Fatherless


My dad died. I’ve written and said those words so many times, too many times, yet it’s still so surreal. Awful and surreal. Healthy 63 year-olds aren’t supposed to fall down the stairs and land on their head and die. But that’s just what happened to my 63 year-old dad, and the pain, I assure you, is acute.


And yet.


Never before have I put such heartbroken hope in the resurrection, in THE Resurrection, in Him who has trampled on, swallowed up, won the final victory over, death itself. Thanks to the tomb being broken open 2,000 years ago, death will never again have the last word. Life—the Life Himself—will. Forever.


Please pray. Pray for my beloved dad, David, and for my mom and sister and me, a widow and her fatherless daughters. We are mourning and weeping in this valley of tears, and while the light of heaven shines brilliantly ahead of us, the grief here on earth is a knife to my heart.

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