This feature appeared in the October 28, 2026 edition of the Star Valley Independent – 

For seven years, the quiet corners of home had offered no escape from grief.

In a small Pennsylvania town where everybody knew everybody, loss didn’t fade into the background; it lingered in the aisles of the grocery store, in the soft, sympathetic glances from neighbors, and in the sudden, piercing wail of the local volunteer fire siren. For Emily and Justin Sweitzer, that siren was never just noise. Every blast was a visceral flashback to 2019, the year their seven-year-old son, Issac, was killed in an automobile accident.

“You can’t really explain a bereaved parent,” Emily said, sitting inside the camper that had become their moving sanctuary. “There’s no words to describe it. Our world has been very dark. We were depressed, we were sad, and we were left with questions we couldn’t answer.”

Issac was seven when he passed, and that year marked seven years without him, a heavy, symbolic milestone. With their 20-year-old daughter, Kaylee, grown, established, and thriving in Pennsylvania, Emily and Justin looked around their large family home and realized they were maintaining a monument to heartache.

“We said, ‘What are we doing with this giant house?’” Emily recalled. “Trying to live the way we lived when Issac was still here just didn’t work. We had to find a new way.”

So in March, they sold the home, shed the weight of material belongings, and moved into a camper alongside their photogenic, spirited dog, Fiona. They spent the spring traveling the Florida coast, and by summer, they were working at a campground in Michigan. They realized money and possessions meant little compared to peace of mind, planting the seed for a long-term dream: one day opening a campground of their own that offered free retreats to bereaved parents who desperately needed a temporary escape from reality.

They documented their travels on a Facebook page named Chasing Color. But Emily was quick to clarify the title.

“We’re not on this road trip just to find beautiful destinations,” she said. “Chasing color is a metaphor. We can see color, but we want to be able to see it and feel it, too. We’re not necessarily chasing color, we’re outrunning sadness.”

More than anything, they were searching for signs of Issac.

Issac was an old soul packed into a little boy’s frame. “He was seven years old, but an old soul inside,” Emily laughed gently. “His idea of a good Saturday night was sitting around a campfire telling jokes and roasting hot dogs.” He loved superheroes—especially Batman and Optimus Prime—and his favorite color in the whole world was teal.

In June, while Emily and Justin were still working their campground season in Michigan, Emily’s phone buzzed. A close friend vacationing in Star Valley, Wyoming, sent an unbelievable message: high on the mountainside above the small town of Afton, someone was projecting a massive image of the Batman symbol. And it was illuminated in vivid, electric teal.

To anyone else, it was a striking light display. To Emily and Justin, it was a beacon calling them west.

“From that moment on, we were almost obsessed with the idea of getting on the road to go to Afton,” Emily said.

When their summer campground duties wrapped up over Labor Day weekend, they packed up the camper and pointed their truck west into territory they had never seen before. Racing against oncoming mountain freezes, they embraced every small wonder along the highway: marveling over their first real-life stick bug, laughing together on the open road, and navigating a white-knuckle detour that deposited them squarely at the shores of Teal Lake.

To Emily, these weren’t mere coincidences. They were “heaven winks.”

By late September, they rolled into Afton, eyes fixed on the rugged hills. By day, they spotted the prominent white star on the mountain, but they couldn’t fathom how it became Batman. They drove up into the canyon, waiting patiently for dark.

Darkness fell. Nothing appeared.

“It was a very long night,” Emily admitted. “I just felt defeated. We traveled so far, and it wasn’t there. Anyone I asked locally looked at me like I had two heads. I was heartbroken, but I thought, I have to figure out who does this.”

With only a three-day window, Emily went on a mission. Asking around town yielded blank stares until she stepped into a neighborhood bar, Shelley’s Bar, following a tip from a friend. The bartender recognized the search immediately and pointed her straight toward Town Hall.

Town staff recognized the project, but weren’t sure if the man behind the lights would be available. Leaving her contact information, Emily and Justin spent the afternoon hiking Swift Creek Canyon, trying to stay hopeful. As they emerged from the canyon back into cell service, Emily’s phone pinged with a voicemail.

The voice belonged to Kendall, the local resident behind the mountain projection. His reaction was pure Wyoming hospitality: This is the coolest thing ever. You might as well come over and get a front-row seat.

That evening, Emily and Justin pulled up to Kendall’s house. Stepping into a stranger’s driveway, they were met not with hesitation, but with open arms. Kendall didn’t shy away from asking about Issac, a simple gesture that meant the world to parents whose deepest fear was having their child forgotten.

“A lot of people are afraid to mention him because they’re afraid to make us sad,” Emily explained. “Contrary to what people think, parents want their children’s names to be said. We want to talk about them. It might be sad, but that’s our reality.”

As the sun dipped behind the Star Valley ranges and dusk deepened, Kendall positioned his equipment. He flipped the switch, casting the projection upward onto the dark canvas of the mountain.

There, glowing bright and resolute against the Wyoming rock, was Issac’s teal Batman.

Standing in the yard, Emily and Justin dialed Kaylee on FaceTime in Pennsylvania so she could share the view. Together, across miles and memory, they looked up at the mountainside in tears. Kendall stood beside them, offering quiet comfort and letting the emotion breathe. He rotated through other symbols Issac would have loved, demonstrating the lights for an hour while they shared stories about a boy who had loved campfires, jokes, and heroes.

“Issac probably would have thought it was the coolest thing ever,” Emily said softly. “He had a little Batman toy with a projector in the chest, so seeing that on a mountain in his favorite color? He would have been ecstatic. Honestly, I feel like he was right there with us.”

The signs didn’t stop in Afton. Days later, stopping for gas near Hoback on their way to Grand Teton National Park, Justin noticed a free-item tote sitting beside a travel brochure rack. Inside was a single, pristine action figure: Issac’s other childhood obsession, Optimus Prime, resting alongside a small wooden keepsake reading, Have a great day, XOX. Later still, they found themselves setting up camp on a whim at a spot called Kendall Lake.

For Emily and Justin, the road ahead was wide open. They aren’t in a rush to map out every mile anymore. They were learning to live with their grief instead of inside it—measuring life by campfires, open skies, and quiet signs from the boy who never really left them.

“My best advice to anyone walking this road is literally to take it one step in front of the other,” Emily said. “There’s no right way to grieve, and there’s no time limit. But someday, you will be able to say your child’s name and smile. You will remember the good, happy times. You just have to keep moving forward.”