FOREWORD
(Bruce Vaughn’s son, Taylor, was treated for
non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma for eighteen months,
dying in January of 1995 at the age of eight.)
09/09/95 10:42 PM
and saves the crushed in spirit. -Psalm 34:18
Dearest Taylor,
Before you became sick I thought the phrase “broken heart” a mere metaphor. Now that you are gone it no longer strikes me as simply a figure of speech. Tonight as I lay down to sleep a dull, almost imperceptible ache in my chest appeared. I tried at first to ignore it, to treat the sensation as an unwelcome stranger. Perhaps it would go away. But then, when I felt the wetness of tears on my face, I understood what the heartache was about. So now I’m sitting here at your computer, tapping out the staggered rhythms of my heart on keys that once felt the touch of your fingers.
No, the rupture in my heart is real—just as real as your absence from my life. Somehow it feels like a kind of penance, this breach in the wall of my soul. It seems unfair that my heart goes on beating so long after yours has become still. I have done what no decent parent should do—survive their child. So your absence demands expiation. My heart is broken for you.
And this brokenness accentuates your absence. Over seven months have passed now since you died, yet every day I wake up and still find it incredible that you are not here. A few days ago school started back. No child ever enjoyed school more than you. All your friends are in the third grade now, and I find it intolerable that you are not among them. I wonder if they still think of you. The other Sunday I saw two of your best buddies at church—Blake Barclay and Dale Wolfe. They seemed so much taller than when you last played with them, and I suddenly realized you would be taller by now too. After the service Blake walked up to me. He was so alive, so healthy, so warm and vibrant. As I placed my hand on his head I thought, “This should be my son.” I do miss you terribly.
In a strange way, though, the heartache makes you almost near. Long before you became ill I would come home from work and hear your little footsteps running to meet me as I opened the door. As I bent down and opened my arms you would run into me at full speed, sometimes knocking me to the floor. I would notice a vague soreness in my chest following such a rendezvous, much like the sensation that came upon me moments ago. It’s difficult now to remember you having so much energy. In my dreams you are always sick. Maybe someday I can remember you more as the little boy who ran into me hard enough to make my chest hurt. For now I’ll have to accept the heartache as a substitute, and cherish it as I would the memory.
My heart is broken, my spirit crushed, yet it is hard to believe You are near. Help my unbelief. More importantly, I want to believe You are near to Taylor. When he knew he was dying he was so afraid of leaving his mother and me, afraid of being alone. Our arms cannot reach him now, so You must hold him for us. And, please God, let him know we love him still. Amen.
(Today Bruce resides in Nashville, devoting his time to
family, writing, teaching, and Christian counseling.)
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