This morning I held my man child
in my arms while he sobbed. “I’ll never get to do anything with my dad again,”
he wailed as I tried unsuccessfully to soothe him. You see, tomorrow is Woody’s
47th birthday, a day we will
not celebrate with him, just as we have not been able to celebrate his 44th
through his 46th. The harsh reality of a life taken too soon slams
us in the face every March 21, and there is no way to escape the pain. There
are no justifications for a young man who was just a child when he lost his
hero. There will never be an explanation good enough no matter how you wrap it
up and redefine it. Yes, he has faith; and yes, he knows God is good, but this
is not good. This aching for a daddy to help him find his way into adulthood is
unbearable. I can offer little assistance in this area because I am not a man.
Try as I might to be the best mother and father, I will always fall short. He
needs his dad here, wrapping his strong arms around his shoulders and giving
him advice about college, girls, and what the future might hold. I am
inadequately equipped, I know that; and although I know God is on this journey with
me there are moments when I feel terribly alone—moments like this morning as I
watched my child sob.
But I continue on in faith,
believing that someday this journey will not be so lonely and treacherous,
believing that someday this heaviness will cease to exist and in its place
peace will reside with comfort close by. Someday…we’re just not there yet.
