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About the Fathers

The fathers who participated in Hope Beyond Darkness

want those who suffer the loss of a child to know this:

You are not alone.

 

None of these fathers has "the" magic answer to conquer grief. It doesn't exist.

But each did find something to help with his personal journey forward—in his own way and in his own time. In Hope Beyond Darkness, they take you with them on their journey.

Larry Greer, father of Justin

Larry (in light coat) with the family at Justin's law school graduation, 1999.

Justin had a plaque on his desk that read, “If you don’t climb the mountain, you can’t see the view.” He loved that saying. We all have mountains to climb in life—some are challenges we choose, and others are forced on us.

 

After Justin’s death, Mickie and I had our own mountain to climb. We tried to keep loving him and keep his memory alive without falling apart under the pain. Some days, that just wasn’t possible. But on other days, we did a better job moving forward. We had so much to be thankful for in this life, and we knew Justin would have expected us to keep climbing.

Marc Myers, father of John Marc

Myers Family @ Disney World.jpg

Marc, standing in center, with John Marc, in red, and the family at Disney World, 1987.

 

 

 

If John Marc had not died, the camp we helped start–and all the good it’s done for those children and families–might never have come to be. Does that mean there was a purpose for John Marc’s death? I don’t know, and I will never know. I choose to believe God did have some kind of plan—and then, I choose to put that question behind me. I just cannot take on the job of untangling that vast irony.

I still write poetry to dig into my own emotions and, often, to grieve. Whether my grief is for John Marc, for my mother at her death, or for a dear friend, poetry continues to be the best process for me to grieve. The writing process helps me grapple with the deepest emotions and questions of this life—those questions that death brings front and center to us all.

Penn Laird, father of Dana

Laird 1988-6. Penn Sr & Dana at Princeto

Penn Laird, MD, with Dana in 1988.

I’ve recently discovered that my great-grandfather had eleven children, but only seven or eight made it to adulthood. I know that’s how things were back then; so many children and young people died from diseases we have cures for now. But I don’t think that could have made it any easier for them. How could that man have survived the loss of three or four children? How did he live through it?

I don’t know how he made it, but I do know he did survive those losses. And somehow, I find that comforting. I am not the only father who has lost a child and managed to keep on living. I’m not even the only one in my family.

Richard Glasscock, father of David

Glasscock 2 David 1988, High School Grad

Richard and Debi with David at his

1988 high school graduation.

David has been gone now more than thirty years; we just passed his fiftieth birthday and yet another Father’s Day without him. Although I no longer play the “what if” game, I do wonder about his life under other circumstances. Would he have married? Would I be a grandfather? What career path would he have taken? The fact that he missed all those events, that will always hurt.

It’s a terrible oversimplification to say I should rejoice in the time I did have with David instead of being angry about what was taken from us. But I know that is exactly what I have to do.

 

This morning, my coffee cup read “Be at Peace.” I am still trying.

John Aldridge,

father of John Christopher

John Christopher (in plaid), with cousin Matt, father John, and brother WJ (l. to r.).

Our friends, neighbors, church family, everyone tried to help us after John Christopher’s death—they tried to say that certain something that would make us feel better or take the pain away. But really, there’s no way to do that.

 

Many people even tried to tell us that John Christopher was in a better place now. But that is not what parents need to hear when they’re so raw. Yes, I do believe John Christopher is in a better place now—a place where he’s no longer constrained by the limitations of his physical body. I’m glad about that. But that’s what I believe. What I felt was the excruciating pain of not having him here with us in this life. It just hurts. No matter what you believe, it hurts.

Joel Frank, father of David

Joel Frank and his son David, 1992.

No amount of support can take away the pain of losing someone you love—especially the loss of a child. David was my son, my flesh. I would have done anything to help him, to keep him safe—if only I could have.

Maybe it sounds strange to think of turning to work for personal support at such a time in your life. But let’s be honest, work is where we spend the bulk of our waking hours. Work is where we “live” during the most productive hours of each day. And if you’re lucky enough to have real friendships or emotional bonds with your co-workers at a time of such traumatic loss, your grief will be at least the tiniest bit easier to bear. 

