My son's friend, a young man of only 22, was stabbed to death last weekend.
It's past three a.m., sonny boy just home from the viewing. I am downstairs awake and getting an ice pack for my aching head when he comes in.
My son's grief is palpable. The fumes of his anguish fill the room. The liquor of his sorrow oozes from his pores. His morphine, "the drink," does actually very little to sooth him. The pain, a monster that swallows him whole, takes him to a dark place.
As his mother, I stand back, helpless, largely to give him comfort. I murmur soft words, hug him, gently touch his head. I can only point him towards that One who bears our griefs and carries ours sorrows, but he must approach this Man of Sorrows, I cannot take him there.
I think of his friend's mother, and my mind flees in horror from all she must be
feeling.
Reflexively, selfishly, I keen a silent prayer, for my son. Oh Jesus, keep him safe, keep him safe, sweet Jesus, keep him safe.
Each day, I know, is a gift we are given. Sometimes, cruelly, life is snatched and brutally cut short.
Absent of sleep now, I pray long and low for those in my son's friend's family who face this unbearable loss. I pray for mercy, for comfort, for strength, for grace upon grace.
This young man, was too young, just too young to die.
