Home

Today, on my son’s would-be 30th birthday, I pull out the photo albums and invite in the grief.

It doesn’t sting as it once did, nearly eight years after he’s been gone, though the ache is still sharp.

Not kitchen-shears sharp, capable of precise severing, leaving edges crisp and clean; no, perhaps more like a pair of training scissors in the hand of a toddler, tearing and catching indiscriminately as it kidnaps the day.

I gaze at the years gone by and lament all the photos we will never take.

There is a limited number of pictures to sit with, and the inventory will never change.

Of course, our lives go on, as they must. Baby showers, new employment, holidays, and mountains climbed.

All the while, he’s still stuck, smiling out from the old gloss and reminding us of the power of a heart given over to love.

There’s housekeeping to be done here, stewarding those things he’s left behind.

I was reminded earlier this week, walking back from study hall under a misty moon, of the power of home. The air held little bite, but it was dark as I approached my empty house. I had been gone all day, busy with my fleet of middle school boys, and had not left on any lights. Body and mind were tired, ready to shift from duty to ease.

Home. I just wanted to get home.

And then, I remembered, again, for the thousandth time.

That’s where he is.

Privileged to live every moment in his Father’s house.

Awe-filled, beholding beauty more marvelous than here (Psalm 27: 4).

Heart held in a perfect embrace.