I fail more often than not. I am fighting to cling to the good and let the rest slide. I am attempting to grow still and widen my eyes to the in-between moments, the cracks, and the fragile slivers of time.

In the rare moments when my insides stop churning, I lie fallow and watch sparkles of dust dance across sunbeams. I bathe in their light, and the rays reach deep into my darkness and ground me in a calm, quiet joy.

On the evening of May 10, 2026, Grayson snuck from his room in Provo, Utah, where he was attending Scenic View Academy, a beautiful institution that teaches young autistic adults how to live independently. He left his phone behind because, as the program director shared, “that is what he always did when he knew he’d just be going on a short walk.” There, he climbed a tall, 130 ft crane that had long been beckoning him like a mirage in a dopamine-deprived desert. Around 6:30 pm, we believe that he slipped from the top of the crane and fell to his death. No one who knew him suspects the event to be anything more than an accident.

This past Tuesday, Arin and I had the difficult, but also delightful, task of cleaning out his room. Everywhere I looked, I saw the story of Grayson. There were magic cards upon magic cards, photos of himself with famous magicians, books entitled: The Art of Switching Decks,  Chasing Dreams, How to Tell Anybody’s Personality by the Way They Look, and The Art of Making Friends. Additionally, there were two illustrated children’s Bibles and his journals, which were filled with endless magic tricks, bucket lists, and schedules I knew he never quite managed to keep. 

At 20 years old, Grayson was living his dreams. He had gone skydiving three times, even convincing other Scenic View students to accompany him. He had visited his top two amusement parks, ridden the King Da Ka before it was deconstructed, thanks to Arin, and he was living semi-independently, a goal we never ever thought he’d achieve.

Grayson had to work ten times harder than anyone else to accomplish even the most basic tasks, but he never ever quit trying. This is what we heard at his school: story after story of his optimism, determination, and persistence.

When Grayson was twelve, he asked me to take him shopping for a tombstone so he wouldn’t have to purchase his own when he grew old and didn’t have the money. His greatest fear was of aging and being alone without his parents and his siblings. That day, I wrote in my journal, pleading with God to take Grayson home before me. I told him that if he did, I would never complain, that I would always be deeply grateful.

Thanks be to God, Grayson will never have to face his greatest fear, growing old alone.

He left this world on Mother’s Day, but rather than adding to the tragedy, from the very beginning, I had a strange feeling that his death was his final gift to me as his mother. Now I better understand. I’ve worried about this child every day of his life; my grief over him has been constant. His loneliness, his desires, but lack of appropriate relational skills to have a girlfriend, and his fears of growing old alone have all deeply panged me. 

Now, our grief, while acute, also has an ending point. We will never again have to worry about Grayson or fear that dreaded call which, on some level, we always knew was forthcoming.

Grayson died doing what he loved…climbing, adventuring, and terrifying his mother. Our hearts are broken, and we will never be the same. But thanks be to God, Grayson is free, happy, and finally and totally, he is at peace.

Those of you who know our family know the many ways in which we have suffered, but over time, the fecundity of this darkness has given birth to repentance, new life, and hope. 

Through Grayson’s death, may we acknowledge that life is hard. This is a key component of what it means to be human. But life is also light, repentance, and resurrection. THIS is what it means to be Christian. 

May we all lean into the darkness, even when it so painfully and breathlessly enshrouds us. May we ALSO turn our eyes toward Christ and wait patiently, but expectantly, for the light. 

Christ has risen from the dead, trampling down death by death. 

Fly free, my sweet boy. In your own words, “Good night. You’re special to me. I think about you in my heart. I think about you in my peace.”