I didn’t know what to expect from a visit to my father’s grave, but I knew I had to make the trip. It had been nearly 10 months since I stood by that plot at the graveside service. Afterwards Samuel, then 3, packed down the mound of brown, moist dirt, engaging this shocking loss more freely and tactually than anyone else. Our conversation was profound:
“What did we just see happen, Sam?”
“Grandpa is dead.”
“And where is he now?”
“He’s into God.”
“And where is his body?”
“His body is down there.” [ . . . ]
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