The morning after our son died I awoke from my sleep praying in an unknown language. Suddenly English words flowed through my mind and I knew it was God speaking to me: “You can say David died, but I want you to know that my own never die. I came and took him; I always come and take my own. Don’t…
In our house on Evanston Ave, in Muskegon, Michigan, where I was born, the oldest of six children, in 1939, we grew up to the sounds of silence — no stereo, no television, no laughter, not even a chiming clock — except for the milkman’s clatter in the wee hours. The world felt quiet back then…, real quiet, as fierce…
“Take him home tonight, and tomorrow take him to the hospital,” our pediatrician said. “I think he may have leukemia.” Shaking violently, I took our seven-year old son’s hand and walked out into the dazzling California morning sunlight. His pale little face looked up at me. “What’s wrong, Momma?” “They think there’s something wrong with your blood, honey,” I answered…