Writings from a shepherd of Christ's flock
On May 25, 2018, Rachael burst into the bedroom a little after 6:30 AM sobbing, “Chris…your dad…he died!”
I didn’t cry in that moment. I stared at the ceiling in a daze. Time stood still. The shock cauterized my emotions and fogged my mind. Here a load-bearing wall in the Davis house had unexpectedly, impossibly collapsed and all I could do was watch blankly. [ . . . ]
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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