I’ve been trying to describe what it’s like every time I have to look back at the day Sam died. It’ a searing, burning pain that I don’t feel from any other source. Like accidentally running your hand over the gas flame on the stove – ‘OUCH!’

There are times when we simply have to talk about the whole experience and I deliberately try not to avoid it. While I was walking the dog at the park last week I bumped into one of my retic clients from a few years back – a job Sam and I worked on together. ‘And how’s your son?’ she asked ‘He is a great lad!’ I could only give one answer, ‘Gail he died earlier this year in a free-diving mishap.’ Now no one’s having fun in this conversation – but it’s the day to day reality we just have to manage. This lady was amazing – spoke with me about him for several minutes with a lot of compassion and then told me she felt she needed to hug me – was that ok?

When I cast my mind back to that day it always begins with the initial voicemail that all was not well – I remember my calm, measured walk back from the camp toilets because I don’t panic as a rule and I try to always assume the best.

I then remember the utter panic on Danelle’s face as she heard the voicemail – I still wanted to believe he had passed out and would be revived, but her anxiety gave me cause to wonder if it might be more significant.

There was the raw fear that smacked us in the face as we stopped everything and drove out of Busselton towards Mandurah to meet him – the quiet praying – hoping – surely not us?… Then the news somewhere on the road a few minutes out of Busso that he didn’t make it – the bizarre surrealness of thinking is this really happening to us?.. Followed by the initial grappling with the news as we drove back to Busselton – somehow trying to accept the reality – knowing that somehow we needed to call Ellie who was in Noosa on day 1 of a surfing holiday…

Just recalling those moments right now feels like looking at the sun. You can only do it for so long before you need to look away again. It burns. It sears. What is to be served by looking back other than to keep being reminded of reality. But some days you have to look. You have to relive the story.

That day went on – packing up the caravan while in shock and grief – leaving the campground and driving to the marina all the while ringing family and friends to let them know… Answering Ellie’s call to tell us how well her first day of travel had gone and then giving her the news – it was like a bomb had gone off on the other side of the country… Meeting friends at the Marina and seeing his body… having the shortest time to ‘view him’, not allowed to touch because it might contaminate the body…

Driving home – somehow letting the reality sink in. Feeling desperately sad and utterly bewildered while also knowing that we had so many people around us who would care, step up and be there… Going to bed that night and then waking up to the immediate reality of Sam’s death hitting you like a sledgehammer in the face.

Recalling that day is also like walking from your car to the beach on a very hot day when you think you can do it barefoot and halfway there realise you are burning up but you have to keep going. There is no way out and no turning back – you just have to push on and make it. We can’t avoid these conversations – nor do we want to.

Now 9 months later there is the first Christmas with him not around, Danelle’s birthday with his absence so very notable. These realities keep crashing into us at different moments and I sometimes wonder if I am ok or if I need to go see a counsellor. I don’t have an answer for that. I just don’t know.

Most days I can get on and do whatever needs doing. I haven’t been crippled by the grief, and then some days I wonder if I’m dodging it. How would you know?

And who wants to stare into the sun anyway – or walk barefoot on scorching hot ground?

I can relive the day, tell the story to people who ask and I don’t shy away from speaking of his death, yet it’s hard to do any of that without an inner wrenching that you know can never be eased.

And along the way there have been people I have met who have had similar pain – they too have lost a son. I look at them in a different way now. It feels like we have ‘been to war’ together and we ‘know’ what no one else can know until you have experienced it.

Some days I am glad I’m 60 years old and might only have another 20 to go… I miss this kid desperately and continually, daily, accepting that he is not gonna ever show up again is so difficult to comprehend.

And then the other (left) side of my brain kicks in and I give myself a loving boot up the bum and a few things to do. Paint the gate, walk the dog, wash the car… just keep going.

The image in this post is of a piece of art Danelle and Ellie gave me for Christmas. It depicts the 3 of us (Sam, Ellie and I) in the surf together. It’s a stunning piece of work and so nice to have, but it’s another thing I can only look at for so long before reality begins to erode the joy. We will never do that again.

Lately I’ve listened to a few podcasts that focus on the nature of God. One was with Tom Ord, who suggests God is all loving, but not all powerful. In his framing of love he argues that real love is completely un-controlling and does not coerce any action. And therefore God – if he is ‘love’ – is unable to control any of his creation. He didn’t have much in the way of biblical framing for his argument and I would immediately contest the idea that love is completely un-controlling. I have controlled my kids at times because it is in their best interests. There is also plenty of evidence of God exerting control in scripture so I can’t buy his thesis. And the worst part of it all is that there can be no future hope of a new creation – because his God does not hqve the power to bring this about. As I listened to the final comments from the podcast hosts it was clear they shared his perspective, but were suddenly feeling the loss of hope that goes with a completely un-controlling God. If there are no guarantees of how this world will end or whether God will be able to establish his new creation then moments of loss just get darker and darker.

That is the one thing I feel we do have – hope. And that hope is precious and sustaining. The more I have looked into the afterlife, heaven etc the more mysterious it all seems to be, but I am happy to believe that this 80 years (or 21 in Sam’s case) is not the sum total of our existence. Otherwise we simply are evolutionary accidents and I find that way harder to accept than a belief in God.

While the dust continues to settle in my mind and heart I hold onto a hope I believe has solid grounding and is to be trusted. One day we will see him again and while the details are certainly sketchy I envisage a family reunited – sharing the love and joy we once had.

For now our tiny family feels like a 3 legged dog – still alive and able to function – but having to learn how to function in the middle of a life we would never have chosen. We will get there eventually, but never without the limp that comes from losing as beautiful a presence as Sam was.

(And if you are an English teacher reading this – I know these are not technically metaphors – but the title rings better than mixing similies 🙂 )