25 November 2016


Caleb, my tiny 43 pound 8-year-old step son just came into my office with his shark body blanket pulled up around him.  He looked like he was being eaten.

He said, "are you still sad that she (Sawyer) died?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Do you need a hug?"  he said.

"Yes buddy, I need a hug."

The then wrapped his tiny arms around me as I sat in the chair and he stood besides me.  He gently rubbed my back and said nothing for a couple of minutes.

All I could do was bask in the thoughtful sweetness of the moment and think about how Sawyer was also a tiny kid, perhaps the tiniest. But her smile lit up the room like the sun on a cloudy morning.  She, her soul, her personality was that big.  As big as the sun.  You felt warm every time she looked at you.  Every time she smiled at you.  My heart breaks knowing her family is devastated.  Knowing they have entered the long dark shadow of grief.  Grief is cold and relentless.  It grips you in the most innocent of moments and tears you to the core.  It reorganizes your sense of time and leaves you disoriented, lost in the murk of uncertainty between what is and what was.

Grief teaches us that the most powerful scripture consists of two words, "Jesus wept".  

Today many weep.

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