Thanksgiving over. Climbing steps, returning to winter rest the attic dwellers - chairs, tables, to sleep til Christmas. Topping that last attic step, eyes skipping over Zach named boxes stacked, a life, all packed away in brown cardboard. The last time I stroked Zach's hair, he coffin slumbered on white satin. Dead. Cold. Stroke those silky kid heads, and feel the life under your hand.
Commit to memory the feel of warm hands in yours. Skip, smell the flowers, the spring, the frost of the season, and store the child eyes filled with wonder and awe tight in your brain - lock 'em up those memories.
All that stuff that covers shelvesfloorswallscabinetsatticsclosets and fills boxes, doesn't breathe, doesn't have a beating heart. As dead as Zach's earthly tent in that coffin bed.
Trust me when I say that if you lose a child, you will never ever ever ever feel like you had enough time with him.
Learn from the child faith your children have in a God so big Zach will never know all of Him.
Really, that Jesus stuff, that's what matters. All the rest of the stuff...someday it'll be boxed up, your life, my life, stuck up in somebody's attic. 'Cause just like Zach, we can't take it with us. Jesus took Zach. My arms feel so empty. I'm gonna go hug my girls and husband and feel them warm and hearts beating and alive. Live the stuff that matters.
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