In the Old Testament, David and Bathsheba lose their baby boy.  We can only assume they were consumed by the torment of losing a child.  However, David confessed to his wife that he would see his son again one day and be comforted.  Scripture tells us David said of his deceased newborn son, “I shall go to him, but he will not return to me” (2 Sam. 12-23).  There was no mistake in David’s mind.  He believed his son was with God in Heaven.  I share that conviction of faith with David.  Whether there is a state of purification or not, I know that my son is bound for eternal paradise.  My vision of the afterlife is full of children populating the New Earth and playing under the perpetual light of sunshine.  I understand that those that make it to the New Heaven will look somewhere around the age of 33, yet when I think of that beautiful setting, I see children.

In the days succeeding Dalton’s funeral, my agony knew no limits. The pain was not exclusively emotional.  There was an actual physical pain that accompanied this loss.  I had no appetite.  My stomach was twisted into hundreds of knots.  My mind wrestled with the reality of what had happened.  Everything felt desolate.  I was barely functioning.  My routine was a predictable pattern:  wake up, go sit on the couch, stare into space, receive visitors that I would forget our conversations after they left, sit back on the couch, go to bed.  Oh, and cry before, during, and after.  I sought help from my doctor for anti-depressants and sleep aid medication.  Of course, sleep was a double edge sword.  It was nice to get rest, but I only dreamt of my son.  I grew in despondency waking up day after day to his absence.

Somewhere around a week after Dalton’s accident, I met a person that would come to have a huge impact on my spiritual healing.  Her name was Ashlie Jack.  She would end up being a model of encouragement for me in the weeks and months to come.  A friend of Troy’s from El Dorado contacted Ashlie regarding our son’s accident.  In turn, Ashlie reached out through Facebook to Troy.  Ashlie’s story of her daughter, Bayleigh, was parallel to ours of DD.  Both were victims of sudden tragedies and neither had the opportunity to tell anyone goodbye.  Bayleigh had been 15 and driving in a rainstorm when her car was washed to the opening of a culvert off the side of the road in El Dorado, KS.  Her car was trapped between the opening of the culvert and a ledge drop off.  There was no way she could drive forward.  Based on evidence of the recreation of the scene, the police believe Bayleigh’s car was pushed by the rushing water to the back of the culvert (80 feet) in less than 3-4 minutes.  There she remained pinned inside her 2000 Honda Accord, with no room to climb outside the doors.  Hours later, Ashlie would ask for a rocking chair from the hospital staff and hold her only child’s lifeless body while she gently rocked her.  I don’t know about you, but that image rocked me to the core.  As I envision it now, I see a modern day resemblance to the blessed Mother cradling the freshly crucified body of our Savior.

Ashlie talked to our family about how she views grief.  To her, she sees grief as this huge ball she carries around with her everywhere she goes.  Some days it is heavier than others. It has been nearly 6 years since her daughter’s passing and she still struggles.  We found out that our children had common interests.  Both loved chicken nuggets, had a King Charles Cavalier for a dog, and were the center of attention.  Immediately, Ashlie said the most important thing I needed to hear.  She was absolutely certain that her Bayleigh had found my Dalton.  Those words comforted me like none other had.  In Ashlie’s presence, I felt strong.  She gave me faith.  Like a classmate you envied in school, I wanted to be her.  I wanted to fast-forward the agony to the part of the journey she was at.  I wanted to be 6 years out, instead of 6 days.  I begged God to lessen my misery, or better yet, bring me back my son.

Back when Dalton was a baby and I was teaching part time as a kindergarten teacher, I would clean the St. James rectory to make a little extra cash.  Naturally, I would take him with me when I cleaned.  Surrounded on the floor with toddler toys, Father Sam would play with DD. Dalton’s favorite things to do were to yell and throw objects.  Father thought it was great, I not so much.  My fondest memory of that time was when those two would be yelling and playing with one another and Father would exclaim, “He is praying!  He keeps calling upon Abba.”  At the time, I didn’t want to burst Father’s bubble and tell him that “Ab-ba” is a pretty common sound for babies to make.  Today, I have a different perspective.  “Abba Father” is one of the most significant names of God in terms of understanding how He relates to people.  Aramaic in origin, the word “Abba” would be closely translated to mean “Daddy.”  In earlier times, young children would refer to their fathers as “Abba.”  As the word “Daddy” suggests a personal, intimate relationship between a child and his/her father, why can’t it be used by a baby to call upon its Holy Father?  I, for one, don’t think it is beyond the possibility to at least consider.

Something all sufferers need to hear is a message of God’s love for us:  It is all abounding.  It proliferates.  It is overflowing, even to the point of being excessive.  In his book, The Problem of Pain, C.S. Lewis writes, “We want, in fact, not so much a Father in Heaven as a grandfather in heaven – a senile benevolence who, as they say, ‘liked to see young people enjoy themselves,’ and whose plan for the universe was simply that it might be truly said at the end of each day, ‘a good time was had by all’…I should very much like to live in a universe which was governed on those lines.  But since it is abundantly clear that I don’t, and since I have reason to believe, nevertheless, that God is Love, I conclude that my conception of love needs correction.”