It is Thanksgiving today. My family is gathered around their table, spilling over from its limited space. Your family and our friends are gathered around the table in your house. Your sister and her family are gathered at a southern table. I am at my cabin this Thanksgiving, watching snow drip from the eaves, listening to the crows cry out in the cold. And you? You are banqueting with the King of kings. Where you are, every moment is Thanksgiving. Would that we all lived in that state!
Yet...we don't. So when the crows cry, I want to cry with them. When a Switchfoot song plays unexpectedly in a film, all I can think about is you. It doesn't hurt me, exactly, I love thinking about you—but the separation, before your death and even more by your death—that hurts like hell. Oddly, it isn't Hell that separates us now but Heaven. How can this be?
Oh friend, I miss you. . .
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