I stooped to give my 7-year-old a goodnight hug and pray with him. He’d made a pallet on the carpet in my bedroom, something he often did after Dan died.
By day, he played like all the other little boys in neighborhood. You’d never know he was carrying a heavy blanket of grief.
It was at night, tired and finally quiet after the day’s activity, that I’d often hear him crying or see the silent tears as we talked.
On this night, I listened as Matt prayed. He thanked God for the good day and prayed for kids all over the world that needed help. And then he closed with this:
Tell my dad I said hello.
A thousand knives went through my heart.