However deep one's faith in a loving God, I cannot fathom how a parent processes the sudden death of a young child.
This past spring, the five-year-old son of close friends went to bed one night. He did not wake up again. No illness. No medical clues. No answers.
This morning, I learned that the three-and-a-half-year-old son of a colleague became feverish and out of sorts after dinner last night. As his fever spiked, his parents took him to the emergency room, out of an abundance of caution. He passed away a few hours later. No explanation. No time to say goodbye.
The older I get, the less embarrassed I feel crying over something that breaks my heart. If you believe that makes me weak, then I pray I am never as strong as you are.
Tonight, as I tuck my four-year-old and eleven-month-old sons into bed, they will hear what they have heard each day of their lives - my first words to them every morning and my last words to them every night - "I love you. Daddy will always love you."
