The beginning

Avi met.

In Hebrew it means: My father died. Three of the most painful words in the vocabulary of humankind. No explanations, no theory, no formulas can lessen the pain we experience. We have lost our father, and that is one of life's profoundest losses. For some of us, the death of a father is life's deepest insult. It reminds us of our own vulnerability. Only those who die before their father escape these feelings and saying these words. (On Grieving the Death of a Father, 20)

My heart feels as though as it will leap out of my chest as I write this first post, yet another something I hadn't anticipated. Just over two months ago I couldn't have imagined uttering those words: Avi met. Yet from our north Clintonville apartment on that Sunday evening they came pouring from my lips, just as my body collapsed into the floor. Avi met.

And so my story begins there, with those raw words that no other sugar-coated term for death can capture. This is the story that I'd never thought to own at age 23, just about to cross the two-year anniversary of my marriage. At that very moment, Avi met, I immediately sensed life was about to change in a profound way, as if a whole new novel - not just a chapter - was being written.

So the journey begins here, with tears streaming down my cheeks, faithful friends by my side, and a God whose own faithfulness somehow hasn't changed, even as we've begun our trek into the valley of the shadow of death. Will you journey with me?