Alan Burks, father of Peter

Alan and Pete.jpg

Alan with his son

2LT Peter Haskell Burks.

If I had any hope of putting my life back together, I had to find some answers—and I knew exactly where to turn. I would find my answers in books, as I always had. And so, I began reading. For almost a year, I read continuously. And slowly, over many months and with a great deal of effort on my part, bits and pieces started making sense to me again.

Although the grief will always be with me, my heart has opened up in ways it never had before. Now, my feelings are right out there, and I have richer, deeper relationships with the people who matter to me. I’m a better friend than I used to be, especially to men. I don’t have any trouble telling people I love them. I am more sensitive to and empathetic toward the people in my life, even to those I just met a minute ago. After all, everyone has a story. I certainly know that now.

John Clark, father of Jennifer

John with his daughters Jennifer (r.) and Helen, 1980s.

About thirteen years after Jennifer’s death, I was ordained a deacon at my church. The truth is, my years in deacon formation helped me with my grief more than anything else did. That’s when I began to fully understand that everyone has sadness in their lives, and I was not as alone as I had thought.

As a deacon, I feel particularly called to do funerals, especially funerals for children. In addition to the service, I always meet with the family. When Jennifer died, I did not know one other person who had lost a child, so it’s especially important to me that these parents know I’m right there with them.

But when they ask me how they’re going to get through this—and they always ask—I give the only honest answer I know: “I wish I had the words, but I don’t.” I’m not going to tell them that time will heal this wound, because it won’t. But time will allow them to better accept what is, with a bit less pain and a bit more peace.

Jesse Roark, father of Clayton

Jesse with his son Clayton.

When my emotions finally overwhelmed me, when the dam finally burst, I thank God I had our support group, Compassionate Friends. That’s where I could finally take off my mask and cry. I had a few hours of not needing to be anything other than exactly what I was—the Jesse Roark who was bursting with longing and sorrow.  I could lay down the burden of pretending to be all right for everyone else’s benefit.  I could talk about Clayton nonstop. No one criticized or judged me.  No one threw ridiculous platitudes at me or told me how long grief was or wasn’t supposed to last.

Over time, I slowly began to understand that my wife and I were not alone in our grief. We were not the only ones going through this. I wouldn’t have expected that knowledge to help at all, but it did. 

 

I honestly do not know what we would have done without knowing we had one place where we could allow our grief and heartache to spill out of us as it wanted to, one place where we could talk about Clayton. Those meetings saved us.

Jim Johnson, father of Matt

Jim Johnson with his son Matt.

Death is constantly all around us; it’s a basic part of life. But in our culture, we try as hard as we can to sweep it under the rug. And then when we lose someone close, when it is our turn to grieve, we have no idea what’s happening to us, no skills to help us cope. It’s like being in a small boat on the big sea, not getting anywhere, being thrown around by emotions we don’t understand and can’t control.

I’ve learned how important it is to be active in my grief work and to encourage others to be active in theirs. If you think you’re going to recover by throwing a few prayers up to heaven, avoiding the things you dread, and waiting for time to do the rest, you’re in for a mighty long journey. But if you can truly face the situation and learn some appropriate coping skills, you can start healing yourself and then use your experience to make the journey even a bit easier for others.

Larry Toon, father of Elizabeth

Larry Toon with his daughter Elizabeth, high school.

When I hear that someone has lost a child, I try my best to go visit the family. I can’t bring any magic words to help them feel better. Each of us has to bear this burden and get through this loss in our own way. But I am still here—and that’s what I hope my presence means to them. I continue to live through this because God has given me the strength to stay alive. And if I can stay alive, they can, too. It can be done.

Elizabeth is still an active part of our family. We talk about her every day, and there aren’t too many days that go by that I don’t cry for her. I miss her hugs, her laughter, her big beautiful smile.

But I would do it all over again knowing exactly how it was going to end and knowing the pain that was going to be created. Sign me up—I would do it again in a heartbeat because I cannot possibly imagine my life without ever having had Elizabeth Toon.

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